A day later, the atmosphere at the castle was changed as the soldiers shifted from their usual training routines to urgent preparations for an impending conflict. The once-familiar clang of practice swords was replaced by the sounds of men hauling heavy materials and working diligently. Stone was gathered to reinforce the castle’s defenses, destined to be used as siege ammunition. Wood was stacked in piles to be fashioned into blockades,stakes and siege machines being built in the moment. Pits were dug meticulously to serve as traps and obstacles for any advancing forces.

  Amid this flurry of activity, Wilhelm’s body was prepared for its final resting place. The late Duke death had cast a somber shadow over the castle, and a solemn procession was underway to lay him to rest. Wilhelm’s bandaged corpse, now wrapped in a simple yet dignified shroud, was escorted to the tomb beneath the castle, a sacred place where the leaders of the dukedom were interred. The tomb, an underground chamber meticulously carved out of stone, was lined with the resting places of previous rulers and heroes.

  Descending underground via the narrow, winding stairs, the priests moved with practiced ease despite the difficult terrain. The stone steps, worn smooth by centuries of use, were lit by flickering torches that cast eerie shadows on the walls. As they descended, they passed various tombs, each uniquely adorned with symbols and carvings that represented the noble families of old. The air grew cooler and more solemn with each step, filled with the faint echo of their footsteps.

  At the end of the descent, they reached a grand passageway chiseled with intricate symbols of nobility. The stone arch above bore the inscription ′The Governors’ Tomb,′ its characters meticulously carved and aged. The passageway itself was lined with the names and achievements of past leaders, a testament to the storied history of the dukedom.

  A priest, draped in ceremonial robes, led the way, his voice solemn as he said, ′Here is where the highest leaders lay.′ The group moved forward; their breaths visible in the cold air of the underground vault.

  In the distance, a statue of Wilhelm loomed, sculpted with great care and precision. It depicted him in regal robes, leaning on a two-handed axe with his hands on top of it, his expression heroic and resolute. The statue was a fitting tribute to a leader who had been the savior of the last war

  The body of Wilhelm, now carefully wrapped and bandaged, was placed reverently within the stone tomb. The tomb was an elaborately decorated sarcophagus, designed to honor the high status of its occupant. Once the body was inside, the priests began the solemn task of sealing it. A heavy stone slab was carefully lowered into place, sealing the tomb and ensuring Wilhelm’s eternal rest.

  As the final act of this somber ritual, one priest began chiseling at the stone slab, his hands steady as he engraved symbols with the meaning ofprotection and safety on it, sealing the tomb with the last strokes of his chisel. The other priests, their faces etched with sorrow, hummed a low, mournful tune that seemed to vibrate through the chamber. Their voices wove a delicate dirge for their fallen leader, filling the space with grief and respect, as they waited in silence for the tomb to be sealed.

  After the sealing was complete, the priests led the mourners back up to the surface. The narrow stairs seemed even more daunting in the somber light of their torches, and the weight of the day’s events hung heavily on them. The mourners emerged into the daylight, the warmth of the sun a stark contrast to the cold, dark vault they had left behind.

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  Even as the funeral took place, Peter sent a messenger to release a falcon toward Drech and the hunters’ cabin.

  The falcon arrived at a black fortress perched atop a flat mountaintop, its jagged silhouette cut a dark line against the pale sky. The fortress loomed with high walls, crowned by crenellated towers that seemed to stretch towards the heavens. From this vantage point, the surrounding fields and distant mountains appeared like ants, insignificant beneath the fortresses vast bulk.

  At the edge of the parapet stood a man gazing down at the fields, flanked by two imposing guards. Their armor, twisted and sculpted to resemble the form of a bull, wrapped around their bodies like living metal, the jagged curves of horns and muscular contours merging with their human forms. Each held a double-headed flail, their stance like a stone sentinel, motionless.

  The man they encircled had a golden crown or more a helmet is better said, his cape barely stirred, hanging heavy as molten metal. His face, carved like the very stone of the land, was framed by a thick black beard, and his dark eyes, piercing as the shadows at dusk, scanned the vast expanse below him.

  A falcon swept from the heavens, its wings cutting through the air like a razor before it landed on the parapet. The man stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowing as he removed the scroll from the bird’s leg with deliberate care. He unrolled the parchment, his brow furrowing deeper with each line he read.

  By the time he finished, his grip had tightened so much that the scroll tore apart.′They want to go to the lodges,′ he muttered, the words edged with unease. ′What happened at the meeting of the north?′

  He paused for a moment closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in and out, before turning to the guards flanking him. ′Ready the horses. We ride to the border to have a little talk,′ he said calmly

  As the first falcon took flight, another arrived with similar urgency, this time at a humble wooden building nestled in a forest. Its exterior was weathered, the wood darkened by years of exposure to the elements. Making it feel almost ancient, a building with a will of survival.

  A man waited outside; his presence as solid as the structure itself. An eyepatch covered his left eye, and his right arm, neatly bandaged, rested at his side. He raised his good arm with deliberate care in hopes that it would stay normal. The bird descended to perch upon his gloved palm.

  The man aimed his arm to the fence so that the falcon could walk from his arm onto the fence. From there he grabbed the parchment of the falcon opening it with his one hand. Making it look as if he still had two. He began reading the first two lines. Stopping it looking in the air to process it for a few seconds before rushing inside.

  Inside were a handful of old men marked by age of scars.being around a weathered table some were seated down while others still stood. All of their faces looked different because of the scars. The man that entered smashing his hand onto the table with paper clenched in its fist. His arrival cutting through the murmurs of conversation like a signal of impending change. The veterans fell silent. Their eyes locked on the man that just smashed the table.

  With everyone’s attention on him, he began. ’The north’s protector has been killed by one of us.’

  Another man, whose drab robe making him look like a monk, moved forward. His face was a mask of stoicism with a scar that parted his hair. He grabbed the message. His eyes flicked over the parchment. ’They think it′s Drettius, the lost hunter. How are we going to find him?’

  A man leaning on a cane in hand limped forward. ’Hunter Albaras knows him. If we send him, the problem will be quickly solved, or it will be something we can do nothing about.’

  All of them looked at each other. Trying to find one other way. A man that had a scar going into his mouth that was half made of metal spoke up. ’Let’s bring Albaras here then.’ With a deep sigh. ’I do kind of feel bad for Drettius.’ All of them kept quiet as they walked outside, around the wooden building, where cages filled with all kinds of birds stood. They opened the cages, slipped coins onto the birds’ legs, and whispered in unison into feathered ears. ’Get Albaras.’