Devon slumped into the creaky leather chair in his father's study, his brow furrowing as a scowl twisted his features. The letter's revelation burned in his chest—Chief Tanister, the man who'd once filled his spirits with warm encouragement, had orchestrated the attack that nearly ended his life. Why, Tanister? What did I do to provoke him? The question gnawed at him, sharp and relentless, as he rummaged through the cluttered mahogany desk.
His fingers brushed over brittle legal documents, their inked seals blurring into meaningless scribbles.
The air hung heavy with the musty scent of old parchment, offering no answers to the betrayal that haunted him.
His gaze snagged on a tarnished brass message bell, its faint gleam catching the dim light. Behind it, a glass door stood half-hidden by a thick velvet curtain.
Devon rose, his boots scuffing the worn rug, and tugged the curtain aside.
Beyond the glass lay his father's penthouse, a shadowed sanctuary steeped in memory. Empty bird cages lined the walls, their bars adorned with scattered red and black feathers that shimmered like spilled blood and ink.
"The ravens," Devon murmured, his voice tinged with melancholy. "Father always kept his favorites caged. Why are they gone now?" The silence of the room pressed against him, as if the manor itself guarded secrets it refused to share.
With a resolute click, he locked the study and descended the grand staircase, the manor's golden tiles glinting under the morning sun.
Devon's mind swirled with unease, tangled in thoughts of Tanister's betrayal, the mysterious quest pulling him toward town, and the unsettling absence of his father's cherished ravens. As he stepped into the main hall, his eyes caught on Sir Garrick, the head of security, standing like a steadfast oak, his presence gave Devon a certain reassurance admist his doubts.
His broad frame filled the doorway, his brown beard flecked with gray, a jagged scar slicing across his left cheek.
At six feet, he matched Devon's height, but his presence carried the weight of unwavering loyalty.
The system's voice chimed in his mind, crisp and mechanical.
[Subject identified: Sir Garrick. Formal royal knight recruited to serve the Traventis house.
[Loyalty: 100%.]
"Garrick," Devon said, his tone steady despite the storm within.
"The visitors from last night, have you seen to their needs?"
Garrick's deep voice rumbled, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his unsheathed sword. "Yes, my lord. I've ensured they're fed and rested, as you ordered. They're ready for the road."
Devon's lips twitched into a faint smile, a flicker of relief breaking through his unease. "Good work. I don't want anyone collapsing from hunger on this little trip, we should arrive in town two hours time."
"My lord," Garrick said, his scarred face softening with concern, "how long will you be away? The manor needs you."
"A few days," Devon replied, his voice firm but shadowed by doubt. "Maybe less, maybe more. I have business to settle. The manor's safety is your priority, Garrick. Double the guards, and keep a sharp eye on everything."
Garrick's eyes gleamed with resolve. "You have my word, Lord Devon. No one will breach these walls without your noble seal. I'll guard this place with my life."
As Garrick spoke, a soft rustle of fabric broke the moment. Miranda Chase glided into the hall, her red dress a vivid contrast to the manor's muted stone.
Her brunette hair caught the sunlight, and her simple smile carried a warmth that stirred Devon's heart, and a hint of unease. Garrick offered her a courteous bow, his boots echoing as he strode away, leaving them alone.
Miranda's gaze locked onto Devon's, her eyes soft but heavy with worry. "When will you return, my lord?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with a tremor of fear.
Devon forced a reassuring smile, though his chest tightened. "A few days," he said, the words tasting hollow.
She stepped closer, her hand finding his, her grip tight and trembling.
"I'm worried for you, Devon," she said, her voice cracking, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Your parents will return soon. They'll want to see their son safe, standing tall. Promise me you'll be careful."
The weight of her words pressed against him, stirring a pang of guilt. I wish I knew how long this quest will take, he thought, his throat tight. "I'll do my best, Miranda," he said softly, squeezing her hand. "I promise."
Her eyes searched his, moody and brimming with emotion. She pressed a small, heavy bag into his palm, her fingers lingering. "Open this when you're settled," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears.
She pulled him into a fierce hug, her warmth a fleeting anchor against the storm brewing in his heart. Devon returned the embrace, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll be fine. Don't worry."
He stepped back, meeting her tearful smile with a nod. Without another word, he turned and strode through the manor's massive front doors, the weight of her gaze lingering like a shadow.
Outside, the morning air was crisp, laced with the scent of dew and pine.
Devon climbed into the waiting carriage, joined by two Traventis guards in blue-and-silver livery and Luka, a wiry boy munching on a hunk of bread. "Take the path with the apple trees!" Luka said, crumbs flying as he pointed eagerly ahead.
One guard, a grizzled man with a weathered face, nodded. "We'll follow the eyeballing hoisters' trail, my lord. It's the easiest path."
The carriage rumbled forward, the horses' hooves clopping rhythmically on the smooth stone trail. The forest hummed with life—vines whistling in the breeze, birds chirping, and small creatures scurrying through the underbrush.
Devon's gaze caught on a cluster of eyeballing hoisters, peculiar rabbit-like creatures with fluffy tails and long, sticky whiskers. They perched on low branches, their wide eyes twitching as they stared at the carriage, their heads cocking curiously.
Luka's face lit up, and he leaned out the window, practically vibrating with excitement. "Lord Devon, can I catch one? Please, just one?"
Devon waved a hand, a faint smile breaking through his heavy thoughts. "Go on, Luka. Be quick about it."
Luka scrambled out, his laughter echoing as he darted into the underbrush. The air grew thicker, the wind carrying a faint, acrid scent of burning wood from somewhere distant.
The trees along the path twisted into strange shapes, some like mushrooms, others like gnarled pines, casting eerie shadows across the trail. Devon's mind raced, circling back to Tanister's betrayal. What's his endgame? Why me?
To break the silence, he leaned toward the grizzled guard. "When was the last raven sent from the manor? Or received?"
The guard frowned, scratching his chin. "Hard to say, my lord. Weeks, maybe. No one's tended the cages since your father left."
Devon nodded, his unease deepening. The ravens, the letter, Tanister, it all felt like threads of a larger web.
The carriage rolled on, the forest's quiet hum lulling his thoughts until a sudden shuffle of boots snapped him alert.
His eyes narrowed, scanning the trees. "Halt," he whispered, his voice sharp. "Where's Luka?"
Before the guards could respond, a cry pierced the air—"Help!" Luka's voice, desperate, from deep within the woods.
The carriage lurched to a stop, and Devon's hand flew to his sword. Four cloaked figures burst from the trees, their blades glinting with malicious intent. "Subdue them!" one barked, his voice cold and commanding.
Devon's heart pounded as he leaped from the carriage, his sword flashing in the dappled sunlight. He parried a strike, steel clashing, and with a powerful swing, he felled two attackers, their cloaks tangling as they hit the ground.
A scream rang out, one guard collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. Devon's chest tightened, but more foes emerged, circling like predators.
"Where's Luka?" Devon roared, his blade steady. "Let the boy go, and I'll spare your lives. You have my word!"
The leader, a huge man with eyes like that of a predator, sneered. "We don't answer to you. And no one interferes with our goal."
"Your goal? Devon asked with furrowed brows, I am not acquainted with you."
The intruders gave no answer they only steadied their stance.
Steel gleamed as Devon and his remaining guard braced for another clash, five cloaked figures closing in.
But before blades could meet, a small, breathless man stumbled from the trees, his voice shrill. "Stop! Stand down!" he gasped, clutching his chest. "Anyone who raises a blade will be executed. He is the man who lived, he is Devon Traventis."
Devon stood still with furrowed brows.