The reclaimed ponies, though shaggy and unaccustomed to consistent travel, proved as hardy as Old Hemlock had boasted. They moved with surprising stamina, their steady hooves crunching through the moorland heather.
Rhyse's sturdy grey mare maintained an effortless rhythm, her broad back and unwavering gait hardly rising beneath him—she'd earned her silent name "Steadfast" before midday. Ahead, Vance rode the temperamental but powerful dun – "Storm Mettle". It snorted and threw its head, but the mercenary's calloused hands barely shifted on the reins; "Storm Mettle" lived up to the title with every thunderous stride.
Flint and Bellweather shared the riding and leading of the intelligent little black mare, "Shadowkin" in all but name for her quick wits, though she was currently laden with their modest supplies. Between them, the little black mare danced like shadow given form, her ears flicking at every rustle in the brush while towing their supplies.
Dawmoor's silhouette had long vanished behind the winter-browned hills, though the northern wind still carried traces of its smoke when it changed direction. Weak sunlight filtered through high clouds, barely warming the riders' knuckles where they gripped the reins.
They carried Rhyse and his small retinue steadily northwards. The wind, though still sharp, had lost some of its earlier biting fury, and the sun, a pale disc in the vast northern sky, offered a modicum of warmth.
After several hours of hard riding across the undulating, heather-strewn moorland, the initial adrenaline had long since faded, replaced by a gnawing fatigue in his companions. Vance, ever stoic, showed little sign, but Rhyse noted the slight slump in Bellweather's shoulders. Flint, though outwardly impassive, had a tightness around her eyes.
"We'll make a brief stop ahead, by that cluster of standing stones," Rhyse announced. He accessed his System [INVENTORY].
[System Interaction: Withdraw Minor Revitalization Draught x3 from Inventory? Cost: 900 Gold Sovereigns (300 per draught).]
Yes.
As they dismounted, Rhyse approached Bellweather. "Guardsman Torvin. This will help." He offered one of the ethereal, shimmering vials.
Bellweather looked surprised, then immensely grateful. "My lord, you shouldn't waste such potent restoratives on me."
"Nonsense, Torvin," Rhyse said, using his first name intentionally. "Your well-being is crucial. And Guardswoman Flint, for you as well." Petra accepted hers with a rare, brief nod. Vance politely declined at the beginning, but Rhyse insisted. The effect of the draughts was noticeable. The lines of pain around Bellweather's eyes eased. Flint seemed to shed a layer of weariness. Vance had an almost imperceptible change underneath his impassiveness.
They shared a simple meal, the silence broken only by the sigh of the wind. The journey soon resumed, the moorland stretching endlessly. As dusk began to bleed purple and orange, Vance called a halt in a sheltered dell. Flint and Bellweather efficiently set up a small, smokeless fire. Soon, its warm glow pushed back the encroaching darkness. An unspoken truce seemed to settle over them; ranks softened by shared isolation.
Bellweather broke the silence first. "Never thought I'd be so grateful for a simple fire, my lord. Or a ward that appears out of nowhere." He chuckled, looking at Rhyse with open respect. "That was… something else, back at the lodge."
Flint, usually taciturn, added, "Indeed, my lord. Your… interventions… were timely. And effective. Even back then at the Manor."
Rhyse felt the familiar flush. "I merely used the resources available to me."
Vance returned from his perimeter check. "Synkar resources might be potent, young master. But it was your will that directed them. That thug with the bomb? Your shot was true."
The events at Burton's lodge, the raw brutality of the fight, and the chilling finality of taking a life, even that of a thug threatening his men, still echoed in Rhyse's mind. The System's clinical [Elimination Confirmed] had felt worlds removed from the gurgling cry and the sudden, awful stillness of the man he'd shot with his handbow. He had pushed the memory down, focusing on the immediate needs of his party.
The mention of it brought back the image with stark clarity. Rhyse picked up a stick, poking at the embers. "It was… the first time," he said, his voice barely a whisper, not looking at them. "The first time I've directly… taken a life."
The silence that followed was heavy. Vance spoke first, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It's never easy, my lord. The first, or the fiftieth. But he was a threat. To you, to the villagers, to us. You did what was necessary. A true leader sometimes must."
Flint nodded, her gaze fixed on the flames. "In the Core Guard, we train for it. We accept it. But acceptance doesn't always make it lighter. What matters is why you do it."
Bellweather added, "He deserved it, my lord. That magic bomb could have done a lot of damage. Killed one of us. Killed the hostages. Without your your support… the outcome would have been far bloodier."
