The Laska passed through the tall, ornate gates of the Lyuteakh estate, known as Hawk’s Nest. From that point on, vehicles were restricted to ground travel, prompting the Laska to descend smoothly and roll along the driveway. Low-hanging trees formed a shadowed tunnel, their branches woven together overhead. The path soon widened, revealing the inner courtyard.

  At the courtyard’s center stood a circular fountain, its sculpted nymph perched atop a massive wolf, frozen in mid-motion. Neatly pruned trees framed the estate, their blossoms lending a deceptive sense of serenity to the imposing Gothic-style mansion built of dark stone. Above the entrance, a triangular pediment bore the image of a snarling wolf. Two hawks flanked it, their wings interwoven in a silent promise of dominance and vigilance.

  The mansion’s two symmetrical wings extended outward, separated from the grand entrance by twin towers capped with sharply tiled spires. Tall, pointed windows, their upper edges crowned with circular rose-patterned stained glass, caught fragments of light. A colonnade, its pillars adorned with fantastical creatures locked in eternal battle, stretched deeper into the estate, leading toward the servants’ quarters.

  The aged stone walls devoured the light, casting shadows that clung like silent sentinels. Stone figures stood watch with hollow eyes and impassive gazes, their presence not merely seen, but felt—unblinking judges over all who entered. A faint dampness lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of old wood and polished brass, like a mausoleum too well-kept to be abandoned. Morveyn had walked these halls since childhood, yet today, they felt colder, as though the very foundation of the estate disapproved of his return.

  The muted gray of its ancient stone walls, the carved figures standing eternal watch, and the sheer scale of the structure all contributed to a stifling atmosphere.

  During the two-hour journey, he had managed to compose himself and reflect on the storm ahead. His father would be waiting in the study, fury barely contained. By the time Morveyn reached the estate on the western outskirts of Teak-An—the sprawling capital of the largest region—news of the catastrophe had undoubtedly reached Menno Lyuteakh.

  The old man’s anger would be swift and brutal. Despite the so-called fortunate resolution of the crisis, Morveyn would have to answer before the Council of Elders. The supreme commander’s voice held weight, but among the council’s ranks, influence was diluted. The seven branches of the Great Tree, the governing bodies of the empire, would demand justification for sealing the Potern.

  They would seize this chance to wound him—to chip away at his already fragile reputation. And with it, tarnish Menno’s own standing.

  Fortunately, nobility followed its own rules. The aristocracy and the common people existed in separate spheres, bound by different laws. Where a peasant might suffer exile or execution for an act of defiance, an aristocrat’s transgressions were merely errors to be corrected, not sins to be punished.

  For centuries, the old families had preserved their lineage, their influence stretching back to the days when the Great Empire of Nerul stood unbroken. Their bloodlines, kept pure through calculated alliances, granted them privileges beyond the reach of commoners. In theory, their motto, Noblesse oblige, implied duty and honor, but in practice, it was merely the scaffold upon which their untouchable status rested.

  Morveyn knew this truth well. It was the reason he was not in chains. And it was the reason his enemies would have to find another way to bring him down.

  For commoners, the law of force reigned: stealing food could lead to imprisonment, debts could result in enslavement, and challenging authority often meant public execution. Aristocrats, on the other hand, had the privilege of paying their way out, undergoing symbolic penance, or shifting the blame onto their subordinates entirely.

  Morveyn had watched the heirs of wealthy families wield their privilege like a weapon—and he was no different. It wasn’t a matter of survival; he would endure regardless. But if status could spare him the burden of yet another uphill battle, why refuse? For once, his bloodline offered more than chains—and after everything it had cost him, he felt no guilt in taking what was owed.

  Ritual excision—a drastic form of punishment an aristocrat could choose to fully cleanse themselves of the shame of a dishonorable act—might have suited Morveyn just fine, but his father would fight tooth and nail to make sure it never happened.

