Chapter 233: The Study [BONUS]

The rider reached the Gannon estate seven days later, an hour before dawn.

He had changed horses at every post along the northern road and barely slept during the journey.

Corvan was already awake. He was almost always awake at that hour. After twenty-six years as the head steward of the estate, he had never learned to sleep past the fourth bell.

He met the rider in the courtyard and took the sealed packet from him.

The griffin was stamped into the wax, with the mark of the Third Legion beneath it.

Corvan did not open the letter.

He stood in the cold courtyard for a moment, staring at the seal. Then he turned and went inside, climbing the stairs to the Duke’s study.

The room was already lit. The Duke was usually awake at this hour, too.

Duke Aegis Von Gannon stood by the window when Corvan knocked.

"Come."

Corvan entered and held out the packet.

"From Sir Gareth, Your Grace."

The Duke turned around. He looked at the packet, then at Corvan’s face.

Whatever he saw there made his expression go still.

He took the letter and broke the seal.

Then he began to read.

Corvan remained by the door with his hands folded. In twenty-six years, he had watched the Duke read countless letters. Messages from the Crown. News of deaths, births, and wars.

But he had never seen the Duke’s hands behave as they did now.

They did not shake. They remained perfectly still as he held the pages.

Somehow, that was worse.

He turned the first page. Then the second. Then the third.

When he reached the final page, he stopped.

He read it once.

Then he read it again.

Slowly, he lowered the letter and stared into the empty space before him.

Then he sat down.

Corvan had never seen that before, either.

The Duke of the North did not sit in the middle of receiving a report. He stood until he had finished reading and continued standing until everyone else had left the room.

It was a small habit, but one the entire household had learned to expect.

Now, he sat behind his desk with the letter in his lap, completely motionless, as if his legs had grown weak from reading whatever was written on the letter.

The candles burned quietly. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn grey.

"Your Grace," Corvan said softly.

The Duke did not respond.

After a long time, he placed the letter on the desk and carefully smoothed it flat with one hand.

His eyes settled on the final line.

Corvan could not read it from where he stood, but he did not need to.

"I told Gareth to keep him alive," the Duke said.

His voice was calm. Almost too calm.

"I told him to keep my son alive, no matter what."

Corvan remained silent.

"He writes that he has failed to carry out my order."

The Duke’s hand rested on the letter, and silence filled the room.

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By sunrise, the Duke had begun writing.

Corvan brought him a fresh pot of tea, which remained untouched, along with a map of the northern road that he had requested.

The map covered half the desk. The Duke pointed to a long ridge east of the Serpentine.

"The Maren lands," he said. "They were given to this house after the commission. They have remained empty ever since."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Eight thousand people are sitting on a cliff above the Riven. They have no proper shelter and no grain. They cannot return north, and they cannot remain where they are."

He dipped his pen into the ink.

"Gareth will take them to the ridge. The keep, the fields, the villages. All of it."

He began writing.

"They will remain under my protection and seal until the Crown decides what it intends to do with them."

"The Crown may object, Your Grace."

"The Crown," the Duke replied, "can come here and tell me so itself."

He finished the writ, signed it, and pressed his seal into the wax.

Then he handed it to Corvan.

"Send this north today. Use the fastest horse we have, no. Contact the Blue Moon - have them deliver this letter at the earliest."

Corvan accepted the document.

"And Zuri?" the Duke asked.

He spoke without looking up, so quietly that Corvan almost missed the question.

"Sir Gareth says she is with them, Your Grace. She is unharmed."

The Duke nodded once.

"Good."

Corvan had almost reached the door when the Duke spoke again.

"His room."

Corvan stopped.

He knew exactly which room the Duke meant.

It was the fourth son’s room at the end of the east wing. For years, it had smelled of wine and dust. The bottles had been removed after the young man left for the north, but everything else remained untouched.

More than once, Corvan had wondered whether he should ask permission to clean it.

"Your Grace?"

"Leave it as it is."

The Duke had returned his attention to the map.

"Do not clean it. Do not open the windows to air it out. Do not let anyone move anything. Not the desk. Not the bed."

He paused.

"Not the portrait."

Corvan bowed his head.

The portrait hung on the far wall. It was the only thing in the room that had always been kept clean.

It showed a woman with dark hair and a warm smile.

Even during the worst years of his life, when he had drunk himself senseless and could barely stand, the young master had made sure the portrait remained dust-free.

Corvan had never understood why he cared so much about it.

"And the household, Your Grace?" he asked carefully. "What should I tell them?"

"Tell them the truth."

"That the young master is-"

"Missing."

The word came out sharply. It was the first time that morning the Duke had allowed any emotion into his voice.

He raised his head and looked directly at Corvan.

His eyes were dry, but they looked terribly tired.

"My son has been called many things in this house, Corvan," he said. "Some of them by me."

He paused.

"But he has not yet been called dead."

The Duke lowered his gaze to the map once more.

"I will not tolerate that."

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