Meanwhile, at the same time, across the vast grasslands near Mirriad Castle, Dustin led the way with Casey on his back. Cyrill, Noah, and Esme followed, the fortress already looming large before them. Cyrill leaned toward Dustin.
"You're sure about this?" Cyrill asked.
"Positive... oh, and keep your men back. Tell them not to make a move," Dustin replied.
"Suit," Cyrill immediately whistled through his fingers three times—the code for his men to stay put.
"Done. But why? Wouldn't we be safer with them?" Cyrill asked.
"Um... Cyrill, what was that just now?" Casey asked from Dustin's back.
"Nothing, don't worry about it," Cyrill answered.
"You'll find out in a minute," Dustin added.
They kept walking, but suddenly the distant castle gates swung open. A squad of ten horsemen charged out, galloping straight for them.
"Wait... they're coming? Hey Dustin, they're heading right for us," Cyrill noted.
"Let them. That's the plan. That's why I told your men to stay back—we're about to get ourselves captured," Dustin replied.
"What?" Cyrill and Casey shouted in unison.
Before they could react, the riders had already surrounded them. Noah and Cyrill stood back-to-back while Esme stepped in to protect Casey. One knight drew his sword and leveled it at Dustin's face from his saddle.
"Who are you? Where are you from? What business do you have in these lands?" the knight demanded.
"We're from the north. We've come to seek asylum with Lord Malcolm," Dustin answered, even with a blade inches from his nose.
The knight studied Dustin, then Casey, before scanning Cyrill and Noah. He looked at Casey again, noting her face and the way she was being carried. Finally, he looked at Noah's northern knightly gear and turned back to the girl.
"Are you the daughter of Lord Gerald Rochele?" the knight asked.
"That is correct and who's asking," she answered.
The knight sheathed his sword and pulled off his helmet, revealing a handsome, lightly bearded man in his mid-twenties. He dismounted, took Casey's hand, and kissed it.
"My name is Jourell Laython, son of Lord Malcolm Laython. Let's go to the castle. We can talk there," Jourell said.
"We need to speak with Lord Malcolm," Casey insisted.
"My father is away in Castletown... but there is something I must tell you," Jourell said, his face turning grave.
"What is it?" Casey asked.
"You should come inside first. We'll talk within the walls," Jourell replied.
Casey looked at Dustin. He gave a small nod, though his eyes remained fixed forward.
"Very well, Lord Jourell," Casey said politely.
They walked toward the castle under the escort of the ten riders. Cyrill didn't trust Jourell—he'd seen the look in the man's eyes when he saw Casey. They were surrounded like prisoners, with no room to bolt. Cyrill stepped up next to Dustin and Casey, then "suit," he let out a single whistle. The knights whipped their heads around. Cyrill just grinned.
"Sorry, force of habit. Don't mind me," he said casually.
The knights seemed to buy it and turned back.
"What are you doing, Your Highness?" Dustin whispered.
"I'm telling my men to be ready, just in case... and stop calling me Your Highness," Cyrill replied.
As they entered the castle, the portcullis slammed shut. Cyrill glanced back and saw shadows flickering against the outer walls. A faint smirk touched his lips. Inside, he saw soldiers training and townspeople watching them with hollow eyes. He could see fear and despair etched into everyone's faces; something was wrong here. He raised one hand, his fingers flashing a silent signal that left the onlookers baffled.
They were led into a dining hall with a long table, red cloth, and unlit candelabras. Jourell sat them all down in a row, then took a seat directly across from Casey, staring at her with a smile that made her skin crawl.
"So... what did you want to say, Lord Jourell?" Casey asked.
"We'll talk after we eat," Jourell replied.
He clapped his hands and servants brought out a feast. Jourell stood up, took Casey's plate, and piled it with roasted chicken and mashed potatoes before serving himself.
"Please, enjoy," Jourell said with a warm, practiced smile.
Casey looked at her plate, then at Jourell, who was still smiling at her. She turned to Dustin, but he sat silently with his arms crossed. Suddenly, "slam!" Cyrill barked his hand against the table, startling everyone. Cyrill ran a hand through his hair, his eyes shifting into a murderous glare as he locked onto Jourell.
