Stone walls enchanted with protectia’s rich, gold color formed the throne room’s hall. Their lustrous glow complemented that of illumina stones embedded in the ground. Arranged into orderly rows, they lined the sides of a wyrm-scale carpet whose silver down led from the banquet hall. Any peasant’s wet dream. No, even a wealthy voltech military supplier would think twice before committing to the purchase of such an exquisite good.

However, despite every luxury, Gormund’s ass squirmed on a warm incendia pillow. He awaited news regarding the disappearing man. Doubtlessly a user of rare and powerful magic. Gormund ordered his capture over a week ago, and yet the bumbling morons under his command couldn’t find a single wizard. Idiots, the lot of them. If Ravenfall wasn’t so vital to his business, he never would have agreed to rule it.

He loved wine. Not politics.

A watchman ran down the hall, his dirt-caked boots selfishly staining Gormund’s beloved carpet.

He subdued his rage. They better have good news, or someone would suffer.

They knelt. “Your Grace.”

“What’s the situation?”

“A witness claims they saw the disappearing man in a brothel. Apparently, he goes by the name of Dimitry. Someone fitting that description was found riding through northern main street earlier this afternoon.”

Finally, some promising news. “And where is he now?”

The moron stalled. “W-well… past the north gatehouse.”

Gormund suppressed the urge to rise to his feet and slap the watchman’s face. His fingers tapped restlessly against the cushioned arms of the throne instead. If His Royal Majesty Gregorious caught wind of this, it would crush any chance for Gormund to expand his wine emporium throughout Amalthea.

He grunted. “And how did he get away?”

“The guards atop the northern gatehouse spotted him making himself and the bridge disappear. He mounted a black horse with another cloaked person and rode away. They headed northwest.”

Useless bastards. Gormund tugged at a tunic that suddenly felt all too tight around his neck. “Is that all?”

“The monastery knights lost sight of him too.”

Blood rushed into his face, and an overbearing pressure rose from within as if to burst from his plump cheeks. He jumped off the throne. If the Church caught this ‘Dimitry’ first, Gormund’s head would hang on a wooden pike outside Estoria’s main gatehouse. “I need to meet this witness now.”

“She’s locked in the castle dungeon, Your Grace,” the watchman said.

“Tell me if anything else comes up.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The fumbling moron scurried away.

He twitched his head to the right. “You. Accompany me to the dungeon.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the knight said, stepping forward.

The figure beside him wore impressive red armor, as if dyed with wine fermented from the darkest grapes. Each piece glowed with the color of a different spell: protectia helmet, reflectia breastplate, and hastia cuisse. The crimson knights. A gift from the king and the pride of Amalthea’s military. Armed with voltech rifles and longswords, they boasted formidable strength. Their numbers, however, were few.

Gormund’s footsteps echoed off of stairway walls and a musty scent came from below. It grew stronger as they descended the carved stone steps. Lit only by the scant light of scattered illumina lamps, they entered a humid dungeon. Boots squished against the floor—still muddy from last week’s downpour—until they stopped in front of a dark, iron-barred prison cell.

A wench, her hair and white gown streaked with dirt, huddled up inside its filthy corner. Frightened by Gormund’s might, she shivered.

“You!” Gormund bellowed. “Are you the witness?”

The wench turned her head to reveal a face smothered in white makeup, rose powder, and dried mud. The countenance of a street-peddling commoner.

“Y-yes,” the wench said.

He was polite enough to resist the urge to spit on her. “Come, girl. What is your name?”

“C-Claudia.” She tried to put on a brave face but could not control her mannerisms. Just what one would expect from the rabble.

The crimson knight kicked the iron bars. “You dare refer to the Duke of Ravenfall without his title? Do you want me to come in there and cut off your tongue?”

The wench stepped back. “I’m s-sorry, Your Greatness. F-forgive me.” Fresh tears ran down her face.

Gormund raised his hand to pacify the dutiful knight. “Calm now. She lacks the upbringing to understand her situation.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The knight bowed.

“Now, wench. I need to know everything about this man called Dimitry. Everything.”

The wench stepped forward. “H-how about the r-reward?”

Gormund curled his hand into a fist. “Help me first, then I might help you too.”

“He was k-kinda tall and had dirty blonde hair. His eyes. They were pale green, like those old rumors. Dimitry worked as a s-surgeon an-and—”

Caring little for the gossip of commoners, changing by the day, Gormund wanted facts. “You said his eyes were pale green? Did he ever mention where he was from?”

She sniffled. “N-no, never.”

“Are you sure about the color of his eyes?”

“Yes.”

That was the clue he needed. Wherever the man came from, it was an exotic place. His obscure magic and pale green eyes would make him easy to find.

Gormund turned to the knight. “I want you to assemble couriers at once.”

“Whereto, my liege, and bearing what message?”