Rhyse looked up, meeting their eyes. Vance's were steady. Flint's held surprising empathy. Bellweather's, fierce loyalty.
"My father used to say," Rhyse recalled, "that a ruler must understand every facet of his domain, especially its dangers. He showed me the aftermath of conflict. Mutated beasts, rogue summons. But always from a distance, with knights forming a cordon." He looked down at his hands. "This was different. Closer. My decision. My action."
"And you acted to protect others, my lord," Vance said firmly. "That is the mark of a Synkar. Your father, Lord Corbin, never shied from the hard necessities. He understood the cost of leadership. It seems you are learning it too, perhaps faster than any of us would have wished for you."
A measure of comfort settled in Rhyse. They didn't coddle him, nor did they dismiss his turmoil. They acknowledged the grim reality, contextualized it. It didn't erase the image of the falling bandit, but it helped frame it. He had made a choice, a hard one, and his protectors, men and women who had faced death many times, understood that. There was no need to mention the System's clinical confirmation; the human understanding in their eyes was more grounding.
The crackling fire sent dancing shadows across their faces as they sat in companionable silence, the scent of burning heather and pine mingling with the moist night air. The warmth seeped into Rhyse's bones, a welcome contrast to the harsh moorland winds that still whispered through his cloak.
Vance leaned forward, stirring the embers with a stick, sending up a shower of orange sparks that smelled faintly of resin. "Your father," he began, his deep voice roughened by smoke, "had tracking skills that would shame many rangers." His calloused fingers tapped the carved bone handle of his hunting knife in unconscious rhythm. "Never shouted, never hurried, just... saw. Broken twigs, disturbed moss – spoke to him like words on parchment." The reverence in his tone made Rhyse's throat tighten.
Bellweather snorted, the sound softened by the smolderwood smoke curling from his pipe. "Remember that construct incident in the east wing?" A chuckle rumbled through his chest as he rubbed his still-tender knee. "New recruit thought he'd impress by controlling a training golem. Damned thing started quoting bawdy tavern songs during sword drills!" The memory drew reluctant laughter even from Flint, who rarely showed more than grim determination.
Flint stretched her long legs toward the fire, wincing as her stiff armor creaked. "My first week in the Manor, I got lost in the service tunnels for six hours." She toyed with a loose thread on her glove, her stern face softening in the firelight. "Kept hearing the cooks yelling about missing pastries, not realizing I was directly below the kitchens, just... wandering." The admission, so unlike her usual sternness, surprised a genuine laugh from Rhyse.
The young lord found himself leaning forward, drawn into the circle of warmth and camaraderie. The rhythmic crackle of the fire, the occasional whicker from the hobbled ponies nearby – all wove together into a moment of unexpected peace. His Leadership Aura might be a barely-tangible magic, but here, watching the firelight play across three weathered faces that had come to mean protection and trust, he understood what real connection felt like. For the first time in months, the constant pressure in his chest – part grief, part dread – eased just enough to breathe freely. These people saw him not as a vulnerable heir or a political pawn, but simply as Rhyse.
And when Bellweather passed him the waterskin without being asked, when Flint adjusted her position to better block the wind from reaching him, when Vance casually repositioned his sheathed short sword to keep it within Rhyse's reach – these small, wordless acts spoke louder than any oath of fealty. The System might quantify skills and power, but it couldn't measure this: the quiet certainty that he wasn't facing his trials alone.
As the fire burned low and the stars glittered with icy brilliance, they took turns on watch. Rhyse, despite his new retainers, insisted on taking a shift. He needed to feel the cold wind, to hear the silence of the moors, to stand guard over those who now guarded him. The journey to the Northern Checkpoint, and then into the perilous Krellian Deeps, was still ahead. But tonight, under the silent stars, the young Lord of House Synkar felt a little less alone, and a little more like the leader he was struggling to become.
The following hours on the moor passed in a blur of hard travel, shared rations, and constant vigilance. Steadfast, Storm Mettle, and the little black mare Shadowkin proved their worth, carrying them tirelessly across the challenging terrain. Rhyse found himself observing his companions, learning their rhythms, the way Vance always seemed to know the firmest ground, how Flint could spot a distant bird of prey long before anyone else, and Bellweather's surprising knowledge of edible moorland plants. The initial awkwardness of their new dynamic began to wear away, replaced by a quiet, professional camaraderie.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wind and heather, the landscape began to change. The rolling hills gave way to more defined, rocky outcrops, and in the distance, a formidable stone structure became visible – the Northern Checkpoint. It was a grim, utilitarian fortress, one of several that marked the borders of the lands directly administered by House Synkar before transitioning into the territories of their various Bannermen. The fortress stood as a rugged blemish on the terrain, a harsh block of somber granite fortified with strata of magically-enhanced steel. Its high walls bore the telltale glow of Synkar defensive enchantments—interlocking geometric patterns that pulsed faintly against the elements. Watchtowers bristling with warding crystals stood sentinel at each corner, their arcane lenses sweeping the moorlands for threats.