"What is it you really want?" Cyrill asked, cutting straight to the point.
"And who are you?" Jourell asked, calmly using his fork.
"Cyrill Harthel, of House Harthel," Cyrill answered without hesitation.
"Ah, the son of a traitor. Pity your family was executed and your older sister became a fugitive for running off with the Saint. Such a waste; House Harthel used to be so influential," Jourell mocked, his voice perfectly calm.
Cyrill glanced at Casey, Noah, and Esme, who were all staring at him as if they were seeing a stranger. Dustin, however, remained still with his arms crossed, showing no reaction at all. Finally, Cyrill just smiled and winked, before turning that murderous glare back toward Jourell.
"Sit down and eat before it gets cold," Jourell said nonchalantly, cutting into the steak on his plate.
Cyrill sat back down in silence, staring at the food. Just then, a maid walked in. Cyrill caught the eye of the servant at the end of the table; she stood as still as a statue, expressionless. But from her subtle gesture, Cyrill understood exactly what she was trying to communicate.
"Fine, let's eat. But before we do, how about a little game?" Cyrill suggested smoothly.
"Hoo, interesting. What kind of game?" Jourell asked, without even looking at him.
Suddenly, the maid moved with lightning speed, appearing behind Jourell and crossing daggers against his throat.
"A game where I ask, and you answer. I don't think I need to explain the penalty for the wrong answer," Cyrill said with a sharp smile.
"Hahaha, interesting. Truly fits the reputation of House Harthel—the empire's shadow assassins under the monastery's thumb. Your sister was supposed to kill the Saint, yet she ended up protecting her instead. How pathetic," Jourell said.
"Hey... I haven't even asked a question yet. Why are you running your mouth?" Cyrill asked. Meanwhile, the maid pressed the blade even closer, letting it bite into the skin of Jourell's neck.
"Fine. What's your question? This seems like it might actually be fun," Jourell answered, finally setting his knife and fork down beside his plate.
"First things first... tell Casey whatever it was you wanted to say," Cyrill commanded.
"Fine. I simply wanted to say that Lord Gerald Rochel was executed three days ago, along with Lady Meredith Levent. That is all," Jourell said, his eyes fixed on Cyrill.
At those words, Cyrill slowly turned his head to look at Casey. Her face had gone deathly pale, frozen in absolute shock. He saw that Noah and Esme were just as stunned. He turned his attention back to Jourell.
"Hey... why the hell would you just drop it on her like that?" Cyrill demanded.
"Well, that is the game, isn't it? You ask, I answer," Jourell replied with a casual shrug.
"Is that true, Lord Jourell?" Casey asked, her voice trembling.
"It is. My father is currently in Castletown, in mourning," Jourell answered casually.
Casey immediately turned and buried her face in Esme, sobbing uncontrollably. Watching her, Cyrill's blood began to boil. He glared at Jourell, looking like he was ready to kill the man with his bare hands. But suddenly, Dustin reached out and placed a hand on Cyrill's shoulder, giving a slight shake of his head. Cyrill looked at Dustin; even though he had moved, Dustin's expression remained flat, his eyes fixed forward. Taking the cue, Cyrill tried to steady himself and turned back to Jourell.
"So your father is really in Castletown?" Cyrill asked.
"Just like I said," Jourell replied nonchalantly.
Cyrill caught the maid's eye, and she gave him a subtle nod. He shifted his gaze back to their host.
"Why did you invite us here? Even if this was where we were headed anyway?" Cyrill asked.
A long pause followed. Jourell's face remained perfectly calm, but he offered no answer. Cyrill leaned forward, bringing his face closer to the man.
"Okay, I don't know what your plan is, but here is what I do know. You poisoned our food with a paralyzing agent and you intend to lock us away in the dungeon alongside your father, don't you?" Cyrill asked with a sharp smile.
This time, Jourell locked eyes with the smiling Cyrill, whose gaze was sharp enough to kill. For a brief second, his composure faltered, but he quickly forced himself back into his cold, calculated calm.