Ventren found Archduke William in the mansion's inner gallery, a long hall lined with tapestries depicting hunts, wars and treaties long concluded. Sunlight filtered through high-set windows casting fractured gold upon the stone floor. The Archduke stood with his hands clasped behind his back and gazing at a mural of Ironhold's founding.
"My lord," Ventren said, bowing his head.
William turned, appraising him as a knight.
"Sir Ventren. Speak."
Ventren hesitated only briefly. "I wished to ask about the nature of my knighthood. You named it honorary. I would like to know what that entails."
William nodded once, as though expecting the question. "A prudent concern."
He gestured for Ventren to walk with him. Their footsteps echoed softly as they moved down the gallery.
"An honorary knight," William explained, "is recognised as such in law and custom. You may bear the title and may be addressed as 'Sir'. Additionally you may fight under my banner and represent Ironhold in Halzyon without dispute."
Ventren listened closely.
"However," William continued, "you are not granted a manor. No lands, no rents and no peasants bound to your name. Those are reserved for hereditary knights or those formally invested after long service."
Ventren nodded. That much he had expected.
"Should you succeed in entering the King's Royal Guard," William went on, "your path diverges entirely. You would no longer be mine to command. But should you fail—" He stopped walking and turned to face Ventren directly. "—you will return here and you will serve House Ironhold as a household knight. Your skills would be useful to me and besides there is no such thing as a Freehold for you to turn to, what else would you do?"
There was no insult in the words as they were logical and factual.
"I understand," Ventren said.
William studied him for a moment longer, then inclined his head slightly. "Good. You are dismissed. Prepare for the road."
Vesper stamped impatiently in the stable yard, snorting as Ventren fastened the final strap of his saddle.
The horse had been groomed and fed better here than anywhere Ventren had taken him in years, his dark coat gleaming beneath the morning sun.
As Ventren finished adjusting his pack, a familiar voice called out.
"Leaving already?"
Sir Alexios approached, his posture steadier than Ventren had expected given the injuries he had suffered. He carried something folded over one arm.
"You should not be walking so soon," Ventren said playfully.
Alexios smiled faintly. "The healers disagreed. I ignored them."
He unfolded the cloth—a cape of heavy wool, dyed black and orange, edged in subtle embroidery. At its clasp was the sigil of Ironhold: the bear.
"For you," Alexios said. "House colours. You will be representing us in Halzyon. It would not do for you to appear as a nameless sellsword."
Ventren accepted it, fingers brushing the fabric. "You have my thanks."
Alexios fastened the clasp himself, tightening it properly. "Win or lose," he said quietly, "you carry our name now. Do not shame it. Ave Myriam."
Ventren met his gaze. "I do not intend to. Ave Myriam."
With that, he mounted Vesper, the cape settling heavily across his shoulders. The gates of the Ironhold mansion opened before him, and without ceremony or escort, Ventren rode out.
The countryside stretched wide and open beyond the walls—rolling hills, golden fields, rivers glinting like silver threads beneath the sun. Ventren allowed himself a rare moment of quiet appreciation. This was what the kingdom was meant to be. The lands were fertile and alive yet the scars were everywhere. Burnt farmhouses stood like blackened teeth against the fields, their roofs collapsed inward. Abandoned villages lay silent, wells choked with ash, doors hanging open to emptiness. A reminder that the terror of King Maershal had reached far beyond the Archduchy of Ironhold.
Ventren passed a roadside shrine toppled and broken, its stones scattered. He wondered briefly whether it had been raised to Matrem Myriam—or to something older. Either way, it had not been spared. Further down the road, dust rose ahead of him—it was a caravan. Ventren slowed, recognising the colours of the military escort. Soldiers marched in disciplined formation alongside wagons laden with supplies. He meant to pass without thought—until he saw her.
She rode atop one of the wagons, helm removed, braided white hair catching the light. Even at a distance, he recognised her posture, the quiet alertness in the way she scanned the surroundings.
The lady he rescued leaned upon another soldier for balance, but she lived. For a moment, he considered riding closer. Speaking. Letting her know—
No. I shouldn't.
Ventren lowered his head, tightened his grip on the reins, and spurred Vesper forward. The horse surged ahead, carrying him past the caravan in a blur of dust. The lady did not look his way.
