The sound of hooves against stone echoed across the hillside road, muffled by the heavy velvet drapes of the carriage, but still sharp in Ludwig’s ears. The world beyond the wooden wheels was changing—warmer, busier, alive. The sharp, grim stillness of the Bastos March was already dissolving behind them like a fading nightmare.
Ahead of them, the fortified stone walls of Mira stood tall and proud, flanked by twin towers and a gatehouse that bore the blue and gold sigil of the Kingdom of Lamar. The walls, though not towering like a fortress, were clean, reinforced, and well maintained—testament to Mira’s strategic importance as both a trading hub and a border checkpoint.
Guards in polished chainmail patrolled the ramparts, their crossbows lazily held but their eyes alert. More of them stood at the foot of the gate itself—half a dozen at least, maintaining the line of arriving and departing caravans with what could generously be called bureaucratic indifference.
Mira was no ordinary city.
It was a place where stories started—or ended. An Adventurer’s City, yes, but also a semi-port capital; where coin, blood, fame, and death often shared the same table.
Behind the walls, the bustle of trade could already be heard—the creak of cart wheels, the rhythmic hammer of blacksmiths, the calls of hawkers selling everything from spices to weapons. Mira thrived on ambition, and ambition drew all manner of folk.
Ludwig shifted in his seat as the carriage creaked to a halt before the gate. The inside was comfortably spacious, lined with velvet cushions and detailed with gold-fringed curtains, though the wear in some of the wood betrayed just how many long journeys it had endured.
Outside, a guard stepped forward at the sound of an approaching rider.
“Baron Baltimore has arrived!” the man shouted, his voice echoing upward toward the tower. “Open the gate!”
The reaction was immediate.
From above, the guards didn’t so much as hesitate. Crossbows were lowered, signals exchanged, and a loud creaking groan followed as the reinforced doors of Mira opened.
No inspection. No interrogation.
Just the path.
Just the name.
“Damn,” Timur muttered from across Ludwig, arms folded, brow raised in a half-amused scowl. “How much are you paying them for them to not even peek inside the carriage?”
The Baron gave a small, smug chuckle. “Lad,” he said, resting his cane between his knees, “money’s not for hoarding—it’s for moving. You can’t expect to make a profit if you’re not willing to grease a few palms now and then.”
He leaned slightly forward, tapping the window with one ring-heavy finger. “A few thousand golden kronas now, and I get priority trade routes, reduced tariffs, and guards that owe me a few favors. If things ever go sideways, these same men might just help me disappear without a trace.”
Timur grunted but didn’t argue.
The carriage rolled forward again, the gates parting like a curtain before a stage—and Mira revealed herself.
Inside, the street was cleaner than expected. The stone-paved road was even, polished smooth by years of feet, hooves, and wheels. On either side, merchants shouted over one another in a symphony of commerce—flourishing their wares to travelers who clearly had too much coin and too little caution.
Baked goods, sizzling meats, glass trinkets, forged iron, herbs, silk, wine, spices.
Laughter and shouting.
Life.
After the Bastos March—its silent woods, haunted ruins, and the oppressive weight of death—Mira struck the group like a splash of cold water to the face.
Even through the thick walls of the carriage, the difference was visceral.
Timur leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hard to believe we just came out of a graveyard.”
Ludwig didn’t speak. He remained still, arms loosely crossed, his gaze calm as it wandered to the passing faces—children running barefoot, cloaked travelers arguing with innkeepers, city guards shaking down a suspiciously quiet merchant. Life, yes, but a life with teeth.
Melisande remained quiet, her hand resting on the windowsill. She watched the world with something unreadable in her eyes.
Even Gorak had leaned closer to peer out through a slit in the canvas. His barbarian stoicism held, but his fingers drummed against his leg—an unconscious sign of alertness or anticipation.
They traveled in silence for a while longer, moving deeper into Mira, until the sounds of clamor began to recede.
Paved roads turned to cobbled walks, and the architecture shifted from cramped market stalls to taller homes and villas, with fenced gardens and quiet courtyards. Here, the scent of charcoal was replaced by flowering rosebushes, and the murmur of haggling was overtaken by the soft rustle of trees.
They had reached Mira’s noble quarter.
And while even the grandest of these manors were impressive, they still paled in comparison to the scale of the Bastos estate. The Bastos Manor had belonged to a Marquis—one of the richest and most powerful figures in the Lufondal Empire.
