Blackstone’s streets were already busy early in the morning. People filled the streets, moving aside at Prim’s barking to let the coach pass.

Seated on the leather seat, Gorren watched the city ran by through the cracks left by the curtains. He ignored Nama’s dark figure meld with the gloom like a rock in a pond, focused on his own thinking.

He thought back about the day earlier, that he had passed in Saul and his friends and allies’ company. That brat’s insufferable attitude aside, the merchants were a lively bunch, given to banter and laughter. Even while being unable to join into their light attitude, he had appreciated the shrewdness with which they moved, the cunning behind their reasonings, the lack of formality in their interactions. If anything, they had felt more like a bunch of friends than business partners.

Of course, there always was an eye given to what was convenient and what was not. Merchants lived for business after all. But the trade was thriving and, even if the competition between them was fierce, they all kept to a set of rules, with honesty occupying the first rank.

They were cheeky just that brat Saul was, irreverent of authority that in their eyes wasn’t earned and careful of their own profits, but not sharks ready to burn everything else to take it. They engaged deeply into charity and invested into public works, even if it always was something they counted of taking advantage of, be it in public support or anything else.

Flexible, dynamic, lively, ready to take advantage of any chance, and at the same time hard-working, honest and even pious, even if the last one was somewhat repressed. Why, between the line of people that Saul had presented to him, there even were some failed merchants that had been saved from complete poverty thanks to colleagues ready to hire them as secretaries, attendants or other roles.

Gorren smirked. Of course, it wasn’t all good, nothing ever was. The merchants looked down on laborers’ demands, were as arrogant as they were fierce in the demands of their own share of power and there was greed in their eyes. Having the pursuit of profit as one’s first objective had its own dark side after all.

Still, Gorren remembered the truly corrupted, back when Truvia still lived and these ones… these ones were as lambs compared to those dirty pigs. The greed of these Merchants was tempered by honesty. All in all, they weren’t bad men.

Some of them, he wasn’t telling names, deserved to have their tongues cut off, and the way they flaunted their wealth like peacocks was ridiculous, but he found himself hard-pressed to completely dislike the whole bunch.

He looked outside the curtained window, the city’s lively atmosphere managing to penetrate even through the closed door.

It wasn’t just the merchants that he found difficult to dislike. All that place managed to have the same effect on him. Blackstone was nothing compared to the grandiosity that Truvia had been, its muddy streets and ruined neighborhoods nothing but the shadow of the shadow of the Kingdom where magic flew like wine. And still, all this had been born from the ruins of the Cataclysm, born out of the hard work of simple people that had managed to bring back civilization from the brink.

The Cataclysm… he had seen it only through the eyes and words of others and he could barely fathom the sheer devastation, the absolute despair that had wrought upon the land. And still, man had bounced right back, rising once again from the ashes to build a lively society.

That small part of him that was given to father-like feelings couldn’t but be deeply proud.

“Man is resilient,” he said, turning to the dark shadow keeping him company.

Nama’s bone face turned to him. “Like a cockroach, holding for dear life on a plank in the middle of a storm,” she said, without any shred of sarcasm. If anything, she sounded quietly amused.

Even Gorren cracked a smile.

Thanks to the driver’s brusque manners, the coach quickly made its way through Blackstone’s busy streets, reaching the city’s southern door.

There, a massive barbican overlooked doors large enough to allow two wagons to pass through side by side. An angry’s dog head was carved just above, announcing which family had the privilege and duty of guarding that entrance and giving the gate its name. The Gate of the Hound was infamous amongst smugglers for being a bad spot to try their luck. The Highwall family, a client of the Crofford, took their duties very seriously.

Even that early in the morning, a long line of wagons and travelers already waited for their turn to be allowed entrance. Serious guards, stationed in a couple of booths beneath the gate, operated brisk but meticulous searches, to make sure that no illegal merchandise was smuggled in or out the city.

As the guards quickly searched the coach, Prim asked about the invitation to Sir Cartus.

“Ah, of course!”, said the head guard, immediately abandoning his formal attitude in favor of a smile. “We were just waiting for you!”

With a series of quick orders, he had a couple of horse-mounted soldiers come close.

“We’ve been ordered to guide you at the meeting, sir!” the older one said. He was a grizzled-looking soldier, large and robust, with a cheerful expression completely at odds with his fearsome appearance. His mane of black hair was cut right into the middle by a jagged scar that coursed through his scalp and down his forehead, like if an axe had come really close at splitting his head open.