There lingered a sense of pride for having rescued her. It was not the boastful pride of a mercenary who had completed a quest but something subtler—the satisfaction of having done good without expecting reward. For a brief moment he had allowed himself to feel noble.
There's no point anyway. What do I seek in her? A friend? Hahh...
After the Blind Stars betrayal Ventren's trust had withered into suspicion as affection now felt like a trap. He grew wary of women and of all sorts of relationships altogether. Distance became his shield, isolation the norm.
He rode on without looking back.
By the time night fell, Ventren was far from the road. The stars emerged one by one above him as he pressed forward, alone with his thoughts and the steady rhythm of his steed's hooves.
Ventren made camp in a shallow clearing, the forest pressing close on all sides. He erected his tent with practised ease. A small fire followed though he did not need its warmth, just its light to see.
He sat, helm set aside, axe resting within reach. Again, he felt something was wrong. No exhaustion, nor ache from the road. His wounds had scabbed too cleanly, too quickly.
Even now, his body felt… light and detached. He closed his eyes, attempting rest his mind. That was when the forest shifted and leaves rustled without wind. Shadows stretched where they should not and a shadow of a lady was visible under the moonlight.
Ventren stood at once, hand on his axe.
"She shows herself," a voice purred from the darkness.
The witch stepped into view.
She looked exactly as she had before—and entirely different. Her smile was sharp and her expression amused.
"You," Ventren growled. "What have you done to me?"
She laughed softly. "Straight to accusations. Calm down, big guy."
"At least tell me," Ventren said, stepping forward. "Whatever curse you placed upon me—"
She raised two fingers and made a small, careless motion.
Pain tore through him.
Ventren dropped to one knee, gasping as agony flared through his chest and spine, white-hot and consuming. It vanished as suddenly as it came.
The witch tilted her head. "You know, defiance will be… uncomfortable. Relax."
Ventren forced himself upright, breath ragged. "What do you want?"
She clapped her hands lightly. "Oh, a simple question? I just want you to help."
"No."
She sighed and the pain receded. "At least hear me out first."
Ventren groaned, nodded, then stood on his legs and wiped out the dust.
"There is a village further ahead," she said casually, circling him, "currently being overrun by forest goblins. Horrid disgusting little things."
Ventren glared at her. "And?"
"And among them is an enlightened shaman," she continued. "In his possession is a scourgestone. You will rescue the village," she said playfully. "Heroically. And you will bring me the stone. Sounds good?"
"What is this stone?" Ventren demanded. "Why do you want it?"
She leaned close, whispering, "You owe me, and I own you. I don't have to reveal anything."
Before Ventren could speak again, the forest swallowed her. The fire steadied and night returned to normal. He stood alone, fists clenched and heart pounding.
The tent was torn down immediately—stakes wrenched free, canvas shaken of dew and ash, poles bound together and lashed to Vesper's flank. The steed snorted as the load settled, hooves stamping impatiently against the soil. Ventren mounted in one smooth motion and urged Vesper forward. Whatever the witch intended for him, it shall be done regardless of his will.
They rode hard.
Barely half an hour had passed when the first signs appeared: smoke rising in a broken column beyond a low ridge, the sharp clangour of steel carried faintly on the wind and then the sound—high-pitched, feral cries echoing through the trees. Ventren crossed the ridge and saw it.
A village crouched in a shallow basin, its thatched roofs clustered around a central green. Goblins poured from the forest edge like ants, shrieking and brandishing crude weapons. From the opposite side, a band of soldiers charged downhill in loose formation, shields raised, banners snapping. They would collide in moments.
By Myriam… Even if this is primarily for the witch, I wouldn't leave these people to die.
Ventren did not hesitate. He swung from the saddle before Vesper had fully stopped, axe already in hand, and broke into a run that ate the ground beneath him. His stride was long, armour clattering like distant thunder as he closed the distance.
The soldiers noticed him then.
One of them glanced sideways, eyes widening at the sight of the horned helm and the black-and-orange cape snapping behind him. "Ironhold!" the man shouted with a voice hoarse with relief. "That's Ironhold's crest!"
Another barked a laugh even as he ran. "That's him—by Myriam, it's the one who won the qualifiers!"
