Adrian rose from the chair, the wood scraping softly against the floor as he stood. He pulled the door open, stepped into the hallway, and let it click shut behind him.
The corridor felt narrower on the way back. His footsteps landed heavy on the worn boards, each one creaking like it hadn't been fixed in years. At the landing he turned left and started down the stairs. The descent was slow, the old wood groaning under his weight with every step.
At the bottom, the main doors stood open to the morning air. Six soldiers waited outside in a loose cluster, their armor patched and their postures tired rather than crisp. One older man with a long, jagged scar running down his cheek straightened up when he saw Adrian.
"We're your escort for the run," the scarred soldier said, voice rough like gravel. "Taxes are already loaded."
Adrian gave a short nod. He didn't say anything back, just walked straight past them toward the carriage. The vehicle looked plain and sturdy enough — two horses stamping restlessly in their harnesses. He climbed inside and dropped onto the bench, the leather creaking under him.
"Move out," the scarred soldier called from outside.
The carriage lurched forward. Wheels crunched over the courtyard stones, then settled into the softer dirt of the road. Dust kicked up behind them in lazy clouds.
Adrian pulled the etiquette book onto his lap and opened it. The pages felt dry and stiff. He scanned the lines about titles, bows, and the exact way to address someone half a rank higher. It all read like someone trying too hard to sound important.
Outside, the steady clop of hooves and jingle of armor filled the air. One of the younger soldiers rode close to the carriage window. His eyes kept flicking toward Adrian's hands — the wraps tight around them — then darting away again. Curious. A little nervous.
Adrian kept reading, but he felt the glances.
"Stop staring," he said, not raising his voice much. The words still cut through the noise clearly.
The scarred soldier, riding on the other side, glanced over sharply. Inside the carriage, the two soldiers sharing the bench with Adrian exchanged a quick, confused look.
"Staring at what?" one of them asked, frowning.
Adrian didn't lift his eyes from the book. "You know what."
The young soldier outside flushed a bit and looked straight ahead instead. The fidgeting stopped.
'New guy's got sharp eyes,' the scarred soldier thought, adjusting his grip on the reins. 'Hope he doesn't cause trouble up at the baron's place. We've got enough problems already.'
The carriage rolled on for a while longer, the morning light warming the fields on either side. Then the wheels hit something solid. The whole thing jolted hard and came to a sudden stop.
Voices rose up front — hesitant, tired.
"Sir… got anything to spare? Just a bit of bread?"
Adrian closed the book and stood. He stepped out of the carriage into the sharp daylight. A small group of commoners blocked the road — clothes ragged, faces hollow from hunger, eyes pleading but wary. A couple of children clung to their mother's torn skirt.
The scarred soldier swung down from his horse, boots hitting the dirt with a thud. He moved forward without hurry, voice low and firm.
"Clear the road," he said. "We're on baron's business."
The commoners hesitated, then shuffled aside, heads down. One older man muttered something under his breath but didn't push it. The soldier watched them a moment longer, then waved the carriage forward.
Adrian climbed back in without a word. The wheels started turning again, slower this time, like the horses felt the weight of the scene too.
He left the book closed on the seat beside him and looked out the window instead. The land rolling past wasn't much better. Collapsed roofs on half the houses, withered fields, and here and there a body left where it had fallen, already starting to smell under the sun. Gaunt villagers watched the carriage pass with dull eyes.
It wasn't just hard times. This looked like something deeper — a slow rot that had settled in and stayed.
Adrian turned toward the two soldiers sitting across from him. The clatter of wheels and hooves made it hard to speak softly, so he didn't bother.
"Where exactly are we right now?" he asked, voice steady.
The soldier on the left scratched at his cheek. "About halfway to Baron Vein's border. Another few hours if the road stays clear." He paused, then added quieter, "It used to be greener out here. Not like this."
The other soldier just nodded, staring out his own window. "Yeah… not like this."
Adrian leaned back against the bench, the carriage rocking gently beneath him as the journey continued.
Adrian leaned back against the bench, the wood creaking under his shift in weight. One of the soldiers across from him shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking away from Adrian's steady gaze.
"We're near the Gravebloom Forest, sir," the soldier said, a little too fast, like the words had been waiting on the tip of his tongue.
Adrian let the name settle. Gravebloom. He'd only heard it once before, back when blades were swinging and the Goblin King was adapting to every move he made. Seeing the land around them now made the memory sharper — the trees, the snow, the way everything felt ready to swallow a man whole.