  What then? Removal from the position of falconet? That thought stung his pride, though such an outcome would also cast a shadow on the Lyuteakh name. It seemed unlikely that the Council would insist on it. Imprisonment? That too, he could endure—while irritating, serving a sentence was considered a way for noblemen to restore their honor. After a few months in prison, he could return to his duties, and no one would dare say a word against him. This seemed the most probable outcome.

  Hawk’s Nest greeted him with its usual silence. The driver politely bowed and opened the car door for him. An elderly butler met him at the threshold, immediately instructing the maids to prepare a bath in the young master’s chambers. No one met his gaze. It was not respect—it was fear. Fear woven into the walls, passed down through whispers from those who had served before. Morveyn neither sought it nor resented it. Fear was simply another currency in this house, and he had long since learned its worth.

  Those who had worked here since his childhood seemed to instill this fear in new employees, so within days, newcomers began diligently avoiding eye contact and behaving quieter than mice in his presence.

  As he walked down the corridor toward the west wing, where his father’s study was located, he paused briefly at the slightly ajar door to the turquoise drawing room.

  By the tall window, he caught sight of a delicate figure of a woman in a somber dark dress. She sat in an armchair, flipping through the pages of a book, her pale, beautiful face , so similar to his own, marked by the quiet erosion of time and an ever-present sorrow. The soft light from the window bathed her features in a gentle glow, highlighting the fine lines around her mouth, the shadowed weight beneath her eyes—traces of grief that never truly faded.

  Morveyn paused. She looked... peaceful. Almost like she had before grief carved its lines into her face. The faintest echo of a smile seemed to hover at the edge of her lips—an illusion that vanished the moment she sensed his gaze. Whatever warmth had once existed between them was a memory now, distant and unreachable. He remembered a time, long ago, when she would hum softly as she read, her voice carrying through the halls like a comforting echo of home. Now, silence had settled between them like an unspoken barrier, thick and impenetrable.

  The woman appeared to sense his gaze and froze, her eyes fixed on the pages of her book. Like a child avoiding the dark shadows in a closet, believing they wouldn’t emerge if ignored, her body tensed and stilled. Her thin fingers turned pale as they gripped the book tightly.

  Not wanting to disturb her, Morveyn stepped back and quietly closed the door. In some way, he was grateful that she hadn’t looked at him. He continued on his way, feeling his heart sink into its familiar cold darkness.

  A young Wolf standing guard at the door to Menno Lyuteakh’s study announced his son’s arrival.

  Morveyn entered, his back straight, his expression composed, though his mind still reeled from the events of the past day. He began by reporting on the results of his trip to Te-Algeize.

  Countess Ubor, long an outspoken critic of the Protectorium’s methods, had signed all necessary agreements. She would now fund several educational institutions under the Crimson Branch and, in due time, give an interview expressing her newfound support. A strategic victory, even if the means of achieving it left Morveyn disgusted. His week-long stay at her estate had been an ordeal—days spent deflecting veiled insults, navigating her political games, and enduring long, insipid social gatherings. Yet it had been necessary; her influence reached far, and her public alignment with the Protectorium would quiet many critics. Her change of heart had come after a series of private discussions, where she had been made to see the benefits of aligning with the Protectorium. Conveniently, she had fallen ill shortly before his departure—a sudden affliction, though one that was assuredly non-life-threatening. The doctors in Te-Algeize had already stated that, with some rest, she would soon recover and be ready to face the press.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Menno frowned at the mention of her illness, his keen eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, after a beat, he smirked—a knowing, amused expression. "Sudden illness, you say?" His tone was dry, laced with amusement. Of course, he understood exactly what that meant. If the countess had fallen ill, it wasn’t a coincidence. Morveyn had gotten too close. And, as Menno well knew, his son’s touch had a peculiar effect on people. Remembering the aged countess’s heavy-lidded gaze and over-powdered skin, Menno let out a quiet chuckle. "You do go to great lengths for your duty, don’t you, Mori? Well done, son. I appreciate your efforts.”

