“It’s good that Davon here is cool-headed,” Melisande said at last, breaking a long silence that had stretched thin since they left the overgrown ruins of the bandit camp.
Her voice was softer than usual, drifting into the air like the warm breeze that whispered through the treetops.
The sunlight now poured between branches in faint rays, less oppressive than the gloom of The Bastos March, but not yet welcoming. Their movements were still stiff, and there was a dull ache in their feet and backs. The fight was over, but its residue clung like soot.
Ludwig turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward her. “What makes you say that?” he asked. His tone was as calm as ever, but something edged behind it—curiosity, not offense.
Melisande smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well,” she began, brushing back a lock of windblown hair and looking down at the beaten road they were following, “a couple of our former… companions, if they had your strength, they wouldn’t have let those bandits go. They’d have taken the heads. Turned them in for coin.”
She let the words linger. Her gaze drifted upward again, to Ludwig, then back to the trees.
“Money’s fickle,” she added. “It makes killers out of decent people.”
Ludwig didn’t answer right away.
“There was no need,” he finally said, voice low but certain. “No need to kill anyone who gave up.”
A pause.
“As for money…” His voice trailed off. The rest of the sentence never came.
Not because he hesitated. But because there was no need for it to.
The silence that followed was heavier this time. Thoughtful.
“In case you didn’t notice,” Gorak rumbled from the rear, his voice like gravel dragged over wet stone, “just Davon’s clothes alone look like they could buy a city. I doubt he cares about the price of a few bandit heads.”
Melisande turned her head, blinking as if the thought only now struck her. She looked at Ludwig again—his immaculate gloves, his tailored coat, the flawless embroidery that glinted faintly in the afternoon sun.
“…Huh,” she said aloud, half to herself. “That does make sense.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, playful curiosity returning to her features. “I never did ask. Davon—what’s your family name?”
Ludwig’s steps didn’t falter. But his eyes narrowed, just slightly.
He turned to her and said, without shifting his tone: “I’d rather not talk about it.”
There was no hostility in his voice. No defensiveness. But it was final.
Firm. Quietly drawn like a blade left in its sheath.
Melisande raised both eyebrows in surprise but nodded, backing off with a shrug.
He didn’t need to give anyone reason to look too closely.
The slime masking his facial structure helped—just enough to put distance between himself and the rumors of Ludwig Heart. But names… Names carried weight. Names were mirrors. And the less he said about his past, the less chance there was for it to reflect back in a way he couldn’t control.
“Most pilgriming nobles like to keep their names tucked under their sleeves,” Timur said gruffly, breaking the tension before it could solidify. “Don’t pry too much, Mel.”
“Pilgriming nobles?” Ludwig echoed, his brow creasing slightly.
Timur glanced over. “You’re not?”
“I don’t even know what that is,” Ludwig replied.
That gave everyone pause.
Robin, who had been walking with one hand resting on the hilt of his shortblade, slowed his pace and turned his head slightly, eyeing Ludwig with faint suspicion.
“Master Davon,” he said slowly, “for a noble, you strike me like you’re faking it more than living it. How do you not know what a noble pilgrimage is?”
The words weren’t hostile—but they carried edge.
Before the silence could deepen, Timur stepped in again.
“Not all nobles are the same,” he said, his tone sharpened enough to slice through the implication. “Especially the foreign ones.”
Ludwig didn’t thank him. But he noted the save.
Timur continued. “But a noble pilgrimage—it’s like a rite of passage. A coming-of-age thing for high-blood heirs. Their families send them off into the world alone. No name, no house funds. They’ve gotta earn their place. Make a name so strong the Emperor himself asks for them.”
He glanced at Ludwig, then forward again.
“It’s what the last Urbaf child did. What was his name again…”
“Cain,” Ludwig said before he could stop himself. “Cain Urbaf.”
Timur snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. Kid earned Aura at, what, twenty-three?”
“How old are you, Davon?” Melisande asked.
“Twenty.”
Timur gave a low whistle. “Still a couple years. You’re ahead of the curve already. Hell, from what I’ve seen…” he gave Ludwig a grin, “you might even beat him.”
Ludwig shook his head, eyes half-lidded. “No. Someone already did.”
Timur frowned. “You sure? We’d have heard about that.”
“News spreads slowly,” Ludwig said. “But I heard someone reached Aura at twenty-one.”
The group went quiet.
Robin muttered, “Guess the younger generation’s out to bury us, then.”
“No stone stands forever in the path of the river of time,” Melisande added wistfully. Then, suddenly, she brightened. “Look! The royal road!”
Ludwig lifted his gaze.
Ahead, the path opened into a wide stone-paved road stretching into the golden light. A pair of carriages rolled lazily in the distance, heading southward, toward the silhouette of a city bathed in distant sun.
Mira.
A real city. A place to rest.
“Nice,” Robin said, a rare note of optimism in his voice. “We can even see Mira from here.”
“Oh gods, I need a bath,” Melisande moaned, almost dancing in place. “Let’s hurry up! I feel like I’ve been sleeping in moss for three days.”
They laughed—quiet, strained, but real.
And then they walked.
The stone road felt firmer beneath their feet than the uneven forest paths behind them, and for a brief moment, it was almost easy to forget the blood, the rot, and the weight of the dead that still clung faintly to their boots.
Mira was close.
The city shimmered like a mirage in the afternoon light—its towers framed in blue haze, its banners fluttering weakly in the southern wind. Closer now, the scent of pine gave way to smoke and distant spices. Civilization.
Ludwig’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. The others moved with a slight spring in their step, the toll of Bastos slowly lifting from their spines.
Then—
“Oi, Timur! By the gods, what happened to you?!”
The voice rolled out like thunder atop a laughing breeze, breaking the moment with all the subtlety of a war drum.
They turned.
A broad, gilded carriage drawn by six heavy-set stallions clattered up beside them. Its panels gleamed with polished wood and silver fittings.
Several riders moved along the carriage, guards, maybe knights even, they all looked rather serious, and none of them spoke when the person in the carriage emerged.
From the wide open window of the carriage’s side leaned a man almost too large for the frame. Hair like melted bronze, a face red-cheeked and split with a smile that seemed permanent, Baron Baltimore waved enthusiastically.
Timur’s face immediately soured, as if he had bitten into a lemon soaked in vinegar.
“…Baron Baltimore,” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s with that scowl?” the Baron boomed, pulling himself up with surprising grace for someone of his bulk. “If people see you scowling like that beside my carriage, they’ll think I’m robbing you of your coin!”
Timur didn’t miss a beat. “Isn’t that the case though?”