Watching out of the coach’s window, Gorren recognized him as a sergeant of the household of Crofford. He arched an eyebrow at the emblem embroidered over his red overcoat: a shining golden sun.

Quickly resuming his skills at deceiving, Gorren put up a solemn expression.

“You honor me,” he said. Quickly, he got down from his coach to give the man his greeting personally. “To have an Aethyr forced to play the guide just for this old man. This is far too much.”

The sergeant beamed, deeply pleased for the courtesy. He got down from his horse to clasp Gorren’s hand with his own.

“Think nothing of it, sir,” he said. “If anything i am happy not to have to wear my armor right from the start of the day!”

Gorren hid the attention with which he observed the man behind a gentle smile.

“Surely you jest,” he said. “I see the looks of the veteran on you, and if old age hasn’t blurred my mind yet, i recognize the hand of a swordsman. A simple armor must be like a shirt to you.”

The burly man blushed with pleasure at the compliment. “We do what we can, sir. We’re simple soldiers. That’s our trade and it‘s a humble one.”

“Sun, Barley, you‘re blushing like a maiden at her first dance,” said the other soldier with a burst of laughter.

Barley grumbled something but still looked very much pleased.

Gorren watched the other soldier, his deep attention masked by benevolence. She was a young woman, dressed in the same light armor and colors of his companion, her hair hidden beneath a leather helmet. A silver sword was embroidered in a silver thread over the front of her overcoat.

Eyes sparkling, she grabbed Gorren’s hand with her own.

“Initiate Goodling, sir,” she presented herself, snapping a salute. “Pleased to serve you. And this blushing bear here is my mentor Barley. But maybe it would be more appropriate to say that i make sure he doesn’t get his head chopped off inadvertently.”

“Bite your tongue!” Barley jabbed back. “And try to look at least respectful in front of sir Cartus.”

Goodling grinned but held her tongue.

“Please, excuse her, sir,” Barley said. He glared at the girl. “Initiates these days cannot learn proper manners.”

Smiling with amused benevolence, Gorren nodded. “I am sure that the Initiate will face her Rite with just the same amount of enthusiasm.”

Each of the listeners heard that differently. Goodling understood it as well-wishing for the future and approval of her pluckiness. Barley took it as a “she will learn her manners in time”. As a result, both were well pleased by it.

“You seem pretty knowledgeable with our rites, sir,” Goodling noted, earning a glare from her mentor. “And you even noticed Barley’s an old warhorse. Have you had experience with battle?” She asked curiously.

Barley looked torn between being angry and ashamed for a moment before settling on the latter and giving Gorren a mortified look. “Please, sir, forgive her indiscretion. She’s young and brash.”

Gorren chuckled. “No offense taken, sergeant. Curiosity is the gift of the young.”

Again, they each read that in their own way, coming out pleased with it.

“It’s not much to answer. Here.” Gorren took off one of his gloves and showed the duo his hand. Both Barley and Goodling’s eyes widened as they took it the layer of thick callus covering it, especially on the fingers, where the grip of a sword would have been the strongest. “I had my fair share of battle,” he told them, eyes getting a distant look. “I even felt the bite of the Aethyr through my veins and stood with my sword in front of my opponent. But that is far in the past now.” He watched them, his expression almost wistful. “I still remember my Rite, clear as it was just yesterday.”

The duo exchanged a surprised look. They had heard from the Duke that Cartus had surely to have been a mighty warrior in his past, but this blew their expectations. Their respect for the old man skyrocketed. Earlier, they saw him as an elder worthy of respect. Now, he was a comrade and someone that had seen ten times what they had. Barley solemnly nodded. Goodling blunted out a dumb question.

“You’ve really been an Aethyr? Where?” The young woman almost bit her tongue, realizing her lack of courtesy, only to shrivel under her Mentor‘s blazing glare. It was deeply offensive to peer into one’s past like that.

Cartus smiled. “Shall we go?”

The duo was just too happy to agree. They quickly mounted up and excused themselves for a moment to “take the last arrangements with the guards”. Gorren had no doubt that it only meant that the sergeant wanted a minute to scream the ear off his ward. His expectation was confirmed when the two returned to the coach outside, a subdued Goodling in tow of a stiff Barley. The older man had the girl actually bow to Gorren and ask for forgiveness.

