Back in the cabin, Dmitry changed quickly. Instead of loungewear, he donned his "official" gear: a membrane jacket, rugged trousers, and boots. Reliable and practical. He holstered his pistol—just in case. Although he didn't expect a double-cross from the locals, especially after feeding them, the old adage "better safe than sorry" held true in every world.

  He also took the Baron's relic with him—the Snow Lion Pelt. Toby no longer needed it. As Dmitry folded the heavy fur, he was still amazed. How could a simple animal hide affect a person like this? And its other properties... the light refraction alone was incredible. While the boy slept, Dmitry had scanned it with everything in the Ark's arsenal. The results were baffling: no radiation, no thermal emissions, not even radio frequencies. The sensors registered ordinary organic matter, yet his eyes saw a distinct glow.

  On his way out, he turned to Toby, who sat huddled on the bed wrapped in a blanket.

  — Don't touch anything while I'm gone! The Spirit will be watching. Otherwise, your apprenticeship ends before it even begins.

  Toby nodded vigorously, making it clear he would remain as still as a statue until the Master returned.

  The pneumatics hissed, letting in the damp outside air. Dmitry jumped to the ground without waiting for the ladder to extend. Karl was waiting below, huddled into an old cloak that was soaked through and rimmed with patches of mold.

  — Why didn't you head back? — Dmitry asked, surprised.

  — My lord commanded me to escort you, Master Dmitry, — the old man’s voice was as formal as ever, as if he were standing in a tailcoat in a heated hall, though he was clearly freezing. His lips were blue, and his shoulders shivered.

  — Well then, let's move fast, — Dmitry said, pulling up his hood and heading for the bridge over the moat.

  Once again, he had to perform a bit of acrobatics, leaping along slippery support beams to avoid the stinking sludge below. Karl followed silently. For his age, he crossed the treacherous section with surprising ease. 'He walks this path often; he's used to it,' Dmitry thought, noting the old man's straight back.

  They crossed the courtyard, entered the gloomy keep, and ascended to the Small Drawing Room. It was warmer here. Flames danced merrily in the fireplace. Baron Coen sat in his battered chair-throne, staring with childlike curiosity at an empty tin of stew. The bright label seemed like a work of art to the youth.

  — Greetings, Baron Coen! — Dmitry announced.

  The Baron snapped his head up, his eyes lighting up.

  — Ah! Welcome back, Dmitry! I'm glad you found time to visit. How is the boy?

  — He will be fine, Your Lordship. Here is your artifact. He no longer needs it, and I figured you'd want it back.

  Dmitry crossed the hall and handed over the trophy. With visible relief, the youth shed his coarse sheepskin and threw on the shimmering Pelt, fastening it with a gold fibula from his pocket. Immediately, the transformation was clear: Dmitry was no longer looking at a mere youth, but at the Lord of these lands.

  — I see you’ve solved the firewood problem? — Dmitry nodded at the blazing hearth.

  Instead of the Baron, Karl answered from his post behind his master's chair:

  — The coals you brought provided enough heat to ignite even green wood, Master. We won't let this fire go out now. Look there, — he pointed to logs stacked by the hearth. — We decided to dry them right here.

  — Great! — Dmitry nodded. — Smart move. You might just survive the winter this way.

  An awkward pause hung in the air. The Baron’s initial joy faded back into depression. He stared into the fire, propping his head on his hand. Karl stood motionless in the shadows. Dmitry looked around, feeling out of place in this "festival of gloom." Coen himself finally broke the silence.

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  — Actually, I'm glad you came. I wanted to thank you for driving those people away last night... it buys us a little time.

  It was clear how much the admission cost him. An aristocrat by birthright should command, not shower a stranger with gratitude. But Coen was being sincere.

  — You're welcome. It cost me nothing, really, — Dmitry replied, omitting the fact that "nothing" equaled half of his battery charge. — However, I now need to provide for my "house." Nothing drastic, — he added quickly, seeing the alarm in Coen's eyes. — Just wood. About three tons of deadfall should do. I wanted your permission to fell a few trees—dead or fallen ones would be fine.

  — Alas, that is impossible, — Coen answered dejectedly, looking away.

  Dmitry was taken aback.

  — But why? I'm ready to do the work myself, and I'll clear the forest of deadwood while I'm at it...

  — Heavens, no! — the Baron waved his hands desperately. — I don't wish to seem greedy or ungrateful! I'd swing an axe myself to help you! However, this forest is no longer mine.

  — How so? Is this not your land? — Dmitry looked confusedly from the Baron to the butler.

  — It's a matter of debt notes, — Coen explained gloomily. — When my father fell into disgrace, he borrowed from the merchants of Northcross. After his death, the notes were bought up by the head of the Suppliers' Guild, Johan van der Hoof. — The Baron's face twisted in disgust. — Now, until the debt is paid, everything belongs to me only in name. He cannot seize the castle yet—the law is complex—but the forest... As soon as an axe strikes a tree, bailiffs will arrive from the city to levy a fine and seize the timber.

  Dmitry considered this. It wasn't a catastrophe; it was a business problem. The forest was there; it was just "frozen."

  — How much debt are we talking about? — he asked in a businesslike tone, leaning against the edge of the table.

  — Five hundred crowns, — Coen spat out.

  — Is that a lot? I'm not familiar with the local currency.

  — For five gold crowns, you can buy a warhorse with full tack, — Karl added quietly. — For three—a good milk cow. Five hundred gold is a fortune, Master.

  — And this... Hoof? Has he not offered to settle? — Dmitry raised his hands. — It's obvious you don't have a single gold piece to give, no offense. If he's a merchant, he must know that a dead debtor doesn't pay.

  — That's the point; he has offered. Many times, — Coen lowered his eyes. — He wants to marry his daughter, Amalia, to me. To bring her into one of the oldest families. To make his grandsons Prasts.

  — Is that all!? — Dmitry couldn't hide his surprise. — So what's the problem? Marry her and be done with it! Debt canceled, wealthy father-in-law...

  Karl cleared his throat, as if to say, 'I told you, Your Lordship, it’s the only sensible way.' But the Baron snapped, clenching his fists.

  — No! Never! I will not disgrace the honor of my house by marrying a commoner! Such a misalliance would forever stain the name of Prast. That tradesman will not have my crest while I draw breath!

  — Okay, okay, — Dmitry said soothingly. — I respect a man of principle. Then there’s another option. How about I buy out your debt?

  The Baron froze, his mouth hanging open.

  — I’ll help you settle with Hoof, and you’ll help me with my business. Deal?

  Dmitry extended his hand. Coen looked at the stranger's clean palm, free of a single callus. A spark of hope flared in his soul.

  — If you help me rid myself of Hoof... I will personally fell every tree in that forest for you. Deal.

  His thin, cold palm gripped the traveler's hand tightly, like a drowning man clutching at a straw.