This Dimitry escaped north of Ravenfall, meaning one of two things: he intended to flee north towards Zera, or west towards Estoria. Being the capital of Amalthea, Estoria was unlikely to be his destination. That meant Gormund had to stop Dimitry before he reached The Holy Kingdom of Zera, where the Church would torture him until they learned his strange magic. The worst-case scenario.

“I want you to send couriers to every northern and western Amalthean city, town, and shithole village. Tell the populace to look for a man with pale green eyes accompanied by a cloaked conspirator and a black horse.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The knight bowed and dashed up the stairs.

The wench couldn’t stay quiet. “H-how about me?”

Gormund turned away. “You wait patiently until I need you again.”

She would stay here for a long time. The Church would never learn what the wench knew.

The song of a wild aerfowl. A high pitch hinted that it was a female, and the loudness meant it roosted nearby. A skill Saphiria learned while hunting with her father.

Bushes rustled around her when Saphiria stepped over the trunk of a fallen tree. She stopped to listen. The aerfowl’s song came from above. Saphiria’s gaze traveled up a tall oak tree, examining each branch until she located a large nest resting beside its trunk.

Although the bird hid out of sight, the birdsong gave away her position.

Saphiria retrieved vol from her tunic and picked up a pebble. She aimed upwards. Judging by the thickness of the branch, the rock should pierce it, and lodge itself in the bird’s body.

“Propelia.”

The vol flowed into her arm, and the pebble shot forth. Wood crackled, leaves stirred, and a bird fell onto the forest floor with a stifled thud. She squirmed, trying to generate a magic gale to fly away. But it was too late. The poor creature didn’t react in time.

“I’m sorry.” Saphiria knelt. “I’ll end it quickly.”

A long neck snapped.

She lifted the snow-white bird, caressed it in her arms, and made her way to the camp.

Ever since Dimitry wrapped the enchanted scarf around her collar, emotions long forgotten flooded back. Most of them unpleasant. She considered taking it off to return to her numbed state, but her goal stopped her. Saphiria wanted to go home. However, even if she reached the Gestalt Empire, would her brothers and father wait for her with open arms or cast her aside like the filth that she was?

She brushed her hair back behind her ear. Her previous master had it cut often, but Delphine liked to see it grow long—a sign of a ‘proper’ woman. Saphiria’s teeth clenched at the thought. From now on, she would make her own decisions.

A lit fire in a forest clearing came into view. Beside it, a black horse grazing grass, a leather bag, and a cloaked man. Sat on his chest was a faerie, who hadn’t moved all day as if awaiting correspondence from a local lord.

“Did you find any berries?” it asked.

Saphiria didn’t intend to get involved with a demonic creature. However, according to the Church, she wasn’t much better. An escaped Zeran servant that killed their master defied every teaching in the scripture such that even the magnanimous prophet Celeste wouldn’t have forgiven her. She pulled her collar, which seemed to tighten around her neck.

“You’re no fun. I hope Dumitry wakes up soon…”

Saphiria placed the aerfowl on a stone by the fire and walked towards Dimitry. Like engorged purple veins, circuits jutted from his hands and chest; one of the worst cases of overload she ever saw. Probably from when he used that strange magic in their escape. Not only his magic, but everything about him was strange. He seemed to know nothing and everything at the same time. Was it wellbloom fever? Did he hit his head somewhere?

“Precious,” Saphiria said.

“Oh, so you decided to speak after all?”

She looked down at the faerie. “Have you ever heard of a place called Africa?”

“And what if I have?”

“Dimitry said he purchased gemstones there before.”

It curled its golden ponytail around its finger. “Hmm… I don’t think so. Maybe it’s some village deep in the countryside. Though I doubt escaped servants would be safe even there.”

Saphiria’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not anyone’s servant anymore.”

Even so, she felt indebted to Dimitry. He charged into a church and assaulted a bishop to help her escape Ravenfall. The least she could do was look after him until he awoke. Her first ‘humane’ deed in a long time. But they couldn’t stay there forever. The Church would come soon, and they wanted nothing more than to capture an escaped servant and a man who ventured to attack a bishop.

“So how do you intend to get away with that collar around your neck?” it asked.

Saphiria’s eyes fixed on a curious blue emblem on Dimitry’s wrist, one resembling a shrine in Estoria. She gently lowered his hand before turning her attention back to the felled aerfowl by the fire. “By running.”

It drifted towards her. “I guess that makes us like sisters. Always running from the Church.”

Without answering the faerie, Saphiria plucked away the aerfowl’s feathers. Before long, she had defeathered the aerfowl, including all four wings, and roasted it. Their food supplies were limited to dried meat, so they had to forage for food frequently.

She glanced at Dimitry.

Besides, it would be uncouth to discuss ores, gemstones, and rocks with her companion on an empty stomach. Despite being away from the castle for so long, she never forgot what it meant to be a gracious host. Rules that a duke’s daughter should abide by, even if estranged.

A noble that neglected to treat their guest well was no noble at all.