Ventren stood at the threshold of the Ironhold mansion as the great iron gates parted before him. Beyond them rose the dynastic seat itself—an immense structure of pale stone and dark timber, its towers crowned with black-and-orange banners bearing the bear. The architecture was militaristic rather than indulgent: thick walls, narrow windows and battlements.
The courtyard bustled with activity. Servants moved with efficiency, squires hurried between stables, armouries and decorated brigandine-equipped guards stood at measured intervals.
As he stepped out of the carriage, the sound of boots approached.
"Ventren of Marport, the Immovable."
The voice was raspy but calm, resonant and carrying the authority of command without the need for volume.
Archduke William the Falconeer stepped forward, flanked by two household knights. He was older than Ventren had expected—his hair streaked with iron-grey, his face weathered by wind and sun rather than courtly comfort. On his shoulder was a falcon with a single orange feather. His bearing was straight-backed, his eyes sharp and assessing like a predator accustomed to judging distance and weakness in an instant.
"You honour my house with your presence, warrior." William said, extending a gauntleted hand. "Ironhold welcomes you."
Ventren clasped it firmly and bowed his head—not deeply, but respectfully. "The honour is mine, my lord Archduke."
William's lips curved faintly. "Well spoken. Did not expect a former mercenary to know such… vocabulary."
"Ventren," Sir Alexios said, offering a measured nod that held no bitterness. "You fought viciously in the pit. Nonetheless, I would rather lose to such a fighter than win against a thousand farmers."
Ventren inclined his head. "Sir, you are the first in a decade to push me to my limits. Well fought, knight."
Alexios exhaled sharply, something like a laugh. "The healers say I'll walk straight again within the month. A fair price, I think."
William watched the exchange with interest. "Come. There is more to be done tonight than just polite conversation."
They were led into the great hall.
It was vast—long tables of dark oak, banners hanging from the rafters and a statue of Matrem Myriam at the far end beneath the Ironhold crest. Candles burned steadily, their light glinting off steel and silver alike. Lesser nobles, household knights, officers, and honoured guests filled the hall, their murmurs quieting as Ventren was brought before them.
A herald stepped forward and struck the butt of his staff upon the stone.
"Let it be known," he proclaimed, "that Ventren of Marport, victor of the Ironhold Tournament Qualifiers, stands before the Archduke to receive honour for valour, strength and service to the realm."
Ventren knelt.
A squire approached, removing his helm and presenting it to another. For the briefest moment, the air felt too open, too exposed—but the shadows and angle of the torchlight spared him unwanted scrutiny. His fish-like features were still mostly hidden by the chainmail coif and aventail.
Archduke William held a sword in hand.
This is it.
"Ventren of Marport," he said, voice echoing through the hall, "you have proven yourself in open combat, under lawful contest before witnesses of land. You fought valiantly."
The first step to Stavross…
The flat of the blade touched Ventren's left shoulder. Then the right.
…and the first steps of penance.
"By the authority vested in me as Archduke of Ironhold, I grant you honorary knighthood within my domain, to bear our name in service when you stand in Halzyon. Rise, Sir Ventren."
He leaned in to Ventren's ear and whispered, "You are welcomed to join the Ironhold retinue if you fail the Great Tournament."
The hall erupted into controlled applause—measuredand dignified yet sincere.
Ventren rose slowly, heart steady and mind sharp. An oath followed spoken clearly with each word binding.
"I swear to uphold the laws of Valkraun, to defend its people from injustice, to bear arms in defence of the realm, and to serve with honour, loyalty and justice. I shall not raise steel for unjust cruelty nor remain silent in the face of corruption."
William nodded once. "Well spoken."
The celebrations that followed were restrained but warm. Wine flowed while musicians played and conversation filled the hall. Ventren did not ate nor drink, choosing to observe rather than indulge. Alexios remained nearby and answered questions on his behalf when nobles grew too curious.
Later, as the hall thinned and the hour grew late, William gestured for Ventren to follow him.
They walked through quieter corridors into a private solar overlooking the inner gardens and the door shut behind them. William poured two cups of dark wine, offering one. Ventren accepted reluctantly.
"Now," the Archduke said, turning to face him fully, "we speak plainly."
Ventren waited. He had expected something like this.
"I do not trust the prince yet," William continued. "Nor do I trust the court. Maershal's cruelties linger even as he rots. His heir might be as evil as he was or worse."
Ventren was stunned briefly at that statement. "Why do you suspect Prince Vaenir?" Ventren asked carefully.
William studied him. "I suspect everyone but Vaenir especially concerns me. He is capable, smart and charismatic. He reverted most of Maershal's policies and he has begun reforming other policies that have remained unchanged for centuries."
Ventren said nothing.
"I need eyes in Halzyon," William said quietly. "Not to spy on the prince, per se… But report on the situation there."
Ventren met his gaze. "And what would you have me report?"
"Intent," William replied. "Alliances for one. Vaenir himself, how he speaks and conducts himself. Any sign that Vaenir intends to centralise power beyond what a king should wield."
Ventren considered this. "And if his intentions are just?"
William's expression did not change. "Then I will know. Knowledge is not treason."
A pause.
"There is another matter," William said, setting his cup aside. "Stavross Cross."
Ventren's blood cooled.
I see he did his research on me.
"The Blind Stars," William continued, "No longer exists but Stavross has cultivated favour among certain reformist factions. He profits from chaos, from rebuilding contracts, from 'security arrangements' along fractured trade routes."
He slid a parchment across the table.
"Here is confirmation that Stavross was present at Marport before its fall. Not as an attacker—but as an advisor. He legitimised the purge by framing it as a necessary action against the Merrows."
Ventren's jaw tightened.
"He now seeks glory at the capital tournament," William finished. "If he wins, he becomes untouchable."
William leaned forward slightly.
"You will be close to him. Do not let him succeed."
Ventren folded the parchment carefully. "I understand."
William studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"Good. Rest tonight Sir Ventren for you will be given a lecture before I allow you to ride to Halzyon."
"What kind of lecture?"
"The informational kind. Crucial knowledge a knight should know..."
And so Ventren was led to a room similar to the fancy inn he slept in the other day for the night.