Nearing The Edge
The sound of hooves striking uneven ground carried far across the hills, dull thuds swallowed and returned by the open night. The grass bent low beneath the passing riders, whispering in restless waves as if the land itself wished to be left undisturbed.
It was well past dusk. The cold had settled deeply, pressing through cloak and leather, gnawing its way toward the bone. Breath came in pale clouds, fleeting and insubstantial, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Seven riders moved through the darkness, their formation tight, their pace steady despite the treacherous terrain.
Only one source of light accompanied them—a large lantern held high by the rider at the front. Its glow swayed with every movement of the horse, casting long, trembling shadows that stretched and twisted across the ground like specters keeping pace.
“Rolan! How much longer until we arrive?!”
The voice came from the rear, strained but firm enough to carry over the wind.
“Another half an hour, boss!” Rolan shouted back, his tone steady despite the conditions.
They pressed on.
At first, it was only a subtle shift in the air—a tightening, a quiet warning that experienced travelers would recognize without needing words. Then the wind rose.
It came without restraint.
A violent gust tore across the hills, forcing the riders to lower themselves against their mounts. The lantern flickered wildly, its flame threatening to vanish altogether as the gale howled through the open land. The horses grew restless, their movements faltering as they struggled to maintain footing against the relentless push.
The wind did not subside.
Minutes stretched. Five. Ten. More.
The storm did not break—it endured.
“Lord Nicholas!” Minerva’s voice cut sharply through the roaring air as she urged her horse forward, closing the distance between them. “Sir Fritz is at his limit! We should take shelter soon!”
Nicholas did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed ahead, eyes narrowed against the biting wind, his jaw set in quiet calculation. Then, with a swift motion of his hand, he signaled toward the rear of the formation.
“Henry!” he called. “You and Henrietta will stay with Minerva and the others. Make sure they remain safe.”
There was no hesitation in his command.
“I will ride ahead with Rolan.”
Nicholas reached for a spare lantern secured at his side and passed it back. Henry caught it without fumbling, offering a short nod before guiding his mount back into position.
The group divided.
Minerva and the others slowed, their progress becoming cautious, deliberate. The storm pressed against them like a living thing, testing their endurance, forcing them to yield ground with every step.
Nicholas and Rolan, however, surged forward.
They leaned into the wind, urging their horses onward with unwavering determination. The lantern’s light carved a narrow path through the darkness, just enough to guide them toward their destination.
At last, the distant outline of the capital’s outer boundary came into view.
Fleurein.
What awaited them was not the image of a thriving city at festival, but something far removed from celebration.
Knights moved in hurried patterns across the outskirts, their silhouettes sharp against the wavering glow of scattered fires. Orders were shouted, lost, and shouted again as the wind carried fragments of command in all directions. Their armor clattered and rang, struck repeatedly by debris carried through the air—grit, twigs, fragments of something harder that clicked sharply against steel.
The entire area resembled a hastily assembled encampment rather than a proper defensive line. Temporary shelters had been erected with urgency rather than care, their structures reinforced with rope and whatever materials could be secured at short notice.
Civilians gathered in clusters wherever space allowed.
Some huddled around open flames, their faces lit in uneven flickers, eyes reflecting both exhaustion and fear. Others withdrew into tents provided by the soldiers of Rosmayne, their silhouettes visible through thin fabric as they knelt, sat, or lay in uneasy rest. Whether they sought refuge from the biting cold or offered fervent prayers to their gods was difficult to distinguish.
Perhaps it was both.
The air itself felt wrong—charged with something heavier than mere weather.
“What the hell is going on here?” Rolan muttered, his voice edged with disbelief. “This place is a mess.”
Nicholas said nothing at first.
His gaze swept across the scene, taking in every detail—the disarray, the strained discipline, the unmistakable signs of a situation spiraling beyond expectation. His teeth clenched slightly, the only outward sign of his mounting concern.
“Let’s go,” he said at last, his voice low but firm. “We have to assess the situation first.”
He nudged his horse forward, already moving.
“We will proceed carefully, and quickly.”
Rolan gave a short nod, falling in beside him without further question.
[Two Weeks Later — Arbona Estate]
At precisely nine in the morning, the quiet dignity of Arbona Estate was broken by the measured rhythm of approaching carriage wheels and the synchronized tread of disciplined boots. The sound carried with unusual clarity across the grounds, echoing faintly against the estate’s stone walls as though announcing not merely an arrival, but an intrusion sanctioned by authority.
By the time the gates came into view, it was already evident that this was no ordinary visit.
A procession had formed before the residence—carriages bearing the insignia of the royal government of Rosmayne, flanked by officers and high-ranking officials clad in formal regalia. Their uniforms were immaculate, adorned with insignias that spoke of rank, jurisdiction, and the weight of state authority. These were not men who came idly.
The gate bell rang.
Eleanor, who had been resting in the side garden, stirred at the sound. She rose with a faint stiffness, brushing soil from her hands before making her way toward the entrance. The moment she laid eyes upon the assembled officials, her steps slowed.
Surprise came first. Then concern.