A captain at the front turned his head just long enough to see Ventren drawing level with them. "Sir Ventren!" he called, already making the assumption. "We'll have your aid, then?"
Ventren answered without slowing. "You will," he said simply.
They charged the goblins.
Ventren struck first, his colossal axe cleaving through a goblin's shoulder and chest in a single brutal arc, the force of the blow carrying the corpse clear off its feet. Another leapt at him shrieking only to be crushed beneath his forward momentum as he drove on, trampling it into the dirt. A third tried to dart past him and Ventren caught it with a savage swing of his axe, the pommel penetrating through the delicate green flesh and snapping bone with a wet crack.
The fighting was close and filthy. Goblins clawed and stabbed with rusted blades but Ventren waded through them like a living siege engine. His size alone broke their formation; his presence drew them in droves, allowing the soldiers to regroup and strike with discipline. The goblins were a mere 3-5 feet tall, completely dwarfed by Ventren's size. Each swing of his axe left ruin behind it and each step forward crushed something living beneath his boots.
As he fought, a thought gnawed at him..
He kills goblins without hesitation. Bandits, monsters, raiders too—it had always been so. The blade fell, the axe rose and he never questioned it. Yet here he was, placing himself between death for the sake of strangers. Fighting not for coin or contract but because they were defenceless.
He wondered when that line had been drawn inside him.
The answer came: a boy hands numb from cold catching fish near the shores of Marport; a youth hauling timber through mud and snow and the smell of sap and saltwater clinging to his clothes. He had been one of them once, lumberboy, fisherman and a nobody whose life would never matter to nobles.
Perhaps that is why I fight and kill for them. Those who resort to banditry knew the risk and hurt people for their own gain. They're just like goblins and primal beasts to me.
A horn sounded which caught Ventren's attention. He turned just in time to see something new hauled into position at the forest's edge: crude catapults of lashed wood and rope already being cranked back by squads of goblins. Others emerged carrying makeshift crossbows, little more than bent planks and sinew but dangerous in numbers.
"Cover!" someone shouted.
Ventren grabbed the nearest soldier by the collar and dragged him behind a collapsed stone wall as the first volley came screaming in. Stones crashed into the village, shattering roofs and sending splinters skyward. Bolts thudded into shields and earth alike.
He crouched low with his shield raised as bolts rattled against his armour. Around him, soldiers regrouped, panting and bleeding but alive. Among them, pressed tight against the wall, was a boy—no more than sixteen, dirt-smudged and wide-eyed clutching a hunting knife with white knuckles.
Forced to fight to defend your village… I wonder how it would've looked like if I never left Marport.
Their eyes met.
"What's your name, kid?" Ventren asked over the din.
"Martin," the boy said, swallowing. "I—I help with foraging. Hunting too, sometimes."
"Assuming you are a local? You aren't wearing the royal colors." Ventren said. "Whatever, stay low."
They waited through another barrage. When it passed, Martin spoke again, words tumbling out as if silence frightened him more than the battle.
"Goblins raid a lot," he said. "But never like this. Only now have soldiers been sent. I think they're attacking everything they can—before Ironhold sends more men and before the capital notices."
Ventren listened, eyes scanning the treeline.
"They've been hiding in the thickets and forests for a long time," Martin continued. "There's a cave—everyone knows it. King Maershal never cared as he was too busy with his wars. When he forced training, the goblins kept away for a bit but now…" He gestured helplessly at the chaos.
Ventren felt the witch's words coil in his memory.
I have to kill the Shaman and retrieve the Scourgestone.
"I'm going after their head," Ventren said quietly. "The one leading them."
Martin's eyes widened. "I assume you mean the shaman?"
Ventren did not answer directly. He rose slightly, gauging the rhythm of the catapults, the gaps between volleys and the way the goblins clustered around their machines. His path formed itself in his mind, clear but dangerous.
"If he's inside the caves, I can show you the way," Martin blurted. "The flanking routes. I know the forest better than most. Please—take me with you."
Ventren hesitated.
Taking a boy into that hell went against every instinct he had yet Martin's words were true. Time was ticking and he couldn't survey the area by himself without taking a long time.
"Stay behind me," Ventren said at last. "Do exactly as I say."
Martin nodded fiercely.