At the Bradford manor.
As the Wanderer and Duke Bradford entered, Serenya rushed toward her father, reaching up to pinch his cheeks with a playful grin.
"Thank you, my lovely Bob!" she said.
The Duke’s eyes widened. He gently pulled her hands down, casting a glance at the Wanderer with a look of embarrassment. "What did I say about calling me that in front of strangers?"
Serenya laughed. "Come on, what’s wrong with Bob? You objected when I tried calling you Bobby. You’re far too young to be called Robert."
Duke Bradford let out a reluctant laugh. "You little weasel." He caught the Wanderer fighting back a laugh of his own and quickly regained his composure, smoothing out his fine tunic. "I did what you asked, but you can't be this stubborn every time. I won't give in again."
"Roger, Duke Bradford!" Serenya said, snapping a mock salute.
Bradford walked away, though the Wanderer could see him fighting a smile. Once he was gone, the Wanderer looked at the hallway, then back at Serenya.
"I think my presence here isn't welcome," he said bluntly. "If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ll leave the manor and return to the camp."
Serenya tilted her head, confused. "Why would you say that?"
The Wanderer’s expression hardened. "If I may, my lady... I won't be the new toy for the Duke’s daughter. The Duke clearly only approved this to please you."
Serenya smiled. "Is that so bad?"
"Not particularly," the Wanderer replied. "But I don't want to be used and thrown away when you get bored."
Serenya laughed brightly. "You have such a bad image of me. Regardless, I won't force you. I saw a man struggling in the market who needed help, that much is true. But you can accept the offer and prove yourself. I don't accept incompetency, even in those I help."
The Wanderer hesitated, his gaze lingering on the Valorian crests around him. "Do you always help those in need?"
"I try," she said softly. "The God of Light is merciful. I try to be the same."
The Wanderer lowered his head slightly. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I just wanted to be clear."
Serenya stepped closer, her expression serious. "Of course. You thought I was a spoiled brat."
"I never said that," the Wanderer replied, immediately regretting his tone.
She laughed, retreating a few steps. "Maybe I am. So, what is your decision? Will you follow the 'bratty princess' to prove yourself, or run back to the camp?"
"What if I change my mind later?"
She shrugged, her eyes reflecting the shimmering light of the manor. "You only get one chance."
The Wanderer stood in silence, thinking.
"Come," she said, already turning away. "I’ll send someone to show you your room."
The servant led him to a room that was far grander than any squire’s quarters had a right to be. The bed was soft, the air was warm, and for the first time in months, the floor wasn't made of mud.
Lying back, the Wanderer felt the weight of his own deception. He was manipulating his way into safety, playing a role to remain "interesting" enough for Serenya to keep him around further. But he quelled his guilt with a cynical thought. She is a brat, he told himself, staring at the ceiling. At least that much was the truth. A beautiful, high-born brat.
The next morning, a knock at the door brought a fresh squire's uniform. As he pulled the fabric, the ghost of his Draemiran ceremonial uniform haunted him. He stared at the Valorian crest, the symbols of light and order feeling unfitting for a butcher. I’m sorry, Kuma, he whispered to the empty room. I can’t avenge your parents by striking at the Seekers. Blood only feeds the Spiral. I can only keep my promise to stay quiet.
He made his way to the main hall, but the heavy clank of armor stopped him in his tracks.
"Enjoying your stay?" Zeek asked, his voice still bitter.
"I can't complain," the Wanderer replied, turning to face him.
Zeek unsheathed his longsword, the steel singing in the open area. "I know Draemirans can handle a blade. But I need to be sure you can actually protect Serenya if a threat arises."
"I prefer doing chores," the Wanderer said, pointing to his empty sleeve. "I’m no longer a warrior."
"You still have one arm. Use it." Zeek said, dropping into a fighting stance and rushed forward.
The Wanderer pulled his squire’s blade reluctantly. He met Zeek’s first swing with a fake, shaking grip, letting his blade rattle against the Captain’s steel. But Zeek wasn't fooled. He stepped inside the Wanderer’s guard and delivered a sharp kick to his abdomen, sending him stumbling back.
"What are you hiding?" Zeek demanded, slashing again.
"Everyone has their burdens, Captain," the Wanderer gasped, parrying a flurry of blows.
As Zeek pressed the advantage, the Wanderer’s instinct took over. He blocked a heavy overhead strike, swiveled his hips to bleed off the momentum, and landed a heavy smash against Zeek’s guard. In that split second, Zeek’s defense widened. An opening. The Wanderer’s body twitched, his shoulder already mid-lunge to end the fight, but he caught himself. He acted as if he lost balance, stumbling to the ground.
Zeek lowered his sword, his eyes narrowing. "You avoided the opening I gave you. But I felt your body move for it."
"Enough for now, Captain," the Wanderer said, his heart racing. "I think you've seen enough to know I can hold a sword."
"Be careful," Zeek warned, sheathing his weapon. "Secrets always find a way to the surface."
The Wanderer stood up. "For both our sakes, I hope not."
"That was impressive, Zeek."
The Wanderer stiffened. Standing at the gate was a Mage Seeker.
The Wanderer’s eyes instinctively darted to the man's hands, no detection staff. *Luck is still with me,* he thought, though his skin crawled.
"Thank you, sir," Zeek said, bowing his head.
"Excuse me, Captain," the Wanderer said quickly, keeping his head low. "I'll attend to my duties." He turned to the Seeker and offered a respectful bow. "Nice to meet you, sir."
The Mage Seeker stood perfectly still, his eyes piercing the Wanderer’s skull as he left.
The Wanderer tried to escape the piercing gaze of the Mage Seeker, his skin crawling as he hurried toward the upper levels of the manor. He reached Serenya’s room and knocked with more urgency than he intended.
"Come in," her voice called out.
He stepped inside. "Good morning, my lady."
"Morning to you too," Serenya said, looking up from a vanity mirror. She tilted her head with suspicion. "Is there something you need? You couldn't wait for me to come down to the hall to say so?"
The Wanderer paused, realizing his entrance looked frantic. He decided on a partial truth. "To be honest, I was avoiding the Mage Seeker downstairs."
Serenya laughed. "They are creepy, aren't they? I don't like them either. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is something deeply unsettling about them." She stood up, smoothing her gown. "Come on, let’s get out of the manor before we run into another one."
He accompanied her alongside the other squires. As they moved through the streets of Valoria, the Wanderer watched the citizens bow with genuine smiles as she passed. She moved visiting the markets and residential areas to listen to complaints or requests. She seemed to genuinely care for every soul within the walls.
As they passed one of the secondary gates, a new patch of refugees was being processed. Serenya sighed, watching the ragged line of people. "I wish Draemir would give up their empire dream. They hurt everyone in this world for their goal."
"I don't think they will ever stop as long as Skida exists," the Wanderer said.
Serenya stopped in her tracks. "Who is Skida?"
"She is Draemir’s true ruler," the Wanderer replied. "The one who pulls the strings while Joven wears the crown."
As he finished the sentence, as his gaze swept over the line of refugees, his blood froze.
The Wanderer caught a glimpse of a specific tattoo on the man’s wrist as he adjusted his tattered sleeve. It was the mark of one of Skida’s personal units.
The Spiral within him roared, sensing a familiar threat. One of the general's hounds was already inside the city.