'Still feels close,' he thought.
The sun beat down warm through the window, bright and steady. No snow on the ground, no bite in the air. It didn't match the forest he remembered at all.
"What's the usual climate like here?" Adrian asked. "Does it snow most of the year?"
The same soldier glanced at him, then at the scarred veteran riding outside. He answered carefully, keeping his voice even over the rattle of the wheels.
"Yeah, almost all year. Snow stops for a bit sometimes, but even the Gravebloom gets its share."
Adrian pictured it again — the cold biting through his clothes, snow piling on the branches while he trained. He pushed the image aside quick. In a place like this, crops wouldn't stand a chance most seasons. No wonder everything looked starved.
The soldier kept talking, matching the steady clop of hooves.
"This region's far north. Climate's rough by nature. Famine hits hard. Disease too. Water runs short even when you'd think it shouldn't."
Adrian frowned inside. Snow everywhere, yet water was still a problem? There was magic in this world — stuff tied to water itself. How did a whole region still scrape by like this?
'Doesn't add up,' he thought. 'Or maybe it does, and that's the point.'
He stared out at the passing fields again. Withered stalks, collapsed roofs, the occasional body left where it dropped. The sun glinted off dust and stone like it was mocking the whole scene.
The scarred soldier outside caught his eye for a moment, then looked ahead. 'Kid's asking questions like he's never seen a bad winter. Must be new to the north. Archer sending him out here… either testing him or trying to wake him up.'
The carriage rolled on, the road growing rougher the further they went. Eventually the border came into view — a simple marker post and a handful of patrol soldiers waiting with hard eyes.
The carriage slowed. The scarred veteran dismounted smoothly, boots hitting the dirt. He pulled out a small polished emblem — the Ziva household crest — and held it up.
The patrol took their time studying it, turning the metal this way and that like one wrong line could start a fight. Tension hung thick in the air while everyone waited.
After a long minute, the lead patrolman nodded once. "Pass."
The barrier opened. The carriage moved forward again, wheels finding better ground almost immediately. The road smoothed out into neat paved stones. The horses picked up an easier pace, no longer fighting ruts and mud.
Adrian watched the change roll by. Villages here looked alive — people moving with purpose, fields tended, smoke rising from chimneys in orderly lines. The contrast hit hard. Archer's lands felt like they were barely holding on. This place breathed power.
'Weak feeds the strong,' he thought. 'Simple as that.'
He remembered his old world for a second — the way people sometimes tried to lift the weak, build systems so nobody got left behind completely. None of that existed here. Weakness wasn't just a disadvantage. It was a slow death sentence, quiet or bloody, until only the ones who could dominate were left standing.
Adrian let out a low chuckle at first, almost under his breath. Then it grew, rolling through the carriage like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
The two soldiers sitting across from him exchanged a quick glance, confusion plain on their faces.
One of them cleared his throat. "Something funny, sir?"
Adrian shook his head once, the chuckle fading but the smile still tugging at his mouth.
"Just realizing how this world really works," he said. "That's all."
The scarred soldier outside glanced in through the window, one eyebrow raised, but didn't say anything. The carriage kept moving deeper into Baron Devon Vein's lands, the smooth road carrying them forward toward whatever waited at the end of it.
Adrian tightened the hand wraps around his knuckles, the cloth pressing firm against his skin. They always felt like a second layer now, holding back that low pulse underneath.
The chuckle kept building in his chest until it spilled out sharper than he meant it to, rolling through the carriage like he'd just heard a bad joke that somehow made perfect sense. A man calling himself a villain fit right into a place like this — where the weak got ground down and the strong took what they needed to keep standing.
'Entertaining,' he thought. 'The whole setup.'
The laugh echoed off the wooden sides. The two soldiers inside froze mid-breath. Outside, the others riding alongside stiffened in their saddles. One muttered something low to the man next to him. Confusion sat heavy on their faces, maybe even a flicker of worry.
The scarred soldier glanced toward the carriage window, reins loose in his hands. 'Lord Archer picks up a strange one this time. Laughing at famine like it's a game. Hope the baron doesn't take it the wrong way.'
Then Adrian cut the sound off as quick as it started. Silence dropped back over everything except the steady rattle of wheels and hooves. The carriage kept rolling, the smooth paved road carrying them deeper into Baron Devon Vein's lands.
They passed more tended fields and orderly villages. Workers moved with steady hands, but Adrian noticed patches where the crops looked off — stalks thinner than they should be, leaves drooping even under the bright sun. Strange for a place supposed to be buried in snow most of the year.
