A green coach, trimmed with black, rumbled along the Duke lands, watched over by an escort of fifty riders. At its forefront rode the bannerman, a proud figure guiding the procession. His flag held an emblem of a house: a pine tree with golden leaves on a green background. The banner danced in the wind, making the tree upon it seem alive, its golden leaves quivering as if shaken by the breeze.

  As the convoy progressed steadily along the open road, a distant glimmer caught the eye, first faint and uncertain, then resolving into the outline of a rider. The insignia of his house gleamed on his shoulder guard. ′Let me through! There are more coming toward this road.’

  The guards, noting the pine tree with golden leaves on the messenger’s shoulder, stepped aside without hesitation in a clean formation. The rider dismounted with the ease of someone born to the saddle and approached the green coach, his boots crunching against the gravel. More riders ahead up the road! ′He shouted to the coach, his voice slicing through the rhythmic clatter of hooves. From within the coach, a middle-aged man, perhaps sixty, regarded him through the window. His expression was cold, his commanding demeanor matched by eyes shadowed with years of hard-won experience. His beard, streaked with gray, mirrored the sharp authority of his gaze. Though he remained silent, his presence filled the space like a decree.

  ′Who are the ones ahead of us?′ the man asked, his voice tinged with age yet retaining the authority of a younger man, his gaze fixed on the emblem on the rider’s shoulder.

  ′Sir,′ the rider replied swiftly, still catching his breath, ′another convoy is approaching. They bear the banners of House Stonewood.′

  A faint smile, more shadow than expression, flickered at the corner of the man’s mouth. ′Interesting. Let us meet them, if we can. A little company might make the road less tedious.′

  The convoy moved forward, the rumble of the coach blending with the rhythmic sound of hooves as the escort of knights rode in tight formation. The messenger rode ahead to relay the message.

  A distant side road came into view, and from it emerged another procession a convoy from House Stonewood. Their grey coach, trimmed in green, moved at a measured pace, flanked by fewer riders than Pineburry’s. Its banners danced in the breeze, the stone forest upon them seeming almost fluid against the green backdrop.

  As the two convoys drew nearer, the Pineburry rider urged his horse forward, his eyes scanning the Stonewood escort. He rode with urgency; the message he carried pressing on his mind. ′I bring a message from Peter Pineburry, defender of Thuja and holder of Bulak Castle,′ he called out, his voice steady but carrying the weight of his noble title. ′He wishes to join your coach for a pleasant journey toward Dunten for the northern meeting.′

  A knight from the Stonewood convoy met the rider’s gaze, his expression unreadable. ′Wait here,′ he replied curtly, his voice low but firm. He raised a hand, signaling to another knight, who immediately spurred his horse forward toward the coach.

  Inside the Stonewood coach, a woman sat quietly, her gaze drifting out the window, where the landscape blurred past in the fading light of day. Her thoughts were far away, her mind occupied with matters unknown, until a soft knock at the door broke her reverie.

  The guard, standing in the doorway, spoke with practiced formality. ′Madam, there is a messenger from House Pineburry. He brings word that Peter Pineburry is traveling towards Dunten and wishes to join your coach for the journey ahead.′

  The woman’s eyes flickered toward the guard; her expression unreadable. The news hung in the air for a moment before she nodded, her thoughts clearly turning over what could happen if the houses intertwine with each other before the meeting.

  A wry smile curved her lips as she pondered the message, her eyes narrowing in thoughtful amusement. ′Sly dog,′ she murmured aloud, the words laced with both respect and a hint of challenge. The presence of Peter Pineburry was an unexpected twist, but not an unwelcome one.

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  Her gaze shifted toward the window, as if searching for answers in the passing scenery. ′ Does this pine truly belong in the forest we’re headed to?′ she wondered softly, contemplating the political and strategic currents beneath his request. Could there be more to this meeting than simple companionship on the road?

  After a long pause, she straightened, her expression sharpening. ′Very well,′ she decided, her voice quiet but firm. ′We’ll meet. I’m curious to hear what he has to say.′

  The convoy came to a halt as House Pineburry procession approached, the two roads converging in a shared space where the atmosphere seemed to shift with the joining of the two houses.

