The decision to divert their course for Baron Gentlewell's estate hummed with fresh urgency and resolve. What had begun as a flight from the Northern Checkpoint now transformed into something unfamiliar—a strategic maneuver. Wyon Ashworth, who had been sullen and withdrawn since the checkpoint incident, suddenly straightened in his saddle as if electrified by Rhyse's proposition. His aristocratic bearing returned as flakes of dried mud fell from his riding leathers with each spirited gesture.
"Lord Rhyse," Wyon said, driving his own horse forward to take point, "I know every deer track between here and Gentlewell's lands!"
Their small company splintered from the graveled merchant roads within hours, guided by Wyon's intimate knowledge of fragmented game trails and disused logging paths. The moorland ponies proved their mettle as they ascended narrow ridges where jagged slate formations jutted from the earth like broken teeth. Steadfast moved with mechanical precision, distributing his weight so carefully that Rhyse barely felt the jarring transitions from scree to spongy peat moss. Storm Mettle's muscles bunched like coiled springs beneath Vance's expert hands as they navigated treacherous inclines, the dun gelding snorting steam into the crisp upland air.
Only Shadowkin seemed to revel in the challenge—the little black mare's ears swiveled like radar dishes as she danced sideways to avoid sinkholes concealed beneath heather blossoms, her wicked intelligence evident in every calculated footfall.
The land itself conspired to accelerate their passage. Late summer winds howling down from the glacier-carved valleys at their backs lent unnatural speed to their progress, pressing them forward like leaves caught in a millrace. Wyon's shortcut through an abandoned quarry saved nearly four hours by dusk—the ponies' iron-shod hooves striking sparks from forgotten dwarf-cut paving stones as they thundered through the echoing ravine.
As shadows lengthened across the high moors, Rhyse realized that Wyon's aggressive pacing had indeed halved their estimated travel time. The animals pulsed with exhaustion-generated heat when they finally slowed, nostrils flaring as they caught the distant scent of woodsmoke and tilled earth from Gentlewell's domain.
Rhyse, despite the pressing five-day limit on the [Cleansing of the North Gate] Quest, found satisfaction in this new, active approach. He was no longer just reacting to threats; he was beginning to shape events, however small his initial moves might be. The Synkar Network funds felt less like an abstract inheritance and more like a tangible arsenal waiting to be deployed.
It was late afternoon on their day of hard riding from the Northern Checkpoint when the Gentlewell estate came into view – a sturdy, well-maintained keep surrounded by fertile farmlands and a prosperous-looking village. The Gentlewell banner, a silver hawk on a field of green, fluttered proudly from the battlements.
"Baron Gentlewell keeps a good watch and a strong hand on his lands," Wyon remarked, a note of respect in his voice. "He and my father have stood together on many matters concerning the northern territories. He will listen."
At the main gate of the keep, Wyon, despite his travel-stained appearance, announced himself with the confidence of his noble birth. "Wyon of House Ashworth, requesting an immediate audience with Baron Gentlewell on a matter of grave urgency concerning House Synkar and the integrity of the Northern Marches!"
The guards, recognizing the Ashworth name and Wyon's earnest demeanor, quickly dispatched a messenger. The wait was short, but Rhyse felt the tension coiling in his gut. So much hinged on Gentlewell's support.
They were ushered not into the main audience hall, but into a slightly less formal solar, comfortably furnished with tapestries depicting hunting scenes and sturdy oak furniture. A young woman rose to greet them as the steward announced their names. She was perhaps a year or two older than Wyon, tall and athletically built, her practical riding attire unable to fully conceal her noble bearing. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple but elegant braid, and her eyes, a striking shade of hazel, held a sharp, appraising intelligence. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and her hands looked capable, not those of a sheltered lady.
"Wyon Ashworth," she said, her voice clear and carrying a hint of amused exasperation. "Still barging into keeps unannounced and demanding the world, are we? Some things never change." A small, almost challenging smile played on her lips.
Wyon flushed slightly. "Lady Linyive Gentlewell! It is… good to see you. I had hoped to speak with your father, the Baron." He quickly made introductions: "Lady Linyive, may I present Master Elian, a loremaster of some repute, and his associates, Master Vance, Mistress Flint, and Master Bellweather."
Rhyse and his team offered polite bows, maintaining their cover. Lady Linyive Gentlewell. Rhyse's mind immediately cataloged the name. He hadn't seen her before. Her "tomboyish" looks was clear; there was an air of no-nonsense capability about her. He subtly activated his Rapid Assessment skill.
[Activating Skill: Rapid Assessment (Personnel - Rank 1). Target: Linyive Gentlewell. Cost: 400 Gold Sovereigns.]
[Assessment Complete: Target - Lady Linyive Gentlewell. Rank 2 Blade-Dancer (Potential)/Noble Scion. Attributes: Agility (High), Swordsmanship (Proficient - Unconventional), Charisma (High - Assertive), Integrity (High). Temperament: Spirited, Direct. Loyalty (House Gentlewell): Absolute. Loyalty (House Synkar): Neutral (Traditional Fealty). Potential Complications: Impatient with perceived incompetence, Fiercely protective of her House's honor. Known Relationship: Childhood Rival/Friend - Wyon Ashworth.]