Still, she composed herself. Years of navigating the delicate intersections between nobility, commerce, and governance had taught her that hesitation invited weakness. She opened the gate.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“Good morning, Madame Arbona. It has been some time.”
The man who stepped forward required no introduction.
Lord Crozette—Minister of Domestic Affairs, and one of the most influential figures within Rosmayne’s inner governance. His presence alone would have warranted attention. That he had come personally, accompanied by such an entourage, was another matter entirely.
Recognition flickered across Eleanor’s face.
Their acquaintance stretched back years, to a time when her late husband, Graham Arbon, still lived. The two men had shared more than polite familiarity; theirs had been a partnership built on mutual benefit, shaped by trade, negotiation, and the quiet understandings that often existed between power and enterprise.
“What brings you here, Lord Crozette?” Eleanor asked, her voice steady despite the unease tightening beneath it.
Lord Crozette inclined his head slightly, his expression courteous, though measured.
“I will not waste your time, Madame. I come under the authority of the Crown.”
What followed was delivered with care, each word chosen not only for accuracy, but for effect.
An official investigation had been ordered.
The Arbona family, he explained, was suspected of maintaining close ties with Randia, the Great Hero. More troubling still were allegations that the family had, knowingly or otherwise, harbored and concealed the wanted individual.
The air seemed to thin.
“Surely this is a joke? You cannot expect such a notion to be taken seriously.” Eleanor’s composure faltered, though only slightly. “Since my husband’s passing, we have withdrawn from the towers, from court, from any matters of high governance. This accusation is—” she searched briefly for restraint, “—nonsensical.”
Lord Crozette listened without interruption, then responded with a patience that bordered on deliberate reassurance.
“I understand your concern,” he said. “And I assure you, this is not an act of hostility.” His tone softened, though it did not lose its authority. “If your family is without fault, then your honor and safety will remain untouched. We intend no harm, Madame Arbona. If anything, I am personally here to ensure that none befalls you unnecessarily.”
It was not merely persuasion—it was strategy. A careful balance of reassurance and inevitability.
Eleanor hesitated.
Then, after a prolonged moment of consideration—after weighing pride against prudence—she stepped aside.
“You may enter. But tread carefully, my lord. I might be a just a little bit more than flea to you, but I assure you that even a flea can bite. And I shall do all that I can to deliver you an extremely nasty bite, should you ask for it.”
"Point taken, Madame."
Inside the estate, the atmosphere shifted. The usual routines disrupted by the presence of uniformed officials occupying spaces meant for private living. Eleanor wasted no time in summoning her granddaughters.
Lisabelle descended first.
Her expression was far from welcoming. Suspicion sat plainly on her face, unmasked and unapologetic. She had never trusted strangers, and she trusted officials even less. Only after Eleanor’s firm insistence did she relent, guiding Viena gently by the hand.
The contrast between the two sisters was striking.
Where Lisabelle stood guarded and resolute, Viena appeared diminished—pale, withdrawn, her vitality dulled by the weight of recent weeks. The absence of Randia had carved something out of her that had yet to return. She did not resist being led; she simply followed.
Lisabelle tightened her grip around her sister’s hand as they approached.
The conversation that followed unfolded with an uneasy restraint.
Questions were asked, answers given. Observations made and quietly noted. It was less an interrogation than a measured extraction of truth—careful, deliberate, and unhurried.
At one point, Lord Crozette leaned slightly forward.
“We have several witnesses,” he said, his voice even. “They claim you referred the hero as ‘Papa.’ Is this accurate?”
Before Viena could respond, Lisabelle spoke.
"I thought we are spared from questions until the queen is present?"
The interruption was neither loud nor disrespectful, but it carried enough weight to shift the room.
Lord Crozette paused, then smiled faintly, inclining his head.
“You are correct,” he admitted. “My apologies. Curiosity, it seems, is not a trait reserved only for the young.”
The tension eased—but only slightly. A decision had already been made.
Lord Crozette rose to his feet, smoothing the front of his coat. The other officials followed suit almost in unison, their movements practiced and precise.
“Then let us proceed efficiently,” he said. “You will accompany us to the Thousand Mirror Palace. The Queen has arranged for your temporary residence there. You will be treated as honored guests.”
Lisabelle’s expression tightened.
“And our grandmother?” she asked.
“Despite all, I'm afraid Madame Eleanor will be required to remain here. Your estate must be secured during your absence, after all.” Lord Crozette replied. “However, you don't have to worry about a thing. I will assign my finest men to ensure her safety. You have my word—nothing will be neglected.”
The reasoning was sound.
In the aftermath of the chaos that had unfolded during the final day of Ludus Magnorum, leaving the estate unattended would have been a risk no sensible household could accept. Even protection required supervision.
Lisabelle glanced toward Eleanor.
There was no protest—only a quiet understanding passing between them.
In the end, they agreed.
Farewells were brief, though not without weight.
Eleanor watched as her granddaughters departed, her composure holding firm until the moment they stepped beyond the gates. Only then did the silence of the estate deepen, settling into something heavier than before.
Lisabelle and Viena boarded the carriage alongside Lord Crozette and a single additional figure—his personal guard, whose presence required no introduction.
The door closed. The carriage stirred. And with it, the course of their lives shifted once more.