  “For the good of the Confederation,” Morveyn replied smoothly, though inwardly he burned with embarrassment.

  What would you do if I weren’t good-looking? he thought bitterly. Let me work alongside Ayzel in peace?

  He was sick to death of navigating the advances of perfumed aristocrats in outrageously expensive clothing. Still, refusing to leverage his natural advantages would have been foolish.

  The pleasantries over, Menno launched into the real reason for summoning him. He meticulously dissected every decision Morveyn had made at the gates of Ao-Teien, sparing no detail. Avoid unnecessary attention. Don’t provoke representatives of other branches. Never act without Ayzel present—he could frame events properly in official reports.

  Morveyn listened, his expression impassive, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Finally, he exhaled sharply.

  "Shall I hold my breath too, Father? Tiptoe around them like a frightened child?" His patience was wearing thin, his voice edged with irritation. "They missed twenty people! Twenty! What was I supposed to do—send them through anyway just to avoid bruising the Salamanders’ egos?"

  "And the gates?!" Menno roared, slamming his palm onto the desk. "Why didn’t you inform Volt immediately? Do you understand there’s no way to explain this now? The sensors recorded the rupture after the console order was already issued! The timestamps are against us, Morveyn! What am I supposed to tell the council?"

  There it was. Not just anger—fear.

  Morveyn had seen it before, buried beneath layers of control, hidden in calculated choices. His father feared losing control, feared the situation slipping beyond his reach. And Morveyn? It was hard to sympathize when that control had suffocated everything in its grasp.

  "Tell them," Morveyn replied evenly, each word deliberate, "that your son knows when hesitation costs lives."

  A tense silence stretched between them. Then Menno exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his lip curling in disdain. "Miserable boy," he muttered. "You think your pride is worth something?"

  "Morveyn realized the conversation had veered off course. Instead of proving his point, he’d let his father bait him into a battle of egos—again. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to steady his voice. "You don’t know what tried to come through, Father. You weren’t there."

  The room went deathly still. Morveyn could hear the measured ticking of the clock behind Menno’s desk, his own breath, shallow and even. Then, a long, slow exhale from the man before him.

  "So it wasn’t just a surge?" Menno’s voice was quieter now, laced with something dangerously close to concern.

  "No. Something was there. I couldn’t make it out, but it was massive. I barely sealed the gate in time. If it had broken through..." He trailed off, the weight of the unknown pressing against his chest. "There was no other choice."

  Menno’s fingers tapped against the desk, his expression unreadable. Then, grimly, he shook his head.

  The Schism was erratic, unpredictable. Most breaches eventually collapsed back into themselves, allowing affected regions to be reclaimed. But if something from beyond slipped through...

  Those things did not return. They consumed, unraveling the very fabric of space. Another black mark on the map, another dead land. If the regions of the Confederation weren’t fragmented pieces barely held together by transition tunnels, the devastation could spread unchecked.

  A small region? It was a tragedy. A stable core region like 078? It was unthinkable.

  Menno leaned back in his chair, his expression hard. "If this gets out, there will be unrest. The cities are already overflowing with refugees from the periphery. Don’t say a word to the council yet. I’ll handle this. We need data from the sensors and full calculations. The equipment is still functional—for now, we still have a connection with 078."

  A pause. Then, Menno’s tone dropped into something heavier, more final.

  "Prepare yourself for questioning. Volt’s report will be presented first thing tomorrow."

  Morveyn met his father’s gaze evenly, neither resisting nor accepting the words, merely taking them in. He could still feel the weight of exhaustion behind his eyes, the dull ache at the base of his skull. He’d known this was coming. He would endure it as he had endured everything else.

  Menno straightened, shaking off his fatigue with practiced efficiency. He pressed the selector on his desk.

  "Summon the curators for a meeting tonight. Have Volt and Saags report to the Protectorium Palace. Bring my car in five minutes."

  He released the button and turned back to Morveyn, his sharp, calculating eyes flickering over him one last time.

  "You may go. You’ve done well, Mori. Rest now."