A Blade-Dancer. Interesting. And a "feud" with Wyon. This could be complicated or an advantage.
"My father is unfortunately not in the residence, Master Ashworth," Lady Linyive said, her gaze sweeping over Rhyse's party with keen scrutiny. "He departed for Skyfang Citadel a sennight ago, summoned by His Majesty King Valbrand for consultations regarding the upcoming Ducal Conclave." Her eyes then settled on Wyon. "Which makes your 'grave urgency' all the more intriguing. What trouble have you stirred up now, Wyon, that requires my father's immediate attention?"
Wyon looked taken aback. "The Baron is in Skyfang? By the Maps… this complicates matters." He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. "Linyive, this is serious." He used her first name, a sign of their past familiarity despite the current formality. "The Northern Checkpoint. It's a nest of corruption. They're bleeding travelers dry, shaming the Synkar name, and lining their own pockets under the guise of official tariffs."
He quickly recounted his own experience, his voice laced with indignation, carefully omitting Rhyse's initial, direct intervention beyond "these good people aided my escape when things turned ugly."
Lady Linyive listened intently as Wyon spoke, her initial mocking smile fading into a thoughtful frown that deepened between her brows. The playful glint in her hazel eyes hardened into something sharper—like sunlight catching the edge of a whetted blade. She absently brushed the lingering smudge of dirt from her cheek with the back of one calloused hand, a gesture born more of habit than vanity.
"The North Gate," she murmured, her voice taking on a clipped, deliberate cadence as she paced before the room's largest hunting tapestry—one depicting Gentlewell hawks bringing down a stag twice their size. "We've tracked the rumors for months. Merchant caravans diverted from our lands citing 'excessive tolls,' villagers whispering of 'lost' cargo. Father intended to bring formal grievance before the Ducal Magistratum—until the King's seal arrived."
She turned sharply, "Don't mistake me, Wyon. Hearing complaints is one thing. Challenging a fortified Synkar checkpoint?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "Even if their standards rot like month-old venison, those are still Synkar colors they're shaming. And colors have weight."
The firelight caught the silver hawk embroidered on her own green surcoat as she leaned forward. "But the real viper in this nest? That count they answer to. My father didn't ride to Skyfang just for protocol." Her voice dropped, taking on the cadence of someone repeating a lesson drilled into her since childhood. "Gentlewell doesn't draw steel unless we know whose blood will spill—and how deep the cut needs to be."
Wyon's hand clenched into a fist, his eyes blazing with indignant fury.
"Those aren't just toll collectors—they're brigands hiding behind Synkar banners!" His voice rang with conviction, righteous anger lending his words an edge that cut through the solar's heavy tension. "They strangle honest merchants with false taxes, pocket coin meant for ducal coffers, and dare call it law!"
He turned sharply, gesturing toward Rhyse. "And Lord Rhyse here intends to rip that rot from its roots. He won't stand idle while silk-wrapped jackals tarnish his House's name and bleed these lands dry." Wyon's gauntlet creaked as his grip tightened, the steel reinforcing his fist gleaming faintly in the firelight.
The challenge in his tone was unmistakable: a dare for Linyive to measure the weight of her father's caution against the chance to strike a true blow against the corruption festering on her doorstep.
Lady Linyive's sharp gaze fixed on Rhyse. "Lord Rhyse? Forgive me, 'Master Elian,' but the only Lord Rhyse I am aware of is the young Heir of House Synkar. And he is… well, not typically found wandering the moors with such a… robust retinue." There was a challenge in her eyes.
Rhyse met her gaze with a quiet intensity that belied his youthful features. The flickering firelight cast deep shadows across his face as he weighed the moment—one breath drawn between the delicate dance of deception and decisive truth.
With deliberate motion, Rhyse withdrew the lesser Synkar signet ring from an inner pocket. The silver band gleamed dully against his palm, the engraved symbol of his House catching the light in brief flashes, as if awakening from slumber.
"I am indeed Rhyse Synkar," he confirmed, his voice measured yet edged with the unshakable certainty of lineage. No stammer, no hesitation—just the quiet declaration of someone who had long since accepted that survival demanded shedding falsehoods when circumstances required steel, not subterfuge.
His fingers curled slightly around the signet before releasing it, letting the weight of its implication settle between them. "The situation at the North Gate is not merely corruption," he continued, speaking with the clipped precision of someone who had rehearsed these words in the privacy of his thoughts. "It's a festering wound on my House's honor—one that spreads poison not just through Synkar lands, but through every trade route, every village, every vassal sworn to uphold justice beneath our banners."
His eyes flicked toward Wyon briefly, acknowledging the fiery conviction that had kindled this confrontation. "Master Ashworth has witnessed it firsthand," Rhyse said, shifting his attention back to Linyive with an unwavering focus. "And he has pledged his father's support in setting things right. I had hoped…" A fractional pause, a controlled breath. "We had hoped Baron Gentlewell might see the value in lending his strength to the same cause."
There it was—appeal and challenge intertwined. A lord's request, wrapped in the unspoken question: Whose side are you on? The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring before the arrow's release.