“No offense taken,” Cartus said. “I may be old but i still remember what being young means.” The two-meaning sentence struck well once more with both, Goodling taking it as a compliment and a demonstration of tolerance that his strict but fair mentor wouldn’t give her, while Barley took it as another gentle rebuke showing great tolerance and kindness.

Cartus looked at the placid sky. “It’s a beautiful day. Shall we go?”

The two nodded, relieved that the incident was closed. They had taken a liking to Cartus already and the last thing they wanted was to displease him right from the start of the day.

The coach rattled down the road, pleasant fields rolling by.

People were already hard at work cutting wheat and harvesting greens. Men covered in sweat, their skin burnished by the work under the sun, leaned on their scythes to look at the travelers, raising hands and shouting greetings. Women busy carrying filled baskets or handful of cut wheat, their hair bundled under cloth, stopped to offer their well-wishes to the noble warriors passing by. Children, their cheeks reddened as apples, took the chance to drop what they were doing to run beside the travelers, little voices rising with enthusiasm.

It was enough to melt away any unease. Soon, Goodling was exchanging banter with the farmers, while Barley looked on with undisguised pride.

Gorren appreciated the sight but the bulk of his attention went to the two.

Aethyr. Bearers of blessing. God-touched. Sacred warriors. Paladins. They were people that had been infused with the power of Mana, their prowess raised to superhuman levels by the touch of that ever-present energy. They were few: the Rite of Aethyr, or more simply the Rite, was a testing trial, that only those that had trained from birth and which bodies had been previously strengthened by years-long infusions could sustain without risk of dying or remaining crippled. More, one had to be strong in mind and strong in body to tame the energies that came to inhabit inside of them. Not everybody made the pass, and that made sure that the ranks of the Aethyr consistently remained thin.

Still, they were powerful, much very so, enough to make them a fundamental element of Blackstone’s military. The Aethyr were the champions of the city, each able to take on three men on its own and prevail. There were dozens of ballads singing about their exploits and heroism. Being one was a sure way path to renown and every noble family dreamed of being able to add another Aethyr to its ranks.

Moore himself had been one of them.

Gorren watched the two Aethyr, his mystical senses seeing what his normal eyes couldn’t. The energy was a flame nestling in their chests, a source of energy just waiting to be unleashed.

Ironic. Just as much as it was absolutely infuriating.

Gorren cracked a smirk. Back in Truvia, the Aethyr had been called Templars, and they were just as renowned and celebrated. Now, they had been given a new coat of paint and called another name for the sake of propriety.

First of all, the name: Aethyr. It was a shame. What the people of Blackstone called Aethyr, and their priests channeled into promising warriors, was nothing but Mana, the same energy of the reviled mages. There wasn’t malice behind it: they simply had lost the knowledge. Even the priests were honestly certain than what they channeled was the blessing of their Gods, nothing to do with what brought the Calamity. And so they venerated it, calling it sacred.

He could almost laugh.

On the other side, the process was dreadfully backward. The world had lost all its knowledge about magic and they had essentially started back from scratch. What they managed to create was the same as a baby folding paper: cute, but nothing special.

Back in Truvia, the production of Templars had been ten times swifter and less dangerous. Here, only the nobles, the only ones able to give themselves to training from adolescence, could afford the chance to become one and even then the process was inefficient enough that few made the tally.

Gorren smiled and nodded at the peasants, repressing the need to grit his teeth. Inefficiency exasperated him. The irony of it all both infuriated him and made him want to start laughing until his ribs cracked.

Ridiculous, to say the least. A tragedy if seen in all its implications.

“Is everything alright, sir Cartus?”

Gorren looked up from his thoughts to find Barley watching him with a concerned frown.

“Nothing important, sergeant,” he reassured him. He didn’t need to feign the tiredness seeping through his tone. “I was just… reminiscing.”

That seemed to hit a cord in the burly sergeant. Understanding, he just nodded seriously and urged his horse forward, leaving the old man his privacy.

Gorren watched him go. A son of an epoch of lies and mistakes. And still, there was valor in him, and all like him.

He didn’t know if that made him want to smile or cry.

The coach ran past the fields and into the untouched lands beyond. Roiling hills and pleasant plains dotted with copses of trees passed by, the dust of the well-beaten road raising behind the wheels. For some time, they met a steady flow of wagons and travelers, all directed to the city for the annual summer fairs or some other business. That stopped once the two guards led the coach through a side-path into the wild-lands.

