The streets of Northgate Haven lay shrouded in predawn stillness, the faintest hints of pink just beginning to bleed across the eastern sky. The town's usual bustling activity – merchants setting up their stalls, servants fetching morning water from the wells, the rhythmic clang of farrier hammers from the smithy quarter – had not yet begun. Only the occasional night watchman making final rounds and a few bleary-eyed bakers stoking their ovens disturbed the quiet.
Wyon stood silhouetted against the gathering light, his stance tense and shoulders slightly hunched. Even in repose, there was something unsettled about him, his piercing gaze darting between shadows as if expecting ambush.
Rhyse and his freshly assembled company made ready to depart, the newly hired Iron Hounds mercenaries checking armor straps while the exchanging crude jests by their mounts. The contrast between the disciplined Gentlewell household guards already waiting further outside and Rhyse's patchwork force was stark enough.
Linyive had ridden out earlier, her dark braid whipping behind her as she went to rendezvous with and marshal her troops. The crisp efficiency of her departure left no doubt who commanded those forces – no flowery farewells, just a clipped "Meet us at the millstone ford" before vanishing in a spray of gravel. Her absence seemed to settle over the courtyard like a tangible thing, leaving the assembled men subtly adjusting their posture to fill the space where her authority had been.
As they left, Wyon Ashworth rode up beside Rhyse. "My lord," he began, "I've received a reply via arcane comm from my brother at Ashworth Keep. My father had already departed for his own journey to Skyfang, following the Baronial summons. My brother swears he will muster what forces he can, but without our father's direct command to levy the full household guard, he can only send a small contingent of knights. They will not arrive for at least two more days."
"Even two more days is too late," Rhyse said, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "Hopefully we won't need their power. We proceed with what we have."
Rhyse's eyes surrounded his forces, the Iron Hounds and their half-orc captain Grak leaning on a massive, two-headed axe, his expression one of greedy anticipation. The handful of independent adventurers, including the swift and silent Esabel, stood apart, their professional detachment very different to the boisterous mercenaries.
Joining them were Lady Linyive's forty household guards from Gentlewell, their green-and-silver livery crisp and disciplined, a pocket of order in the chaotic assembly. Rhyse made them ride ahead to give the semblance of a proper ducal investigative force. He looked at the force before him – nearly a hundred strong, but a disparate mix of mercenaries, adventurers, and household guards. Not the unified Synkar army he would have preferred.
They rendezvoused with Rhyse's own small party – Vance, Flint, and Bellweather – who had been scouting the road ahead. As the disparate groups merged, Grak, the half-orc mercenary captain, stomped over to Rhyse's pony, his massive frame dwarfing the young lord.
"Alright, Lordling Scholar 'Elian'," Grak rumbled, crossing his arms, a gesture mirrored by his veteran mercenaries. "We're a fine force, aye. But we're marching straight for the North Gate. That's a Synkar fortress, not some bandit camp. They have wall-mounted arcane cannons. Cannons. Their walls are warded, and their guards are equipped with Synkar steel. My hounds are brave, not stupid. So, what's the plan? A frontal assault is suicide, no matter how much gold you've paid us."
Linyive herself stood beside Rhyse, her hand resting confidently on the hilt of her dueling saber, her hazel eyes scanning the assembled troops.
Rhyse met the half-orc's gaze without flinching. A confident, almost amused smile touched his lips. "Captain Grak," he said, his voice carrying clearly, amplified by his Leadership Aura (Rank 1), "I know its defenses better than anyone here. We will not be laying siege, Captain Grak. We are going to walk right through their front gate."
He reached into his tunic and produced the lesser Synkar signet ring Valerius had given him, its silver surface catching the pale morning light. "This is a Synkar Ducal Signet. With it, I represent the will of the Duke himself. The guards outside the walls will not dare attack a party led by someone holding this. It would be high treason. Our entry will be peaceful."
Grak squinted at the ring, then at Rhyse's confident expression. "Peaceful entry, aye. But what happens inside, lad? You think they'll just bend over and beg for their heads once the gates are shut behind us?"
"That," Rhyse said, "Inside the walls", his smile fading into a look of cold resolve, "is where your contract to 'fight if things go south' comes into play. We are not launching an assault. We are conducting a formal Synkar investigation. Not all of the guards are traitors."
A wave of understanding, mixed with grudging respect, passed through Grak and the other mercenary leaders.
"A bold plan, lad," Grak admitted. "I like it."
The large, combined force reached the Northern Checkpoint an hour later. The sight of nearly a hundred armed individuals – a mix of mercenaries and Gentlewell soldiers – approaching caused immediate alarm. The massive gates remained shut, and guards scrambled atop the battlements, their magitech crossbows and cannons aimed down. Gates began to grind shut.
Rhyse, flanked by Linyive and Wyon, with Vance, Flint, and Bellweather directly behind, rode forward under a banner of parley. The portly, corrupt Sergeant Grimes appeared on the wall, his face pale.
