They emerged from the tree line as the afternoon sun dispelled the last chill of the morning, and Floria's walls stood in the distance as a symbol of warmth and safety.
The journey back through the outer fringes had passed in relative quiet. The lesser predators stalking the brush had scented the blood and mana radiating from the group and opted to give them a wide berth. Nick’s senses told him they were too weak to be worth fighting.
We do need to leave a few around for the new adventurers to cut their teeth on. Floria’s still growing, and a healthy population of murderhobos will serve us well.
As they walked through the main gates, militiamen on the walls snapped crisp salutes. Merchants and civilians alike paused their haggling, drawn to the four figures tracking mud and monster gore through the streets.
To the citizens, Devon Crowley and his companions looked like hardened veterans returning from a yearlong campaign in the wild, their cloaks torn, their armor scored with fresh scratches, and their eyes sharp with residual adrenaline.
When they reached the manor courtyard, a host of servants was waiting for them and rushed forward, taking their packs and shouting orders to draw hot water for the baths.
Arthur stood by the fountain, arms crossed. His eyes swept over the group, taking it all in and lingering on his granddaughter. Rose was bruised, with a shallow cut healing along her jawline, and her tunic was stained with black sap. Yet she stood differently.
Her feet were planted firmly, her weight evenly distributed, her shoulders relaxed rather than coiled with the tension she had carried since the ritual.
Arthur pushed off the fountain’s stone rim and walked toward her. He reached out, tilted her chin to inspect the cut, then stepped back with a hum.
“You look like you had a good time," he rasped, a glint of approval in his eyes.
“I did,” Rose agreed with a chuckle. “It took a fair bit of blood, but it was worth it.”
"Good," Arthur said, turning on his heel. "Come. You need a bath, a hot meal, and sleep, in that order. The young Lord can manage his own kin for the evening.”
He whisked her away, ignoring the servants fluttering around them. Nick watched them go, a faint smile touching his lips, then turned to his brother and Sonya.
"Go clean yourselves up," he ordered. “I’m sure our parents will want to know everything we did.”
Two hours later, the grime washed away, the Crowley family gathered in the private room. The table was laden with roasted pork, garlic mash, spinach pies, and the spiced wine Eugene favored.
Devon tore into a crusty loaf of bread, his enthusiasm undimmed by exhaustion. He spoke with his hands, describing the brutal encounter with the Moss Oni and how he slid through the mud to deliver the final strike. He was candid about his initial failures, admitting how quickly his polished forms fell apart when the ground gave way, and about his eventual successes in smoothing them into a more coherent fighting style.
Eugene listened from the head of the table, carving a slice of pork, torn between a frown of parental concern and the pride of a noble seeing his heir grow.
"A swordsman who cannot fight in any condition is no swordsman at all," he declared, setting his carving knife down. "You’ve learned an important lesson, Devon. The world will not always be fair, and more often than not, you’ll have to improvise.”
Elena sipped her wine, eyeing Sonya, who was quietly eating her meal. The girl wore a new tunic of fine gray wool, but it was clear she hadn’t been spared in the adventure, given the subtle aura of power around her.
“So you managed to redirect the beast's weapon," Elena finally said. “I admit, it is a bold use of your class, Sonya. Most would consider such skills useful only to the hearth.”
Sonya paused, softly dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. "A battlefield is nothing but a room filled with unwanted debris, my Lady. The [Maid] class requires a perfectly clean space. The monster was making a mess, so I cleaned it up.”
Devon laughed aloud, raising his goblet. "She melted its face with a flask of acid, too! It was brilliant!”
Nick sipped his wine, letting the warmth and camaraderie of his family wash over him. It wasn’t often they got to enjoy moments like this, and he knew all too well the future wouldn’t allow many more.
Eventually, however, the retelling of their adventures was finished, and he needed to ask. "Did Armand Poules arrive?”
The table quieted, turning to Eugene.
"A message arrived yesterday morning from Mage Claudius," Eugene reported. "Armand reached Oakenhollow a day after leaving. When he found his wife locked in the cellar and unresponsive, he nearly took the man’s head off.”
Devon stopped chewing, his bread forgotten. "Did Tim have to fight him?”
Nick had shared some of his worries about their southern vassal with his brother, mostly because it would eventually be his problem, but also because he was still unsure about the whole thing and wanted a second opinion.
"No," Eugene said. “Apparently, the boy met him unarmed and immediately took Armand down to the cellar. Whatever he said, whatever he showed his father... it stayed his blade. Claudius wrote that Armand locked himself in his solar afterward. He weeps for the woman he thought he knew and rages at the situation, but he has not drawn steel against his son.”
“We have been cautiously optimistic," Elena murmured, tracing the rim of her cup. "Tim has assumed the role of Castellan, and as far as we know, the town guards are answering to him and the magistrates are falling in line. The transition is fragile, but it is holding.”
Given how little interest Sir Poules had shown in the actual ruling of his lands, that wasn’t too surprising, but the fact that Tim had managed to blunt his initial reaction was very promising.
I’m man enough to admit I wasn’t sure he could do it. This is very welcome news, even if it means he might not be able to return to the Tower for some time.
"He will manage," Nick said quietly, staring into the hearth fire. “Candra is little more than a bag of meat, and while Armand’s mind might insist he loves her, she shan’t wake. The grief will pass, and loyalty to his blood will remain.”
It would also serve as a powerful reminder to all who thought they could take advantage of House Crowley of what would happen if their ambitions grew too far. Candra was technically still alive, but her soul had been sucked dry by the ritual, and he suspected she wouldn’t last long, even if her body was mostly untouched.