They moved through a forest, the eaves of the tall trees throwing shades upon the small group, then ascended, the path mounting atop a hill in a snakelike route. Gorren welcomed the moment they got out the influence of the city’s barrier. With secret relish, he let Mana flow through his body, feeling like an old dog finally allowed to stretch his muscles. Flame flickered between his fingers for a moment, quickly extinguished as Barley turned to survey the road.

In good spirits, the old man settled by the window, enjoying the sights passing by. Once, he spied the ruined form of a Mana dispenser, the machinery broken and overran by vines. It was a sign that even there, in what used to be the outskirts of the civilized world, Truvia had arrived and, more interestingly, that the path was often used by nobles and their thaumaturgic vehicles.

To him, it was an alienating sight.

To distract him from the thought, various human presences brushed against his senses. A moment later, he saw a sentinel standing guard on a rock overlooking the passage, bow and arrows held at the ready.

Barley hailed the soldier, receiving in return a welcoming gesture and a shouted word that made him laugh.

Gorren looked at the sentinel, noticing his garments. Green and brown, they would make spotting him in the wilderness a challenge if he put his mind at hiding. The old man didn’t see others, even if his senses told him of their presence.

Impressive.

Eventually, the coach reached the top of a low hill, half barren, craggy rocks and half thick forest. There, pavillions had been erected in a pleasant meadow. Well-dressed servants walked to and fro, all busy attending to the needs of a small crowd of bright dames while hawk-eyed guards surveilled the perimeter.

A group of such guards was waiting for them, and they advanced to meet the coach the moment it emerged into the clearing. Gorren noticed how, despite each wearing different colors, they all carried the same badge: a finger-sized pin resembling a deer’s antler, brightly colored in red.

“Hail and well met, Owen!” Barley called, pulling his reins.

The man that came forward was a veritable giant, his head almost reaching the head of Barley’s horse. The leather armor he wore looked barely able to contain his brawn, and the jutting jaw gave him a brutish appearance. Still, his eyes, inquisitive ad intelligent, put the lie to that.

“Hail and well-met, Barley,” he graveled. “We were starting to think you had met with some problems during the journey.”

“Yeah! A problem called being a loudmouth!” The amused glance Barley threw his young ward’s way was without malice. Even if he could be a stern master, he was just as well quick to forgive and forget.

Owen frowned. “What do you mean?”

As the two men exchanged words, Goodling, searching for an excuse to avoid his mentor’s attention, leaned toward Cartus.

“The lieutenant of the Duke,” she whispered. “He’s one heck of a fighter and a good commander but wouldn’t be able to see a joke even if it hit him on the teeth with a mace.”

After the exchange of greetings, Cartus got off the coach, leaving Prim to be led to a parking lot from a couple of guards. Accompanied by Barley, Goodling and the lieutenant, Gorren walked into the small camp.

A matron, dressed into an elegant but still demure gown, came to welcome him at the head of a group of nobles ladies. A silver band, the only precious ornament on her person, held her golden hair back, that then descended down her back into a long, orderly braid. Her expressive blue eyes shone with a gentle welcome. Gorren recognized her as Aurora, the Duke’s wife.

“My dear sir Cartus.” The duchess offered him a pale hand. “We bid you welcome in our humble abode.”

“My lady…” Gently taking the hand the Duchess offered him, Cartus bowed in greetings. “I am honored.” Having given his regards to the woman, he bowed to the rest of the group, a closed fist on his heart. “You offer this old man far too respect to welcome me here. I am deeply humbled.”

Nods and smiles were given and glances exchanged from behind elegant fans. The noble ladies appreciated Cartus’ attitude. Despite being a well-respected man, he still was a newcomer. It was very proper for him to know his place.

With a smile of gentle approval, Aurora nodded. At her gesture, an attendant came close, carrying a pitcher full of water and a cup.

Recognizing that gesture to be as much a rite as it was a courtesy for a newly arrived wanderer, Cartus received the cup gratefully and offered it at the woman to be filled. Taking the pitcher, Aurora poured crystal clear water into it.

“We welcome you as a friend,” she intoned. “And promise you our food and protection as long as you’ll maintain our peace and respect our rules for all the time you‘ll remain under our roof.”