  Peter Pineburry stepped out of his coach, the heavy weight of his mantel brushing the dirt as he waved for the driver to continue without him. The murmurs of the knights from both houses filled the air as they exchanged quiet words, the tension of the moment hanging between them.

  Peter walked toward the Stonewood coach, the door opened before he could reach it, and the woman inside appeared. Her gaze met his steadily, as though weighing him in a single glance. Without a word, she made a small, deliberate gesture, inviting him inside. The motion was simple, yet there was a warmth in the subtle tilt of her head, a silent acknowledgment of his presence and the meeting to come.

  ′Matilda Stonewood,′ Peter said, his voice steady. ′Unexpected to see you here, Matilda. I assumed one of your brothers would make the journey?′

  Her presence was as commanding as ever, her gaze sharp and unreadable. The faintest smile played on her lips as she regarded him in silence.

  As he climbed inside, the plush interior of Matilda’s coach seemed almost out of place, a softness that clashed with the tension hanging between them, thick with the weight of their history. Peter settled into his seat, slow and steady. All the while keeping his eyes locked onto Matilda. She returned his stare, the sly curve of her smile unwavering. His gaze, however, was unreadable, his eyes dead and betraying nothing.

  The convoy began to move, the wheels creaking in rhythm with the quiet. Peter’s face stayed impassive, a practiced shield against her quiet amusement Yet, as the silence stretched, it became clear she was waiting, drawing the moment out like a thread, daring him to be the first to speak.

  ′So,′ Matilda began, her tone smooth as silk but edged with mockery, ′what brings you to Dunten? Surely, a journey like this is a bit much at your age.′

  Peter leaned back in his chair, meeting her gaze without flinching. ′You already know why I’m here,′ he replied sharply. ′The threat we face doesn’t care about age. Maybe it’s time to set aside our differences and focus on what lies ahead, while we still can.′

  Her smile wavered, hardening into something colder. ′If that’s the case, there’s much to discuss. The situation is worse than we feared. My brothers are already rallying our armies.′

  ′We can’t afford another drawn-out war like before,′ Peter said, his tone grim. ′This meeting has to lead to a quick action. This time if we wait for it, they won’t be fighting alone. The Boatsmen or the Ogrems or both could join them. What happens if they unleash such monsters on us simultaneously?′

  Matilda turned to the window, her gaze following the disciplined ranks of Stonewood Knights riding beside the coach. ′If that’s true, we’ll need the eastern and southern forces to bolster our defenses.′

  He shook his head. ′The emperor himself? Marching out? No. He won’t leave his throne unless it’s directly threatened. What we’re looking at is worse a full encirclement. They’ll strike from every side, pinning us down before we’re ready. And if that weren’t enough, we’ve got creatures causing havoc in our midst. My brother had to hire a hunter. That alone should tell you how how far it has already begun.′

  Her gaze lingered on the passing landscape; her tone quiet but firm. ′I understand. We’re the strongest line of defense. If we fall, the rest won’t hold.′

  Peter leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. ′The north is gathering its key leaders. At least they see the threat for what it is. That gives me hope. But even hope has its limits if we fail to act.′

  Matilda’s expression sharpened as she turned back to him. ′That depends on whether they wield their titles wisely, Thuja’s defender.′

  He exhaled heavily; his tone flat. ′I can only defend it if there’s anyone left alive to protect.′

  The road stretched ahead, and as they journeyed toward Dunten, the stage was set for a confrontation that would shape the future of the Empirium. In the distance, a castle emerged, more like a mountain enclosed by walls, its middle tower resembling a jagged mountain top. Known as ′The Peak,′ its vast structure seamlessly blended with the land around it. Towers of various shapes and sizes surrounded the stronghold, each adding to its imposing presence. From a distance, the castle seemed perched on a hill, only up close did one realize the hill was part of the castle itself. The capital of Wilhelm Duke, Protector of the North, and its strongest fortress ready to withstand any threat.

  Matilda broke the silence after a long halt in their talk about the future. ′ Dunten’s peak is on the horizon. Let’s hope it doesn’t all crack under pressure. ′

  Peter looked at the fortress, his eyes narrowing slightly to focus on it. ′So, it seems. I wonder how the others will react. Will they side with our idea, or will we face more resistance?′