The soldiers inside shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. One rubbed at his arm like the warmth bothered him.
Eventually the massive estate gates rose ahead. More guards stood watch, still as stone. They stopped the carriage with a raised hand. The scarred veteran swung down again, boots hitting the stone with a solid thud, and held out the Ziva household emblem.
The guards took their time, turning the metal over, checking every line. Tension pulled tight for a long minute before they finally stepped aside and waved them through.
Adrian leaned toward the window without moving his head much. The grounds opened up clean and kept — buildings gleaming, paths swept, workers moving like every step had its place. It was nothing like the dust and creaking floors back at Archer's estate. Here everything felt alive with order.
The carriage rolled to a stop in the wide courtyard, wheels settling quiet against smooth stone.
From the main doors, a group of men came out in neat formation. At the center walked a broad-shouldered figure who carried the space around him like it belonged to him. Adrian recognized the posture right away from the pages he'd skimmed in the etiquette book. This had to be Baron Devon Vein.
Adrian stepped out before anyone motioned him to. He kept his movements even, shoulders relaxed but steady. Up close the baron looked solid — tall enough, built like someone used to command. But standing there, Adrian's own frame seemed to fill more of the yard than expected. The difference in presence sat between them, quiet but unmistakable.
The courtyard went still. Servants and guards held their places, watching.
Adrian gave a measured dip of his head — not deep, not groveling, just enough to show respect without handing over ground. His voice came out calm and level, carrying the formal shape the book had drilled into the lines.
"Baron Devon," he said. "I trust my arrival does not inconvenience your household."
He let the words hang a moment, then added in the same careful tone, "My apologies that my lord Ziva has allowed this humble servant to attend in his stead."
The baron's eyes moved over him slow, taking in the wraps, the stance, the way Adrian didn't flinch under the appraisal. A faint curve touched the baron's mouth — not quite a smile, more like dry amusement.
'Young,' Baron Devon thought, 'but he stands like someone who's already tasted blood. Archer's new dog has teeth.'
The silence stretched another beat. Then the baron gave a small nod, his voice coming out refined and measured, the polished tone of a man used to holding court.
"Your presence is noted, servant of Ziva," he said. "The taxes will be received in due course. You may wait within while we verify the ledgers."
Adrian stayed where he was, the afternoon sun warm on his back. The soldiers behind him stayed mounted and quiet, the whole yard still watching the exchange.
Adrian kept his head slightly lowered after the bow.
"How does Lord Ziva allow a lowly servant to attend in his place?" Baron Devon asked, voice smooth with a teasing bite. "Surely he does not respect me enough to attend himself."
Adrian raised his head.
"My lord could not attend," he said. "Circumstances I am not qualified to speak on."
The word lord felt odd coming out. He had never called Archer that before.
'Just get through this,' he thought.
Baron Devon kept his eyes on him, every word aimed straight at Adrian.
"Convenient circumstances," the baron said. "One might almost think he sends his dogs to do the work of men."
A guard nearby shifted his weight and muttered to the man beside him, "Ziva's sending servants now?"
Adrian stayed quiet, face calm. He caught the jab but didn't rise to it.
"Baron," he said, "might I trouble you for the documents that confirm the taxes have been delivered? So I may return with proof of my lord's instructions… without incident."
The last part came out quiet, carrying a faint edge. Baron Devon's gaze flicked over him. He noticed it then — almost no mana around Adrian. Barely anything at all. Strange for someone sent on this kind of errand. The baron let it pass for now.
"Follow me," Baron Devon said after a short pause.
Adrian gave a small nod and followed.
They crossed the courtyard. Workers moved around them with heads down. Every neck carried the same clean brand pressed into the skin.
A maid hurried through the main doors ahead, arms full. She didn't see Adrian and bumped lightly into his side.
"Sorry, sir," she said fast, stepping back. The brand on her neck showed clear as she bowed.
Adrian nodded once.
"It's fine. Keep moving."
The maid hurried off, face red. Baron Devon kept walking without looking back.
They stepped through the tall doors into the entrance hall. Sunlight came down from high windows onto polished stone floors. Servants moved along the walls, voices low.
One older servant polishing a rail glanced over as they passed and whispered to the woman next to him, "New one from Ziva. Stares at the marks."
Baron Devon led the way up the wide staircase. The steps felt solid underfoot. Halfway up, Adrian spotted a small child carrying a bucket. The boy looked thin, clothes hanging loose. The same brand marked his neck.