“As a friend, i am grateful,” Cartus replied in the traditional way. “And i promise upon my name that, as long as i am under your roof, i will keep your peace, respect your rules and offer you the same welcome should your need be dire.”

That said, he drank the water, completing the ritual.

A part of him rolled his eyes at the formality, but the Old Nobles were a stickler for it, and so that was that.

The welcoming bit done, a formality fulfilled by the women as keepers of the hearth, the Duchess led Cartus to the central pavilion, part of the noble dames in tow while the others spread to gossip about the newcomer.

“I take that the Duke is already out hunting, my lady?” Cartus asked. The old man made sure to keep a step behind and to the right of the Duchess, recognizing her superior status.

Aurora placidly glanced at him. “Indeed,” she said. “The gentlemen have begun their hunting a few hours ago.”

Gorren made a couple of calculations. “They’ve been out before the sun came out?” He asked with surprise.

“Some the game of this day requires that, i am told. Ah, there we are.”

They had arrived at the pavilion. The place was simple but still elegant. Silken ropes held up a roof of bright red cloth, providing shade from the sun where the trees couldn’t. A couple of tables had been put at the center, filled with iced beverages and snacks to provide comfort. All around, elderly dames and nobles, those that age or wounds hadn’t allowed participating at the hunt, seated comfortably on camp chairs, chatting or just enjoying the slight breeze.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” Aurora said, instantly attracting the general attention. “Can i present you sir Lucius Cartus?”

Polite greetings and nods passed around the room but none got up. Their superior ranks dispensed them from that. Only a couple of elderly gentlemen did so to shake Cartus’ hand out of respect for someone personally invited by the Duke. Some others, instead, didn’t bother to hide their disdain for what was at their eyes only another newcomer trying to take a place that didn’t belong to him.

Cartus was offered a seat and Aurora presented the guests to him one after the other until he had heard the names, family, titles and achievements of all presents and the lineages they belonged to. And what lineages! Some going all the way to Truvia’s time. More than two hundred years' worth of wealth and nobility.

Her host duties done, Aurora left him to mingle, gliding away to take care of domestic matters, the younger ladies in tow.

“As i was saying,” a jolly elder said. He had presented himself as Aaron Wellworth, patriarch of the noble house by the same name. The elderly gentleman’s chest was packed full with medals and honors, probably to off-set his lame foot. “Therese tried her best to make the man understand that the flower bush was her daughter’s darling, but Courtnay didn’t understand or more probably plainly didn’t care. He kept smiling even as he kept ripping away the white flowers adorning the bush like he was doing it without thinking In the end, the entire plant was ruined.”

Outraged sounds passed across his little audience.

“What a terrible man,” Lady Bleakvale scoffed. The lady, her forms having grown heavy with age, fanned at herself with a dark frown. “Now i realize why poor Anastasia was so distraught. Gardening is such a passion for her. What horrible surprise must have been for her.”

“So rude!” Lady Hushlan said viciously, aristocratic features posed to disdain. “The fellow has been lucky that Therese is such a good host. I don’t know if i would have been able to maintain my temper.” And, like the thought was enough to make her flush, she covered her face with her ornated fan.

“Indeed,” Lord Torn agreed. The man was built like a barrel, with large hands that looked more than enough to throttle the life out of anyone despite the slight trembling of the fingers. His head was completely bare of hair, like if a fire had washed over it. “Still, i seem to remember that the young lady hasn’t acted completely in the proper way in her most recent actions, especially toward certain merchants.”

“Heavens, Barrin, you wouldn’t suggest that such rudeness was deserved!” Hushlan’s eyes threw an outraged glare from just above the fan’s rim.

Torn was unfazed. “Far from me to suggest such a thing,” he said. “Nor it was Courtnay’s place to administer such a punishment, but i cannot avoid thinking that maybe the young lady may very well learn some good measure of humility from it.”

Hushlan scoffed and averted her eyes, fanning vigorously at herself, while Bleackvale covered her little smile with her own fan.

“You talk about the affair with the Melman brothers,” Wellworth interjected jovially. “Ah, i am not saying that they deserved to have their trade license revoked in such a way but surely you agree that their prices were far too high?”

“I do,” Torn agreed. “But that was business for the guard, not for a young lady’s spoiled whim.”

Wellworth smiled, not saying anything. He quite agreed but it was always fun seeing the old dog getting a bit worked up.

