High atop the Torrie family castle, Havinsson stood at a tower window. That warm, brilliant smile still played across his features.
But his eyes held a different light—something calculating that twisted his handsome face into something almost strange.
Several paces behind him stood a massive man in chainmail, his face hidden behind a full helm. The knight spoke with careful deference: "My lord, is it worth spending so much on a mere boy?"
Havinsson glanced back, then returned his gaze to the distant white castle on the hill. His hand emerged from where it had been hidden in his sleeve.
Between his pale, slender fingers, a small stone danced—tumbling, spinning, catching the light as he toyed with it.
"He's a genuine wizard," Havinsson said quietly. "The testing stone can't determine his exact level, but it confirms that much. And he almost certainly has a powerful master." He slipped the white detection stone back into his pocket. "A small investment, really. If it buys us the goodwill of an old and powerful wizard... the returns could be substantial."
The knight behind him muttered, still unconvinced: "But what if he has no master? What if he's lying?"
Havinsson turned fully, that brilliant smile still fixed in place. "The old monster of Black River Valley will expose whatever truth he's hiding. You just focus on your duties."
His tone hardened at the end. The knight's massive frame seemed to shrink slightly. He bowed his head.
Havinsson studied him for a moment, then waved a dismissive hand. The knight retreated. Havinsson turned back to the window, gazing at the distant castle, his expression shifting to something like puzzlement.
"Family legends say our ancestor Hailimu never truly vanished," he murmured to himself. "Perhaps she was waiting... for someone with wizard blood to finally enter that place?"
He didn't know that on the terrace of that distant castle, another figure stood watching.
Raymond's expression gave nothing away. The chip's enhanced vision let him zoom in on the Torrie castle—not enough to read lips or hear words, but enough to see the two figures at the tower window. Enough to note their postures, their movements, their interactions.
He filed the observation away and turned to more immediate concerns.
"That thing I ate at lunch," he said silently. "Analysis complete?"
The memory of that tiny feminine scream echoing from his stomach still made him queasy.
"Task complete. Analysis results:"
Data streamed across his vision. Nutritional compounds. Trace minerals. And under "Effects," the chip displayed its conclusion in stark terms: promotes blood circulation, increases masculine vitality.
Raymond winced.
His body was fourteen years old. He did not need increased masculine vitality. The evidence had been tenting his robes all afternoon, a constant embarrassing reminder.
The six young maids in the castle had noticed. Their eyes darted away when they looked at him. Sometimes, when they thought he couldn't hear, there were giggles.
He couldn't explain. He couldn't justify. And he definitely wasn't going to act on it.
He turned from the terrace and went back inside.
Havinsson's generosity troubled him.
Not the castle itself—that was extraordinary, but explainable. Not the servants, or the guards, or the laborers. Even the gold, piled in a chest in his room—five hundred coins, more than a common laborer could earn in a lifetime—was merely extravagant.
But why?
In the caravan, he'd learned the value of money. A driver earned one gold coin per year. A family of three could scrape by on half a coin annually. Five hundred coins could maintain fifty guards for a year. And Havinsson had just... given it to him.
For what? For wearing a badge?
Raymond pulled the badge from his pocket and studied it. Faint radiation, constant but low-level. Crude craftsmanship. Ordinary materials. Nothing about it explained the fear and respect it commanded.
But Haig's terror had been real. Havinsson's deference seemed genuine. The common folk's averted eyes couldn't have been faked by everyone, all the time, for weeks on end.
So the badge meant something. Wizards meant something. And that something was powerful enough to make rulers open their treasuries.
He was still turning this over when a voice interrupted.
"Master Raymond." The steward stood at his door—had he knocked? Raymond hadn't heard. "The basement chambers have been cleaned. Would you like to inspect them now?"
Raymond pocketed the badge. "Lead the way."
They descended a spiral staircase, the steward carrying an oil lamp. At the bottom, they stopped before a bronze door covered in intricate carvings. The steward bowed and withdrew, leaving behind a young maid—the one assigned to maintain this level.
Raymond pushed through the open door.
The basement was vast—two hundred square meters, easily—and blazing with light. Dozens of candles, thick as arms, lined the walls. Their placement was no accident; shadows simply didn't exist down here. Every corner, every surface, every object was fully illuminated, like an operating room under surgical lights.
He let his gaze wander.
Crystal containers. Glass jars. A mortar and pestle carved from granite. Tiny alcohol lamps. And on shelves along one wall, scattered books.
Water pipes. Drains. Basins for cleaning.
If he hadn't been looking for a microscope, he'd have called this a chemistry lab. But there was no microscope. There was something else—something about the arrangement that nagged at him.
He turned to the maid. "How often is this room opened?"
She was the prettiest of the six—dark-eyed, demure, with a hint of curiosity beneath her trained stillness. She curtsied before answering.
"Every week, my lord. It's my duty to clean it."
He nodded and sent her away.
Alone, he studied the room more carefully. The equipment. The books. The deliberate, shadowless lighting.
What was this place for?
He frowned, thinking.