This was… nice. Decorative. Respectable.
But it wasn’t old blood.
The carriage slowed before a large, white-stone villa set behind a wrought iron gate. A garden sprawled behind it—lush, colorful, meticulously maintained.
Dozens of different flowers bloomed, bordered by low hedges. A trio of maids were already out tending to them—clipping leaves, dusting petals, murmuring to each other until the sound of the wheels drew their eyes upward.
The carriage came to a stop.
“Ah, home at last,” the Baron said, groaning as he pushed himself up. “My back’s not built for two-day journeys anymore.”
A knight in a dark uniform moved to open the carriage door.
The Baron stepped out first with the grace of a man used to being seen.
Ludwig and the others followed—Timur with a faint wince in his knee, Robin without a sound, Melisande letting out a quiet breath as she finally stretched her legs, and Gorak… still wearing the massive, bloodstained pack of supplies.
The house staff moved quickly.
A butler in his late sixties, straight-backed despite the years, approached from the stone path, flanked by an older maid with a silver pin in her hair—a sign of seniority among service workers.
They bowed in perfect sync.
“Welcome back, Baron.”
“Good to be back,” he waved, then motioned to the group. “Take care of the carriage. We’ll be inside. And prepare some baths for my guests—they’ve had a hellish journey.”
Melisande perked up instantly.
“Actually, Baron, would you mind if I—”
“Already taken care of,” he said with a smirk. “Though I must say… you look cleaner than usual for returning from one of your little expeditions.”
He turned slightly to glance at Ludwig.
Melisande followed his gaze, her smile widening.
“I have my secrets,” she said. Then, sotto voce, “Though I’m still waiting to learn Sir Davon’s.”
Ludwig blinked once, but said nothing.
Gorak stayed near the carriage, his massive figure still towering even as he moved with unexpected precision, lifting crates and satchels with one arm as easily as a stablehand might toss hay. Despite the fatigue written across his shoulders, there was no complaint, no pause—just silent, reliable motion.
“You plan on selling those tusks?” the Baron asked, only now catching sight of the massive blood-slick horns that jutted from the rear cargo like ivory thunderbolts.
“They aren’t mine to sell,” Timur replied, not even glancing back.
The Baron stopped.
A slow breath passed through his lips.
“…I see,” he said, tone shifting slightly. He turned to Ludwig, his gaze now touched with interest. “Well then, Sir Davon—undamaged Nesha tusks don’t show up every day. They’re quite the commodity lately. Alchemists are clawing each other’s eyes out for them. You’ll have no shortage of buyers if you’re looking to make coin.”
Ludwig was silent for a moment.
Then, softly: “Let’s discuss that after we’re done with the main business.”
The Baron gave a short, knowing laugh. “Prudent. No need to be hasty.”
He turned toward the steps of the manor and began waddling forward, his ornate cane tapping rhythmically against the polished stone underfoot.
The manor itself was… tasteful. Opulent without being garish, though certainly leaning into excess here and there. The garden, with its curling archways and sculpted hedges, hinted at someone who cared about appearances—or knew the value of perception.
Inside, the air shifted. It was cooler. Still.
Velvet drapes hung from golden rods, the deep red fabric muting the late afternoon light into a wine-stained glow. The floors were marble—black and white checkerwork running all the way down the entrance corridor to a grand staircase flanked by iron-forged suits of armor.
The scent of aged wood and perfumed oil lingered in the halls.
Every inch of the space whispered wealth.
But not old wealth.
Earned wealth. Built. Cultivated.
One could almost smell the ambition that had soaked into the walls.
Ludwig glanced once at the armor, noting the dustless sheen of each breastplate, the polish on the blades resting at their sides. They weren’t for show. They were maintained. Respected.
And ready.
The Baron led them past the main foyer into a wide sitting room, where a long table of dark mahogany waited. A crimson runner lined its center. Atop it, crystal decanters and goblets shimmered beside a silver fruit tray that no one touched.
He didn’t take the head seat—he dropped into it.
“Sit, sit,” he said, waving one hand. “Let’s not pretend this is a royal council.”
He snapped his fingers toward a nearby servant, who nodded once and departed swiftly. Moments later, another returned with a bottle of wine and several glasses.
The Baron didn’t wait for anyone. He poured himself a full glass and took a generous sip before speaking again.
“Now,” he began, voice lower, more grounded, “we finally speak of the job.”