Guessing what his old friend was doing, Torn threw him a frown.

“Merchants!” Hushlan scoffed. “More like leeches. Taking and taking and never stopping. There will never be an end to their greed?”

“Wealth is a good resource to have, don’t you think?” Seeing that his slight teasing didn’t work on the frowning Torn, Wellworth moved it to Hushlan.

Hushlan bit back a harsh retort. “You tease me, my lord. I think that we had this argument many times already.”

Hushlan smiled. “Indeed we have, and we seem never to manage to agree over it.”

The lady nodded somberly and lifted her fan. As she made herself air, she surreptitiously glanced toward the silent form of Cartus.

“How about we ask sir Cartus about it?”

The idea appealed to the group. There was a quick exchange of glances, and an agreement was reached. As they all turned to the man in question, the conversations around the room slowed down. The mention of Cartus had attracted general curiosity.

Cartus, that had been listening silently, offered Wellworth a polite smile.

“Sir Cartus,” the old man began. “I and lady Hushlan had been having this argument lately and seem unable to find an agreement. We’d be grateful if you could express your opinion about it.” He smiled. “Maybe it will manage to finally settle the argument.”

Hushlan hid the little grimace of skepticism her mouth took behind her fan, making Bleakvale roll her eyes a little.

“My lord, i wouldn’t give my opinion so much importance.” Cartus was the image of polite propriety. He didn’t grovel or humble himself, nor he sounded arrogant.

It was just… right.

Sharing the sentiment, Wellworth gestured dismissively. “Even so, we’d be pleased to hear it.”

“Then i will be pleased to give it. Please, ask away.”

Wellworth nodded cheerfully. “The question we’ve been arguing about is wealth,” he explained. “Its nature, you see, and the correct way to see it and handle it. Tell us, what do you think about it?”

He didn’t say what their opinions were, watching him eagerly instead, anxious for an answer.

In a way, it was a test for the newcomer. The people in the room knew it as well, and they discreetly perked up their ears to listen.

Cartus sat up straighter. For a couple of moments, he thoughtfully stroked his short beard then began.

“Imagine a double-edged sword,” he said. “Powerful against your enemies but at the same time a danger to yourself if wielded improperly. I believe that wealth is just the same. It carries the chance for leisure just as much as it is a responsibility. After all, the more wealthy one is the more numerous are the people that come to rely upon them, and that means that one has to be watchful at how he uses his own wealth. You see, i don’t think that wealth is something that should be chased for the sake of its own. That is greed, and greed is ruinous. Wealth is nothing but a means to an end. And what is the end? The preservation of order, the spreading of that same wealth to the people that have come to depend on you, the alleviation of pain, the harmonious advancement of society. I firmly believe that is these ethics that should govern one’s choices, not greed nor some disruptive desire to lord over others. At the same time, i try to guard myself, so that my wealth doesn’t come to own me and not the other way around. Because, as i told you, my noble lords and ladies, wealth is a double-edged sword. After the accouterments that rank require are obtained, wealth becomes a temptation: to have more, to reach further and further, forgetting one’s own duties. I am but a man and as such an imperfect thing, but against that i strive, hoping that i can remain true to myself until the Gods call me at their side.”

Cartus smiled and nodded, signaling the end of his little speech.

The room was silent, all present completely baffled by his words. The Duke had talked in a quietly enthusiastic way about this strange man, this newcomer arrived from nothing and suddenly become an influential factor in their city. Still, they had supposed he was just another merchant, another social climber. That… wasn’t what they expected him to say.

Of course, he may be lying, saying the right things just for the sake of propriety. But there was such a quiet conviction in him as he spoke, in the way his expressive eyes shone, that they couldn’t but believe.

Without a word, Lord Torn got up and offered Cartus his hand, an action quickly mirrored by the old man.

As the duo grimly shook, Wellworth exchanged a baffled glance with Hushlan, while Bleakvale peered intently at the man himself.

The moment was interrupted by the arrival of Aurora, a small group of chatting younger ladies in tow.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” the Duchess said, attracting the general attention. Noticing the strange atmosphere, she glanced quizzically toward Bleakvale, to which the old lady replied with a glance promising great things to be told later. Aurora smiled and nodded. “It seems that our bold friends are returning for a brief break in their sport,” she announced. “Shall we go to greet them?”