  Morveyn bowed sharply and left his father’s study. Every step away drained the energy from his body. He needed to reach his room, to breathe, to scrub the weight of this day – this week actually - from his skin.

  His chambers were waiting, a bath already drawn, steam curling through the air, scented with calming oils. But before indulging in the solace of hot water, he quickly sifted through the correspondence piled on his desk. Among the crested envelopes and perfumed notes, a smaller, plain brown envelope lay on the table—almost invisible among the gilded insignias. Morveyn stilled. His fingers hovered over it before finally picking it up.

  Archives of the Root—Confidential. He tore it open with the sharp edge of his nail, his breath steady, controlled. Inside—several crisp pages, stamped with official seals. His eyes skimmed the first few lines. Then he let out a slow exhale. Nothing. No records. No leads.

  He resisted the urge to crumple the pages, instead laying them flat on the desk with practiced detachment.

  Another dead end. So be it. The trail might have vanished, but trails could be uncovered—or created. Morveyn had never been one to turn back simply because the road was closed.

  He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. Maybe it was time to stop looking. But he had never been very good at letting things go. The thought settled like lead in his chest.

  Then his gaze drifted over the remaining letters—among them, a small embossed invitation. Baronet Loran of Acrass. A smirk tugged at his lips. Well. If one door remained closed, he could at least step through another.

  The tribunal loomed closer with each passing hour. Morveyn clenched his fists, the faint ache of exhaustion settling deep in his bones. If they stripped him of his rank—or worse, exiled him—the months spent crawling through society’s filth would be for nothing. He had earned Loran’s trust at the cost of his pride, and now that trust might slip through his fingers before he could use it. But there was still tonight. Still a chance to glean something useful from the baronet’s tangled web of connections.

  If not now, then when?

  He called for the young servant assigned to him. The boy, barely seventeen, had grown taller in recent months but still carried himself with that hesitant, eager-to-please air of a youth unused to privilege. His eyes, at least, remained clear—unlike the shadows haunting the older servants.

  “What can I do for you, Mylord?” the boy asked, bowing slightly. Morveyn noted with satisfaction that there was no fear in his voice, no hesitation in his gaze.

  “Send a message to Baronet Loran of Acrass. Tell him I accept his invitation for tonight and expect an especially warm reception.”

  Morveyn lifted the letter toward Dain, who stood waiting by the door. The boy took it carefully, tucking it into his satchel with practiced efficiency. The boy shifted, glancing toward the door as if debating whether to say more. "I... heard what happened in Ao-Teien."

  Morveyn arched a brow. "Oh? Already spreading rumors about me, are we?"

  "No, sir, I just…”

  "Relax, Dain. I’ve heard the sermon. Tomorrow, they'll have their pound of flesh—and I'll still be standing. Until then, we smile and let them wonder what we know that they don't."

  Dain hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod.

  "As you say, sir."

  Morveyn smirked. "Good lad. Now, be quick with that letter."

  Morveyn exhaled, his body sagging as if struck by an invisible blow. He needed rest, however brief. He needed to gather his strength; there wouldn’t be another chance to sleep until morning.

  He could have undressed himself, but exhaustion won out. His fingers brushed the twisted cord of the call bell by his bed, and he pulled it lazily. A soft chime echoed through the estate—a quiet ritual, unchanged even as the world outside crumbled.

  It was only after the door clicked shut behind Deyn that Morveyn realized just how much effort it would take to strip off the layers of his uniform. Normally, it was the boy who handled his wardrobe, but in his urgency to send him off with the message, he hadn't thought twice about it. Now, with his limbs leaden with fatigue, the prospect of wrestling out of stiff fabric and polished buckles on his own felt like an unnecessary ordeal.

  The other servants were clumsy, nervous—wasted effort. Deyn had learned to move without hesitation, and for that alone, Morveyn tolerated his presence. Still, pride had its limits, and tonight, practicality won. Let someone else handle it. The world wouldn't end if he spared himself the trouble.