By the time Oliver and his retinue reached the last stretch of the canal route, they had been traveling for five days, each bringing subtle shifts in the landscape and weather.
They had passed Silvermoon's outposts, where white-marble trading halls gleamed beneath banners embroidered with lunar sigils, their silk rippling in the breeze. The people there carried themselves with measured grace, their voices clipped and cultured, as if every word were weighed like gold before it left their tongues.
They had crossed through the great grain fields of Vailstone, where tall sunwheat stalks rustled like whispers in the wind, stretching toward the sky in endless golden waves. The soil here was rich with history and blood, and in the mornings, mist clung to the fields as if reluctant to let go.
Now, as the canal began to narrow, giving way to the last stretch of navigable waters before the Imperial roads, they neared the town of Greythorne, where the rivers met the empire's sprawling road system. Diosmaris was only a few days' ride from here.
The Arrival of Korde
The hoofbeats came fast and uneven, striking the earth like the pounding of a war drum.
Oliver turned toward the shore, his eyes narrowing at the figure racing along the canal road, his silhouette blurred by the afternoon glare. The sun sat low in the sky, stretching his shadow long against the earth as he tore across the terrain like a man with no time left to waste.
Korde.
The moment recognition settled in Oliver's chest, the atmosphere around the barge shifted.
Ser Aldric was the first to react, stepping forward and resting a hand on the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw it. His voice was low, tense. "He rides too hard for good news."
Armin, who had been sprawled lazily near the railing, swung his legs off the side and straightened, his usual grin faltering. "Korde never rides slow," he muttered, though there was no humor in his voice.
Ser Willem's reaction was more restrained, but his grip tightened around the pommel of his dagger. "Something's wrong."
Even the barge workers had fallen silent, sensing the urgency that now thickened the air.
Korde did not slow as he approached. The narrow dirt path ran dangerously close to the canal, the embankment dropping steeply toward the water, but he barely seemed to notice. His stallion's hooves kicked up dust and loose stone, its breathing deep and controlled despite its speed.
Oliver studied the way Korde leaned forward in his saddle, his body moving fluidly with the horse, his hands tight but not rigid on the reins. He had seen Korde ride like this before—when he was delivering commands on the battlefield. When every moment mattered.
And that's what unsettled him most.
This wasn't a casual ride. This was a message carried at a pace that broke lesser men.
Korde's sharp, foxlike eyes were already locked onto Oliver as he neared the docking post where the barge was slowing to anchor. The glistening sheen of sweat on both rider and horse spoke of hours spent at a relentless pace.
Finally, in one fluid motion, Korde wrenched his stallion to a stop, its hooves skidding against the packed dirt as it reared slightly before settling beneath him.
Silence.
The world held its breath. The men aboard the barge did the same.
Korde swung off his horse as if he hadn't just ridden it to its very limit, landing lightly on his feet. He was all sharp angles and lean muscle, his frame built for speed, not strength, his dark riding leathers clinging to his form.
He barely spared the others a glance.
His gaze went straight to Oliver.
"Oliver."
There was no greeting, no bow, no unnecessary pleasantries. Just a name—sharp, clipped, spoken as if every syllable carried weight.
Oliver took a step forward, already bracing for what came next. "What is it?"
Korde hesitated.
Not out of uncertainty—Korde was never uncertain. But he was calculating, considering the weight of the words before he unleashed them.
Ser Aldric's hand curled into a fist at his side, his jaw tight. Ser Willem exhaled quietly through his nose, steadying himself. Armin, usually the last to take things seriously, was now gripping the railing of the barge, his knuckles pale.
The younger soldiers shifted uneasily, exchanging glances. The barge workers pretended to busy themselves with unloading crates, but their ears were tilted toward the conversation.
Even the air itself seemed heavier, as if the world was waiting.
Korde finally spoke.
"Your father is dead."
The words did not strike like a hammer, nor did they carve through the air like a sword.
They settled—slow and heavy, sinking into the cracks of the moment.
No one moved.
The river did not stop. The wind did not change. The trees did not bend beneath the weight of loss.
But the people did.
Aldric's reaction was instant and restrained, his features unreadable, but his fingers clenched against his belt, knuckles paling under the force. He had served the old Duke longer than any of them. To him, this was more than a change in leadership—it was the loss of an era.
Ser Willem exhaled through his nose, then muttered something beneath his breath, something that sounded like a quiet prayer. He had never been sentimental, but the set of his shoulders, the downward flick of his gaze, told Oliver he felt it.
Armin… Armin looked away.
For the first time since Oliver had known him, Armin had nothing to say. No quip. No easy deflection.
One of the younger soldiers—a boy barely nineteen, newly knighted into Devaan's service—made the mistake of gasping. A soft, barely audible noise, but it carried.
Aldric's sharp glare snapped to him, and the boy stiffened under its weight. "Steel your spine," the older knight murmured, voice cool as tempered iron. "We are House Devaan."
The boy nodded quickly, looking ashamed, but the damage had already been done. The ripples had started.
The old Duke was dead.
And the weight of that truth was settling fast.
"When?" Oliver finally asked.
Korde did not hesitate this time. "Two nights ago."
"Cause?"
"Illness."
A vague answer. But Korde's expression told Oliver that even he wasn't entirely convinced.
Oliver exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly toward the sky, watching as a pair of dawnkites wheeled overhead, their yellow wings catching the last glimmers of sunlight.
Superstition says it's good luck if dawnkites fly overhead, Aldric had said earlier. They only travel where the world is changing.
Oliver felt the change now.
It settled in his ribs, in the bones of his fingers, in the tight coil of breath that he had not yet released.
"What of Devaan?"
"Holding," Korde answered, his voice softer now. "For now."
The unspoken words lingered between them.
For now.
Because House Devaan had not yet crumbled—but without its Duke, the cracks would start.
A shift in the air. A change in the wind.
Oliver slowly closed his fingers into a fist at his side.
He was no longer just Oliver, the soldier returning from war.
He was now Duke Oliver van Devaan, head of a house on the edge of a precipice.
And Diosmaris was waiting.