Over the next few days, a strange calm settled. Devon, Sonya, and Rose slept late, recuperating from their adventures, and gradually resumed light training in the yard. Occasionally, Eugene and Elena joined them for sparring to assess their progress.
Nick left them to recover. He used the downtime to walk the streets of Floria, taking in the sheer scale of the town's expansion.
The settlement had changed significantly, with dwarven tribute coming in and northern threats cleared. Wooden walls were replaced with quarried stone, and markets overflowed with silk, spices, and iron from the south and inner provinces. The air was filled with the sound of hammers and chisels, as mages of all elements crafted new structures, public fountains, and sewer systems.
He found himself wandering into the old market district, several of his treasures in his ring.
The Shadow is the most pressing issue for now, but as soon as that’s done, I’ll need to prepare to leave for the capital. A stop in Alluria to see Master Tholm wouldn’t be amiss, but I should gather what I can now.
He stopped in front of a familiar storefront. The wooden sign above the door read Yohan’s Emporium of Weapons and Gear, though the building had doubled in size since his last visit. The windows were of glass, displaying polished steel breastplates and enchanted daggers.
Nick pushed the door open, and a small bell chimed above his head.
Behind the counter, a balding man with shrewd eyes looked up from a ledger. Yohan blinked, adjusting his spectacles, then his face broke into a wide, genuine smile.
"Lord Nicholas!" Yohan called out, rushing from behind the counter to give a deep bow. "By His Justice, it has been too long. The town speaks of nothing but your victories in the north. Please, do come in, come in!”
"It is good to see your business thriving, Yohan," Nick said, glancing at the expanded weapon racks. This was the man who had sold him the firestone sword for Eugene and had provided the ticket to the Alluria auction months earlier, a crucial stepping stone in House Crowley's rise. He was genuinely happy to see that the bigger players in town had heeded his words and allowed him to grow without hindrance.
Never let it be said that a Crowley doesn’t pay his debts.
"Thriving is a mild word, my Lord," Yohan chuckled, gesturing toward the gleaming inventory. “Safe roads bring caravans from as far as the East Coast. But what brings you to my humble counter today? Looking for a new focus? I have some wonderful selections of gems if you’d like to take a look.”
Nick chuckled and shook his head. It’d be a long time before anything could surpass the Shard. He waved his hand, and a large sack appeared on the counter from his ring. "Looking to sell.”
He untied the drawstrings and retrieved several crystalline venom sacs from the arachnids in the Green Ocean, along with a bundle of iridescent terror-bird feathers, prized for fletching armor-piercing arrows.
Yohan’s eyes gleamed with the joy of a merchant scenting rare goods. He produced a magnifying loupe and quickly set to inspecting the venom sacs. "Flawless extraction. The alchemists in Alluria will pay a king’s ransom for these, my Lord.”
"Give me a fair price, and they are yours," Nick offered.
They negotiated briefly, a comfortable exchange of numbers that ended with Yohan handing over a thick pouch of silver and a few dozen gold coins.
Leaving the Emporium, Nick walked toward the center of the new merchant district and arrived at a sprawling, newly constructed guild hall of pale marble. The banners of the Polliver-Bolliver Conglomerate and the Dunstonburough Family hung over the grand entrance.
Currently, the two factions dominated most of Floria's trade, securing profitable contracts to support the Barony's swift growth.
Nick walked into the opulent meeting room, bypassing the line of lesser merchants, his coat’s sigil and familiar features granting him immediate access.
The agents for the two houses—old men wrapped in fine velvet doublets—scrambled to their feet, bowing deeply.
"Lord Nicholas, what an unexpected honor," wheezed the Dunstonburough factor, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief.
Nick dropped another leather sack onto their mahogany table. The dull thud echoed through the quiet room.
"I have the core of a Level One Hundred Moss Oni," Nick stated, his voice flat and businesslike. "Along with its tusks and a dozen yards of viable hide. I also have the cores of several high-tier mud-drakes.”
The factors gazed at the sack, their greed clashing with their inherent fear of the young prodigy standing before them. A Prestige-tier core, even from a brute like a Moss Oni, was a priceless treasure for a merchant house. If they managed to deliver it to Alluria, it could be sold at the next Ducal auction, making them very wealthy.
"We... we would need to appraise the quality," the Polliver-Bolliver representative stammered, reaching for the sack.
“Go on,” Nick advised, pulling out a chair and taking a seat.
The negotiation was brief and efficient. Nick knew the exact market value of the materials, and the factors knew better than to try to cheat the son of the ruling Baron. Within an hour, Nick walked out of the guild hall, carrying an iron lockbox in his ring, filled with enough gold bars to buy himself several townhouses.
Not that he intended to keep everything. As he returned to the manor, he mentally calculated and divided the profits equally among Devon, Sonya, and Rose, since it was their kill and they deserved the spoils.
When he returned to his quarters, he spent the twilight hours experimenting with his spellcraft. He sat cross-legged on the rug, drawing raw ether into his body and weaving esoteric threads into the intricate, interlocking chains of the [Gleipnir] spell. He tested the adaptive restraints on various targets, watching the invisible ribbons tighten and sink.
When he pushed a pulse of mana into the bindings, the dummies, no matter how enchanted, cracked and splintered, reduced to kindling in an instant.
Seven days passed in this quiet rhythm. Floria prospered as the air grew colder with the season's shift, and the skies remained stubbornly clear.
On the evening of the seventh day, Nick stood on the high stone balcony next to his quarters. The sun had already set below the western plains, taking the last vibrant streaks of orange and purple with it.
The moon was full, and the Shadow was coming.