Gwayne had not hurried the procession through the streets.
He could easily guess that the stewards sent ahead would need time to hastily prepare Crown Street No. 4 for its long-absent master. He had no desire to embarrass those merely carrying out orders. Even so, despite leading his company on a slow, meandering tour through Solis Ardent's grand avenues, by the time they reached the estate, the servants were already running frantically to and fro, their faces slick with sweat.
Still, the work was mostly done.
A tall, gaunt man with powdered white hair and a black cravat stepped forward from the gates. He bowed deeply before Gwayne's horse.
"My lord," the man intoned respectfully, "your manor has been made ready. I am James Blane, currently tasked with overseeing this property. While you reside in Solis Ardent, I shall have the honor of serving you as steward."
"Blane..." Gwayne mused aloud, sifting through the inherited memories. A smile touched his lips. "Ah, yes. Olly Blane—he was a page to High King Charles himself. I recall Charles personally gave him the Blane name."
James Blane blinked in astonishment.
To speak casually of a figure whose name was revered in history… only one who had truly lived that history could do so.
"Indeed, my lord," James said, his voice slightly shaky. "Olly Blane is our honored ancestor. Our family has served the royal household across the generations. All Crown properties within Solis Ardent have long been managed by Blane descendants."
Gwayne chuckled.
"I see, so this house belongs to the Crown now?"
James paled instantly—the conversation felt like the social equivalent of having your cringiest teenage poetry read aloud to a crowded court.
Fortunately, Gwayne only meant it as a joke. He waved the matter aside.
"No need to wear yourselves out over this. I won't be staying long."
James straightened, forcing himself back into formality.
"I have been commanded to serve you diligently, my lord. Preparing your home is our honor and duty."
"Then perhaps," Gwayne said dryly, "you could start by clearing out the ticket sellers and tour guides at the front gate?"
"...Pardon?"
Sigh. Cultural jokes don't translate well.
Losing interest, Gwayne swung himself down from his horse, tossing the reins to a waiting page, and led his retinue—including his Nth-generation granddaughter and their small company—into the ancient manor.
Though seven centuries had passed, the old estate stood nearly as he remembered. As Gwayne had suspected, much of the original material had surely long since decayed—even magic couldn't defy time forever—but the caretakers had rebuilt faithfully, preserving every detail.
He didn't mind. He wasn't truly Gwayne Seawright, after all.
They crossed a small garden and inner courtyard, then passed through a short corridor into the main hall.
Crown Street No. 4 was modest compared to modern standards. Even minor nobles nowadays could afford mansions twice its size. As Amber, perched on a bannister, muttered under her breath:
"...This is it? I thought it'd be way grander."
"It was built seven hundred years ago," Gwayne replied, casting her a sidelong glance. "Back then, the Silver Citadel was only a little bigger than this place."
"I think it's wonderful," Rebecca said softly. "The castle I live in... apart from the foundations, it's probably not even as well-built as this."
Amber rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, well, your family pretty much sold the furniture to keep the lights on."
Before Rebecca could conjure a retaliatory fireball, Gwayne reached out and pressed down on both girls' heads at once.
"No fireballs in the house," he said sternly. "And you, Amber—stop thinking just because you're good at running you're invincible. The day you meet a true master of the shadows, you'll regret it."
After assigning Ser Byron and the soldiers to quarters and sending Betty off to the kitchens (where at last her beloved frying pan could find purpose), Gwayne wandered slowly around the main hall.
"So much... still here," he murmured.
Memories, vivid and immediate, unfurled in his mind, overlaying the room around him. Even if much of it had been replaced or restored, the aura was unmistakable.
Rebecca followed at his heels, wide-eyed, her emotions a tangle of awe and sadness.
For the first time, she was seeing the home of her ancestor—the greatest of the Founders, the legendary Grand Duke of the Southlands. Here were objects she had only ever read about in dusty old records.
Her gaze landed on a battle axe hanging proudly on the wall.
"That one," Gwayne said casually, following her gaze, "I won off Charles himself in a sparring match. Nothing magical—just a dwarven forge axe. Strange little folk—barely waist-high, but strong enough to swing that brute of a weapon like it weighed nothing."
"Charles?" Rebecca blinked. "As in... High King Charles? The First?"
"That Charles, yes," Gwayne said, laughing. "We didn't call him 'First' back then. He was just Charlie. A jovial man. Terrible taste in architects, though."
It was a little intoxicating—speaking of history from the first person. But Gwayne knew he needed the practice. For the foreseeable future, he was Gwayne Seawright. The role would open doors that nothing else could.
Meanwhile, Amber, utterly uninterested in ancient histories, had finished casing the room for valuables. After deciding it wasn't worth the risk to steal from an ancient war hero who was standing right there, she flopped onto a sofa, swinging her legs and sighing loudly.
"So let me guess," she said. "You dragged me here because you plan to pack up all the good stuff and smuggle it out? Gotta restore the Seawright fortune somehow, right?"
Gwayne gave her a withering look.
"Where do you get these ideas?"
Amber grinned. "Hey, makes sense. If you need help, I'm your girl. Give me three trips 'to buy groceries' and I could clean this place out."
Truly, she was a rare breed—a thief so shameless she openly offered to burgle her patron's house while he watched.
From disgrace to profession to race—Amber was an overachiever of dishonor.
"No thanks," Gwayne said dryly. "If I really wanted anything, I wouldn't need a pickpocket to help me. Francis II might be a fool, but he's not stupid enough to quibble over a few heirlooms."
Amber shrugged.
"Yeah, guess so. Nothing here's really worth much anyway. The axe is real, though... unlike that fake flower vase by the entrance."
Gwayne blinked. Had she already appraised the entire house in the time it took him to circle the room twice?!
"If you used that talent for anything useful," he muttered, "you might actually be impressive."
Amber swung her legs faster, then asked:
"Seriously though, why did you drag me along? I'm not a knight, I'm not a soldier—I'm just a petty thief."
"First," Gwayne said, holding up a finger, "you dug up my grave. Legally, that's a hanging offense. I let you go free. You owe me."
He raised a second finger.
"Second, I do need you. Not to steal—but because of your skill in stealth. This is Solis Ardent. Who knows how many eyes are watching us? Byron's a good man, but he only knows how to charge a battlefield. Rebecca's only good for tossing fireballs. And I... haven't fully recovered my strength yet. I need you, Amber—a master of shadows."
His voice, serious now, caught Amber off guard.
No noble had ever spoken to her like that—let alone the legendary Gwayne Seawright.
For a second, the half-elf just gaped.
Then she turned her face away quickly, trying to hide a blush.
"...Fine," she muttered. "I'll help. B-But... but you have to say those nice things again—'master of shadows,' 'skilled artisan,' all that! Twice more! No charge!"
Gwayne turned to Rebecca.
"You think you can fire off a fireball just hot enough to singe her face without killing her?"
Amber: "...?!"
Before any fireballs were launched, the steward reappeared.
James Blane bowed low.
"My lord, you have a visitor. Crown Prince Edmund of Solis Ardent has come to call."