Linyive Gentlewell stared at the signet, then back at Rhyse, a mixture of shock and intense curiosity in her hazel eyes. "Lord Synkar, here? This is unexpected." She paced a few steps. "To take on the North Gate garrison would not be easy. They know what awaits if they are tasked with corruption, and they are numerous, even if lax. And it's not just them you'd be fighting, my lord."
"Explain," Rhyse said.
"The checkpoint falls under the administrative oversight of Count Renard Cairil," Linyive stated, her tone serious. "A man whose ambition is as vast as his lands, and whose loyalty to the Crown often outweighs his fealty to House Synkar, especially when profit is involved. He has… arrangements with the North Gate's command structure. Any disruption there will be seen as a direct challenge to him. My father, Baron Gentlewell, and Wyon's father, Baron Ashworth, are both technically vassals to Count Cairil before their ultimate loyalty to you, Lord Synkar. Moving against the North Gate without considering House Cairil is unwise."
Rhyse's mind processed this new complication. A Count involved. This "Cleansing" Quest was becoming more intricate by the minute. "Count Cairil profits from this extortion?"
"It is widely believed so, though never proven," Linyive admitted. "He provides a certain 'autonomy' to the checkpoint command in exchange for a significant share of their unofficial revenue. Challenging the North Gate means challenging Cairil's purse, and potentially his authority. My father would hesitate to act against a direct superior like Count Cairil without explicit Ducal command from you, Lord Rhyse, and even then, he would anticipate significant political fallout."
"No matter what, I have decided to cleanse that checkpoint," Rhyse stated, his voice firm. The System Quest had penalties for failure he could not ignore, "I am prepared to deal with any fallout from Count Cairil, Lady Linyive. My authority as acting Head of House Synkar gives me the right to investigate and rectify corruption within my own Duchys. Baron Ashworth's support is pledged. What of House Gentlewell?"
From what he knew, Baron Gentlewell only had a single daughter, whom he dotted upon. In the absence of the Baron Linyive would most likely be the one to decide.
Linyive bit her lip, her earlier challenging demeanor replaced by a troubled thoughtfulness. "My lord, I believe in what you're trying to do. This corruption is a stain. But my father took the core of our household guard with him to Skyfang. We have a garrison for the keep, and local militia, but our offensive capability is far from enough. I can perhaps muster thirty, maybe forty, truly reliable fighting men not essential for our immediate defense. And they would be fighting Synkar Guard, men who wear your family's magitech, however tarnished their actions might be."
Thirty to forty men—even with the promised—but unlikely immediate—support of Ashworth's two hundred, amounted to little more than a pittance against the reinforced granite walls and steeled gates of the corrupted checkpoint. Rhyse's calculated the grim odds.
Each checkpoint guard, though lesser trained than the Core Guard elite likes of Bellweather and Flint, still bore the finest magitech equipment the Synkar could produce A single such warrior could easily cut down two, perhaps three, ordinary fighters before breaking stride.
And waiting behind them loomed the specter of Count Cairil's personal retinue—professional soldiers. Their arrival would transform what might begin as a surgical strike into a butcher's festival of clashing steel and spilled entrails. The numbers painted an ugly picture: a massacre in the making unless they found some way to tip the scales dramatically in their favor.
"If they don't surrender, it would be a bloody affair, my lord, with Synkar fighting Synkar," Linyive continued. "And if Count Cairil chose to intervene directly with his own forces…"
Rhyse saw the problem. A direct military assault, even if successful, could escalate into a regional conflict, something he desperately wanted to avoid while still under the shadow of the Royal Summons and Duke Regulus.
"Is there no other way to bolster our forces, Lady Linyive?" Rhyse asked. "Beyond those forty men?"
Linyive tapped her chin thoughtfully. Her eyes suddenly glinted with a familiar, almost mischievous light that Rhyse recognized from his cousin Livia – a spark of cunning. "The town of Northgate Haven lies just outside the checkpoint, my lord. It thrives on the checkpoint's traffic, both legitimate and… less so. It's a rough place, but full of opportunity for those who know how to navigate it. Including adventurers and mercenaries."
Rhyse looked at her, a new plan beginning to form, one that might fit the tight timeline. "Are you suggesting, Lady Linyive," he asked, a ghost of a smile playing on his own lips, "that we hire mercenaries and adventurers to make up for our numbers?"
Linyive's smile widened. "Every border town has its share of skilled opportunists, my lord. Adventurers, down-on-their-luck mercenaries, individuals with flexible loyalties looking for the right price. With my father away, our official troop numbers are limited. But I have some contacts that might act. For a good cause, and a good sum of coin."
The system, as if approving of her suggestion, chimed in:
[System Quest Update: The Cleansing of the North Gate - New Approach Suggested: Hire local assets to increase the number of troops.]
[New Task Available: Recruit Temporary Mercenary/Adventurer Support (Northgate Haven). Reward: Temporary Manpower, Reduced Risk to Core Team, Passive Skill: basic Leadership Aura (Rank 1), System Skill: Summon Basic Combat Golem (Rank 2).]