If there was anything about the town of Valewatch that could ease Gwayne's disappointment and let him catch a fleeting glimpse of that old-world, medieval charm he'd half-expected from this otherworldly realm, it was only the "noble quarter" north of Valewatch's town center.
A few broad streets and a stout wall separated this enclave from the teeming, squalid poor districts. Here, the respectable folk lived in relative cleanliness and order.
Graceful two-story townhouses lined the streets, built from pale gray stone and fragrant cedarwood. Balconies stretched from the second floors, draped with drying fish and strips of salted meat—symbols of modest wealth.
Valewatch was, at best, a large town rather than a true city, but those who lived here proudly called themselves citizens—men and women of standing who paid their taxes, owned land, and worked respectable trades, be it as farm stewards or overseers of the mines.
Today, as on any other day, these citizens stood on their balconies, discussing the latest news over the backdrop of drying meat and salted fish. In peaceful times, any hint of excitement was cause for endless talk—and nothing had stirred them quite like the disaster that had befallen the neighboring Seawright Domain.
Valewatch and its surroundings were the fief of Viscount Andrew, and though the fertile lands of Seawright and Valewatch were separated by stretches of wilderness, an official road still connected the two. Thus, even in this slow-moving world, the news had traveled fast: Refugees, led by a battered knight and a handful of soldiers, had arrived in Valewatch. They spoke of Seawright being overrun by monsters and elemental storms, utterly destroyed.
At first, the townsfolk scoffed. Such tales sounded like the nonsense spun by wandering minstrels. Yet when the ragged refugees arrived, and Viscount Andrew ordered stricter curfews and more patrols, even the naysayers fell silent.
The story of House Seawright's fall became not just tavern gossip, but a grim and serious topic, debated over pickled meats and rough wine.
And while the noble citizens chattered about how the "decline of House Seawright" had finally reached its pathetic end, the last scions of that ancient house were, at that very moment, passing through the noble quarter, crossing the square before the church, and stepping into Viscount Andrew's grand keep.
No matter how poor the peasants might be, the viscount's own estate was rich and gleaming. Compared to House Seawright's battered old keep, this castle was nothing short of luxurious. Thanks to fertile lands, lucrative mines, and careful hoarding, Viscount Andrew had raised a home that put many high lords to shame.
After presenting themselves and explaining their purpose, Gwayne and his party were led into a bright, spacious receiving hall. They sat at a long table of polished redwood, sipping cautiously from silver tea sets under the gaze of attentive servants, awaiting their host.
Yet as Gwayne sat back in his velvet chair, eyeing the gleam of silver, he could not help but think of the tattered peasants outside, or the stench of the crowded alleys they had passed through. His heart tightened. For all its swords and magic, this world was no shining utopia.
"Ancestor," whispered Rebecca, nudging his arm nervously, "how shall we introduce you?"
"Exactly as we discussed," Gwayne answered smoothly. "Here, it's better to be bold than timid."
Hestia, sitting nearby, leaned close and tilted her head meaningfully toward another figure across the table. "Ancestor, are you sure she should... be here?"
Opposite Gwayne sat Amber, the half-elf rogue. She was currently conducting a 'detailed study' of the tableware by methodically stuffing it into her pockets.
Two teacups, three spoons, a silver tray, a nutcracker, a pair of wine goblets, and the butler's monocle—Amber had, in the blink of an eye, pilfered half the room's loose valuables.
Gwayne nearly gagged. He instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword, silently thankful that when she'd robbed his grave, she hadn't been quite so thorough.
"Amber!" Gwayne barked.
The half-elf squeaked, and with an innocent smile, she sheepishly emptied her loot back onto the table.
"She's a critical witness to my... revival," Gwayne said dryly, forcing himself to remain composed. "Besides, would you really prefer her running loose, unsupervised?"
Hestia thought about it for half a second and nodded solemnly.
It was then that Viscount Andrew finally arrived.
The great oak doors swung open. A tall, lean man entered, dressed in a sharply tailored black coat. His hair, slicked back with oil, clung tightly to his scalp. Two immaculate moustaches framed his mouth, and his pale face bore the flush of a man who'd dabbled a little too deeply in alchemic 'enhancers.' It was a common sight among nobles lacking the talent for sword or sorcery—they sought transcendence through potions, and wore their sickly complexions like a badge of honor.
In that regard, the struggling Seawright heirs, who stubbornly hammered away at swordplay and spellcraft without magical shortcuts, were practically relics.
"Ah! Lady Hestia, Lady Rebecca—your beauty outshines even the dire news from the south!" Viscount Andrew declared in a sonorous, theatrical voice, spreading his arms in welcome. "Forgive my tardiness! I have been overwhelmed arranging patrols and fortifications—my people tremble at every rumor from Seawright."
Gwayne shivered involuntarily. "Gods," he muttered to Rebecca, "do all nobles talk like they're starring in a bad opera now?"
Rebecca whispered back, "Weren't they like this in your day?"
"In my day," Gwayne growled, "we sorted things out by getting drunk, calling each other magnificent bastards, and then hammering out agreements between drinking contests."
"...Sounds different," Rebecca admitted.
"It was different," Gwayne sighed.
Meanwhile, Hestia rose smoothly to her feet, shooting a glare at the daydreaming Rebecca, and took the lead in the conversation. "Viscount Andrew, thank you for your hospitality. I must remind you, however: Rebecca is no mere lady. She is now the rightful heiress of the Seawright title."
Rebecca jolted upright, clumsily returning a noble's bow. "Thank you for receiving us, Viscount."
Viscount Andrew adjusted his manner slightly. "Of course, Viscountess Seawright," he said, more formally this time. "The tragedy that befell your house is grievous, but I am relieved your bloodline endures."
What followed was an exhausting ritual of polite words and meaningless condolences.
Finally, Rebecca cut to the heart of the matter. "Before the fall of the keep, Sir Philip led a detachment to evacuate our people. By the Founders' Law, they should now be under your protection. Might I ask their condition?"
"Of course," Andrew replied smoothly. "Ser Philip was gravely wounded, but he is recovering under the care of the Church of Sacred Light. Your loyal soldiers and the displaced folk have been housed in the eastern and southern quarters. No one has died of hunger or exposure under my watch."
This was true generosity—though Gwayne also understood the price: Every Seawright refugee Andrew had sheltered was now a debt hanging over Rebecca's head. By the laws Gwayne himself had helped draft centuries ago, hospitality must be repaid. Generously.
Rebecca paled visibly.
She stole a glance at Gwayne, thoughts racing.
Maybe... maybe if she pawned off her old ancestor's very valuable sword and armor...?
Gwayne caught her look and sighed deeply.