"State your business!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
Rhyse held up the Synkar signet ring. It glowed with a faint, authoritative light. "I am Master Elian, an Investigator acting on the direct authority of the Head of House Synkar!" he declared, his voice magically amplified by a simple trinket he'd had Thorne prepare. "I have a Ducal Order, authenticated by Seneschal Valerius. Open the gates, or face charges of defying a direct ducal command!"
Earlier, the System, in response to his intent, had already processed the formal order he'd drafted mentally. [Ducal Order 004 (North Gate Audit) Generated & Transmitted to Checkpoint Command Core. Authenticated.]
On the battlements, a junior officer could be seen rushing to the checkpoint's arcane communication core terminal, his face aghast. He returned moments later, whispering frantically to Sergeant Grimes, who went from pale to ghostly white. An authenticated Ducal Order was undeniable. Defying it was treason.
The guards hesitated, confused. Inside the command spire, Captain Arvid, a man whose ambition had long outstripped his courage, would be looking at the magically authenticated Ducal Edict on his command console, his blood running cold.
"Quickly, go fetch the Captain at once!" Sergeant Grimes hissed under his breath to a trembling junior guardsman, his sausage-like fingers digging into the man's shoulder. Sweat beaded on Grimes's florid face as he turned back toward Rhyse's assembled forces, puffing his chest with false bravado. "I've verified the Ducal Order's authenticity!" he bellowed, voice cracking like rotten timber under strain. "Y-you…y-you…"
Grimes recognized him and his troupe as the lordlings who escaped earlier from the checkpoint, and he began to fear for his head.
With a groaning of gears, the massive gates began to swing open.
"They're letting us in," Rhyse said, "whether they surrender quietly or force our hand, that remains to be seen. Everyone, be ready."
As predicted, a nervous-looking Captain Arvid, the checkpoint commander, met them at the gate, flanked by a dozen of his most loyal-looking men. "Master Elian," he said, bowing stiffly, "Your authority is recognized. But for security, I can only permit you and a small honor guard of ten within the inner courtyard. Your… larger force must remain outside."
"Unacceptable," Grak began to growl, but Rhyse raised a hand.
"As expected." Rhyse inclined his head with deliberate calm, the hood of Master Elian's traveling cloak casting shadows that accentuated the sharp angles of his face. With a subtle gesture, he motioned forward only his handpicked team—Linyive's lethal grace falling into step at his right, Wyon's restless energy at his left, while Flint, Vance and Bellweather formed an armored wedge behind them. Grak, Lady Linyive and Esabel also joined. The Synkar signet ring gleamed like a watchful eye as he stepped across the threshold. "My personal retinue will suffice."
He looked back at his assembled force, and then spoke to one of Linyive's bodyguards from begore, one of the Gentlewell's captains, "Captain, hold your positions here. Maintain readiness. No one enters or leaves this checkpoint without my express permission."
He rode into the courtyard with his team of six (Vance, Flint, Bellweather, Wyon, Linyive, Grak), six of the most formidable-looking Iron Hounds and six of the elite of House Gentlewell. The moment the gate closed behind them, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew thick with tension. Dozens more guards appeared on the inner walls, their expressions a mix of fear and hostility.
Captain Arvid led them to the central administrative building, his attempts at pleasantries falling flat. "Master Elian, surely this is a misunderstanding. A simple audit will suffice. Perhaps some gold has been… misplaced. We can rectify any clerical errors."
Clerk Bodwin and Sergeant Grimes hovered nearby, sweating profusely.
"There will be no bribes, Captain Arvid," Rhyse said, his voice echoing in the stone hall. "Only justice. By the authority vested in me by this Signet of House Synkar, I demand you surrender all financial ledgers, both official and private, and relinquish command of this garrison to me for the duration of this investigation. Confine your senior staff to quarters pending a full audit."
Captain Arvid's face went slack with horror. This wasn't a shakedown; it was a takeover. He knew what a true audit would find. He knew the punishment for high-level extortion under Synkar law. Death. His head would roll.
His fear curdled into desperation. He shot a look at Grimes, at Bodwin, at his most complicit lieutenants. Their faces reflected his own terror. They were all doomed if they surrendered. If he surrendered, he would be dead. But if he took them out here, and used Count Cairil's authority to cover it up using his contacts…
"Men!" Arvid suddenly roared, drawing his sword. "This is no investigator! This is a charlatan! A boy trying to usurp the authority of our patron, Count Cairil! They mean to execute us all for minor tariffs that keep this gate running!" He pointed his sword at Rhyse. "If we stand together, Count Cairil will protect us! He will reward our loyalty! If we let this boy take command, we are all dead men! To arms! For the Count!"
The atmosphere, already tense, exploded. The checkpoint guards loyal to Arvid's corrupt network drew their weapons with desperate shouts. Those who were merely following orders looked around in confusion and fear.
Wyon stepped forward. "Do not listen to this traitor! My father, Baron Ashworth, stands with House Synkar!"
Linyive added, her voice sharp, "And House Gentlewell! Do you truly wish to shed the blood of two noble houses and defy your rightful Lord for this… thief?"
Their words swayed some, but fear of Arvid, and the promised protection of Count Cairil, held many in place.
