Alaric wasn’t sure if this sudden visit would actually reach the Duke of Blackmoor. Unlike his relationship with Lord and Lady Caelmont, he had never met this so-called “weird old guy” before. He knew, however, that he was the king. Even if he arrived without warning, House Morcant could not simply turn him away.

  After hours of looping along the mountain route, he finally reached their main castle. He was greeted by the servants, who offered him and his following people a comfortable meal and a place to rest. Afterward, they told him that the Duke was not there. No one knew where he was at the moment.

  Still, Alaric wanted to speak to someone from the family. The servants suggested he go to a town about half a day’s journey away, to visit the Duke’s nephew. Since the Duke had no legitimate children, this nephew was likely to inherit Blackmoor.

  The journey was strange, very strange. Even though everyone treated him politely, Alaric couldn’t shake the feeling of having been subtly brushed off.

  His nephew had better be in the place they mentioned, he muttered to himself, restless.

  It wasn’t long before he arrived at the side castle. Smaller than the main fortress, it sat atop a gentle rise, surrounded by neatly tended gardens that clung to the mountain slope. The walls were pale stone, warm in the late afternoon sun, and the windows were adorned with delicate carvings—modest but undeniably refined, a place that whispered of care without excess. Someone had clearly already informed its master of the king’s arrival.

  The door opened, and out stepped Paser Morcant, the Duke’s nephew, bowing with practiced delight to the new king. He was short but sharp-eyed, his expression clever and quick, almost impossible to pin down. His dark brown eyes had the piercing quality of an eagle’s, a striking contrast to the harmless smile he wore.

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  “Welcome to this special place” Paser said smoothly. “Your Majesty, you will see why soon.”

  As he spoke, a tall woman emerged behind him. Pale-skinned, graceful, dressed in a long red gown that caught the light, she carried herself with quiet elegance. Alaric’s eyes narrowed slightly. She must be his wife, he thought.

  Paser probably sensed his thought and laughed softly. “Ha, like my uncle, I have no wife. I have plenty of nephews, though. So it doesn’t matter what I do. Morcant blood will not end here.” Then, with a glance at the woman, his smile softened. “She is just my very sweet companion.”

  Alaric studied them both, curiosity flickering. The nephew was sharp, unpredictable, and perhaps even cleverer than he had been led to expect.

  At this moment, as he followed Paser’s steps into the main room—the audience hall—Alaric suddenly didn’t know what to say.

  He realized he probably didn’t know Blackmoor as well as he had thought.

  Perhaps that was why, subconsciously, he had chosen to come here. He wanted answers. He wanted to know what kind of people he would have to deal with in the capital.

  But… it seemed he wasn’t going to get the answers he wanted. Paser didn’t care about politics at all.

  Alaric began cautiously, speaking of Blackmoor in general—the people, the army, the land.

  Paser waved him off. Servants brought wine, poured carefully into heavy glasses, and Paser leaned back with a relaxed smile. “Come now, Your Majesty,” he said. “Let’s not talk about that. I know you’ve endured tough places, like the Stormcoast. You have vision, a sharp mind—I can’t compete, nor do I wish to.”

  He paused, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But I do know something better than Your Majesty.”

  Alaric raised an eyebrow, tense.

  “Women,” Paser said with a grin.