Adrian looked away quick.
Before he could think much more, Baron Devon reached back and clapped a light hand on his shoulder, the touch easy like they were friends.
"Relax, servant," the baron said. "You look like you've seen a ghost. The marks are simply order. Nothing more."
Adrian kept his face steady. A quick flash of frustration crossed it anyway.
They reached the top of the stairs and turned left. The hallway was short. A single door waited at the end, covered in carvings that caught the light.
Baron Devon reached for the handle. The door swung open.
Inside, the room smelled of old paper and wax. A large desk sat near the window with ledgers already out. Two servants waited by the wall, heads lowered, necks showing the brands.
The baron stepped in first and waved toward the desk.
"Bring the receipt ledger," he told one of the servants.
The servant moved fast, setting the heavy book down. Baron Devon flipped it open, pages rustling.
"Sign here once the count is verified," he said, tapping the line. "And try not to waste more of my time than necessary."
Adrian stopped a couple of paces from the desk and looked around the room once.
'Get the paper and leave,' he thought. 'That's all.'
Footsteps echoed behind Adrian.
A woman entered the room, her presence filling the space. Her dress moved like liquid silk. Hair the color of rich mahogany fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were black, sharp but warm.
"I am Baroness Trinity Vein," she said, voice carrying quiet authority.
Adrian bent at the waist and took her fingers lightly. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand.
"Trinity… Madame," he said, voice smooth. "The instant my gaze met yours, I felt the weight of three miracles entwined in a single form. You make elegance seem as natural as breathing."
He straightened and glanced toward Baron Devon.
"Truly, your husband counts himself among the fortunate," he added, "for none could claim a companion of such radiant grace."
A small laugh tried to rise in his chest. He kept it down.
'This is ridiculous,' he thought.
Baroness Trinity watched him for a moment, curious. Baron Devon's eyes narrowed.
One of the servants by the wall whispered to the other, "He talks like he belongs here."
The baroness gave a small nod and left the room. The door clicked shut behind her.
Before Adrian could turn fully, Baron Devon's fist caught him hard across the face. Pain exploded. Blood poured from his nose and lips.
Adrian cupped his hands quickly to catch it all, not letting a single drop hit the floor.
"No man touches my wife with words or actions meant for jest," Baron Devon said, voice low.
He walked back to the desk and picked up the confirmation note.
Adrian stayed calm, blood pooling in his palms.
"My apologies," he said softly.
He looked at the floor.
"I would not soil the floors of your estate with the blood of a lowly servant."
The hand wraps began to glow faintly. Purple flames suddenly rose from the cloth. The fire scorched the blood in his hands, turning it to vapor in seconds. The flames licked across his face too, healing the split lip and fading the bruise like it had never happened.
Baron Devon froze. He had seen almost no mana on the young man earlier. Now this.
The baron stared, then shook the thought away.
'A servant with no visible mana…' he thought. 'Even if he has some trick, he is no threat.'
Adrian took the note from the desk without another word.
Outside the room, the moment the door closed behind him, the calm mask dropped. His jaw tightened hard. Veins stood out along his throat. All the months of holding back, all the stupid rules and power games of this world, boiled up at once.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started down the hallway.
One of the branded slaves sweeping the floor looked up as he passed.
"You alright?" the man asked quietly.
Adrian didn't stop.
"Fine," he muttered.
He kept walking, the note clutched tight in his fist. The weight of the estate pressed in around him — polished floors, branded necks, the quiet order built on broken people.
'This place runs on slaves,' he thought. 'And they call it strength.'
The carriage waited in the courtyard below. His escort soldiers stood ready, faces blank. The scarred veteran glanced at Adrian's expression but said nothing.
Adrian climbed back into the carriage without a word. The door shut behind him. The wheels started turning again, carrying him away from Baron Devon Vein's lands and back toward Archer's crumbling estate.
The carriage kept moving. The road turned rougher once they left the baron's lands. Dust rose behind them. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in dull orange and long shadows. Hours dragged by. The air grew cooler as evening settled in.
Finally the familiar shape of Archer's estate came into view. The gates stood open. Banners moved slightly in the light breeze. The place looked the same — worn, quiet, barely held together.
A soldier from the escort stepped up to the carriage door. He opened it carefully, like he was worried about setting something off.
Adrian stirred and stepped out. His eyes scanned the old building, the creaking walls, the dust along the edges.
'Baron Devon has drawn his last breath in this world,' he thought.
The words sat heavy and cold in his mind.