Rhyse knew this was his moment. He stepped forward, his Leadership Aura (Rank 1) flaring with a potency that seemed to capture every eye in the room. "You wear the Synkar livery," Rhyse's voice rang out, not loud, but carrying an undeniable weight. "You took an oath to this House. That oath was to protect these lands, not to prey upon them. This man," he pointed a finger at Arvid, "and his cronies have lined their pockets while your honor rusted. They offer you the patronage of a distant Count, a man who sees you only as tools. I offer you a chance to restore your honor. To serve House Synkar as you swore you would. Lay down your arms against your rightful lord, and your past compliance will be noted with leniency. Raise them, and you will be judged as traitors alongside him."
His words, amplified by his leadership aura, struck a chord. Several guards looked at each other, then at Arvid's panicked face, and with a clatter of steel, dropped their weapons to the floor.
"Fools! Kill them!" Arvid shrieked in desperation, lunging for his own sword and ordering his most loyal cronies to attack. "Kill them all! Leave no witnesses!"
"The fool's going to fight! Iron Hounds! To arms!" Grak bellowed.
"Vance! Flint! Bellweather! Engage!" Rhyse commanded. His team, along with the six Iron Hounds and the Six Elite Gentlewells, met the charge in a clash of steel. The courtyard erupted into a full-scale battle.
"Wyon, Linyive, you two stand with me! Grak, you can go crazy!"
To their left, six grizzled Iron Hounds, Grak's elite mercenary company, let loose a discordant war cry that shook the battlements as they crashed into the enemy flank. Their mismatched armor belied deadly coordination - these were veterans who'd fought together across a dozen battlefields.
Opposite them, the six elite knights of House Gentlewell moved with aristocratic precision, their emerald-green tabards distinguishing them amid the chaos. Their polished longswords wove an intricate defensive pattern as they advanced, methodical as automatons despite the frenzied melee.
The collision of forces sent shockwaves through the courtyard. Steel shrieked against steel, war cries mingled with death rattles, and the crisp autumn air filled with the coppery stench of freshly spilled blood. Rhyse's small force became a vortex of destruction, trading ground expertly despite being outnumbered nearly three to one.
"Wyon!" Rhyse snapped, pivoting toward the young cartographer. "Linyive! Tight formation on me!"
The Gentlewell heiress didn't hesitate, her twin daggers flashing as she peeled away from the melee to take protective position at Rhyse's right flank. Wyon fell in on the left, putting Rhyse squarely between them as they created a lethal triangle of overlapping force.
Rhyse spared a single glance toward the raging half-orc currently decimating half an entire squad single-handedly. "Grak!" he shouted over the din, grinning despite himself as the berserker disemboweled another guard with reckless abandon.
Rhyse raised his customized handbow - a Synkar masterpiece with intricate sighting runes along the barrel. His first shot took a crossbowman clean through the eye as the man tried to draw a bead on Flint. His second and third buried themselves in the throat and thigh of a captain attempting to rally the wavering guards. At this point, Rhyse tried multiple times to activate the tactival overlay, in vain. Perhaps the requirements to activate the overlay weren't met yet this time.
Whenever there was danger, Rhyse would swiftly call upon the System to weave a protective layer around his companions. The instantaneous application of a Basic Ward – a shimmering, almost invisible envelope of arcane energy – enveloped Linyive and Wyon, bolstering their defenses against incoming blows. He'd discovered, during the initial chaos of the assault, that maintaining the ward required a constant trickle of gold sovereigns from the System, but the cost was negligible compared to the alternative. It had already absorbed several impacts - a glancing blow from a warhammer, a narrowly deflected crossbow bolt, even a spray of hot blood from a fallen guard – ensuring that, despite the incredibly chaotic battle unfolding around them, no one in his immediate circle suffered even a scratch. He'd begun to instinctively time the ward activations with the largest swings or loudest reports, complementing Linyive's impressive defensive footwork and Wyon's surprising agility.
Just as they seemed to be gaining the upper hand, pushing Arvid's men back towards the keep, the Captain, his face a mask of crazed desperation, slammed his gauntlet onto a large rune set into the courtyard floor. "You want this fortress, boy?! Then die with it! Activate Praetorian Protocol!"
A deep, groaning sound echoed from the fortress walls. Heavy stone panels slid aside, revealing alcoves that had been dormant for decades. From within, glowing azure light flared to life. Multiple pairs of heavy, obsidian feet slammed onto the stone courtyard.
Four Synkar Praetorian Golems, the same type that guarded the Ancestral Manor, their war-hammers humming with contained power, stepped forth, their glowing visors locking onto Rhyse and his small force.
Wyon, seeing the Grade 4 constructs, let out a string of curses. "By the Lost Maps! He activated the fortress defenses!"
[System Alert: HIGH-TIER THREAT DETECTED. Grade 4 Synkar Praetorian Golems (x4) Activated. Objective: Neutralize all unauthorized combatants in courtyard. Recalculating Threat Level... EXTREME.]
The tide of the battle had just turned, violently and irrevocably, against them.