Beneath the visible structure, Rhyse knew from his father's lessons, lay a labyrinth of subterranean vaults and safety rooms—one of Theron Synkar's early architectural marvels. Though its design lacked the elegance of the ancestral manor, every square inch had been engineered for relentless efficiency, layered with enough protective wards to turn back a siege mage's assault. It stood as both deterrent and declaration—the unyielding boundary marking where Synkar-controlled lands gave way to the territories of their less fortified Bannermen. This particular checkpoint controlled the primary trade road leading into the lands of Baron Gentlewell, a traditionally loyal, if somewhat independent, vassal.
"The Northern Checkpoint, young master," Vance announced, his voice a low rumble as they reined in their ponies on a ridge overlooking the structure. "From here, the road leads into Baron Gentlewell's domain. It's the most direct route, and the only spot we are normally able to pass through the Border Wards."
Rhyse nodded, studying the checkpoint. It bustled with activity – merchant caravans being inspected, travelers presenting papers, and a contingent of Synkar guardsmen, their armor perhaps a little less polished than the Core Guard's, manning the gates and walls. "It appears busy. We maintain our cover as traveling scholars with their guards. Let me handle any interactions. We pay what's asked, no arguments. We need to pass through without incident."
Vance, Flint, and Bellweather gave sharp nods of agreement, aware secrecy was vital here. The checkpoint buzzed with a chaotic medley of sounds—wooden crates thumping onto carts, murmured haggling between traders and sentries, the sharp commands of officers directing traffic. Yet beneath the surface hum of commerce, Rhyse noted something else—whispered grievances, exasperated breaths hinting at the checkpoint's notorious habit of... creatively interpreting official tolls. An expected irritation, but one that underlined the slow corrosion eating at the edges of Synkar's domain.
When their turn came, a portly sergeant with a perpetually sneering lip and eyes that darted avariciously over their well-maintained (though deliberately modest) gear approached them. "Papers," he demanded, his voice oily.
Rhyse, affecting a slight scholarly stoop, presented the forged travel documents he had easily obtained from the Manor – identifying him as "Master Elian, apprentice loremaster," with Vance, Flint, and Bellweather as his "research assistants and security."
The sergeant barely glanced at them. "Research, eh? Heading into Gentlewell's lands? Dangerous up there. Full of man-beasts." He tapped a greedy finger on the counter of his checkpoint booth. "A 'passage facilitation fee' is customary, ensures a smooth and… uncomplicated transit. Two gold sovereigns per head."
It cost silver for for a standard checkpoint passage. It was blatant extortion. Vance tensed beside Rhyse, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Rhyse subtly pressed a hand against Vance's arm.
"Of course, Sergeant," Rhyse said, his voice mild. "We understand the need to support the diligence of House Synkar's border guard." He reached for the pouch where the System manifested his funds. This was galling, but breaking cover over a bribe was foolish.
As he was about to pay, the System chimed, not with a pleasant tone, but a sharp, insistent one.
[System Alert: Pervasive Corruption Detected - Synkar Northern Checkpoint.]
[Integrity Breach: Violation of Ducal Mandate & House Synkar Financial Protocols.]
[New High-Priority Quest Issued: The Cleansing of the North Gate]
[Objective: Identify the architects of the corruption at the Northern Checkpoint, dismantle their network, and restore legitimate Synkar authority and fair practice.]
[Time Limit: 5 Days ]
[Penalty for Failure: Significant decrease in Duchy-Wide Loyalty, Loss of Regional Tax Revenue (System Tracked), Potential for Bannerman Uprising/Secession (Moderate Risk), -50 System Advancement.]
[Rewards: Restoration of Northern Checkpoint Integrity, Substantial increase in Regional Loyalty & Tax Revenue, Schematic: Synkar Customs House (Fortified - Rank 1), Title: Scourge of Corruption (Rank 0), Major System Advancement.]
Rhyse froze internally. A High-Priority Quest. With a time limit. And a heavy penalty for failure. This wasn't an optional sub-objective like Dawmoor's enforcers; this was the System directly tasking him with a major administrative cleanup, and the consequences of ignoring it were dire. The System, it seemed, was not just a tool for personal power, but also for upholding the integrity of the Synkar domain it was linked to.