The carriage rolled eastward for days, the Ghost Legion moving like a silent shadow across the empire. They traveled main roads only when necessary, slipping through back trails and forgotten passes at night to avoid prying eyes. But even in hiding, the war made itself known.
They passed through county after county, lands Aden had once ridden with banners flying high. Now the fields were stripped bare for winter fodder, villages swollen with refugees huddled in makeshift camps.
Long columns of supply wagons rumbled north under heavy guard: crates of arrows, barrels of salt meat, rolls of bandages stained rust-brown even before use. Makeshift forges glowed along the roadsides, smiths hammering out sword blades and spearheads day and night.
Recruitment posters peeled from tavern walls, promising glory and coin to any man who could hold a spear.
Every mile closer to Joshua County, the signs grew heavier. Burned-out farmsteads. Abandoned villages. Patrols of imperial scouts riding hard, faces grim under their helmets. Once, they crested a ridge and saw smoke rising in thick black pillars far to the north, the front lines, already eating the land.
Aden sat in silence, watching through the canvas slit. Memories rose unbidden.
Count Joshua's face, years ago, in the dim light of the count's study. The man's hands trembling as he pressed the heirloom into Aden's palms, a small rune-etched medallion, warm to the touch.
Aden still remembered the words of the Count.
"One day you may need to remember that not all debts are paid in blood. Some are paid in trust."
Now the county burned again, and he wondered if the old Count still lived. If the medallion still waited under its stone. If any trust remained.
Sylvia reached across the carriage and took his hand. He squeezed back, grateful for the warmth.
At last, on the seventh day, the land changed.
The hills grew steeper, forested with ancient black pines. The air carried the sharp bite of mountain snow and the faint ring of steel from distant training yards. Fortified watchtowers rose along the road, their banners snapping in the wind, silver wolf on black.
The border of the Vasco Dukedom.
The guards at the great stone gate saw the Ghost Legion's unfurled banner and snapped to attention. No questions. No challenge. The massive iron-bound doors swung open without a word, and the carriage rolled through.
Beyond lay the heart of the dukedom, broad valleys ringed by impregnable ridges, roads paved with dark stone, every village built like a small fortress.
The people here moved with purpose: blacksmiths, fletchers, armorers, all feeding the war machine. But the discipline was iron. No chaos. No fear in the streets. Only quiet, grim readiness.
The Grand Vasco Estate crowned the highest valley, towers of black granite rising from cliffs, walls thick enough to withstand siege engines, banners streaming silver and crimson in the cold wind.
The carriage halted in the vast outer courtyard. Ghislain dismounted and opened the door himself.
Aden stepped out first. The air hit him like a memory, pine, steel, and old stone. He pulled his hood low, wrapping a dark scarf across the lower half of his face.
Sylvia followed, Eris carried in her arms, the child's small face hidden beneath a hooded cloak of elven weave. The Legion closed ranks around them, a wall of black and silver.
They walked the long processional path toward the main manor. Servants and retainers paused in their tasks, grooms leading warhorses, maids carrying linens, guards changing shifts. Eyes turned. Whispers stirred.
Who were these cloaked figures at the heart of the Ghost Legion?
Ghislain strode ahead. At his single nod, the crowds parted with practiced synchrony. Maids stepped aside. Guards straightened. No one dared question the captain of the First Blade.
They entered the great hall of the manor, vaulted ceilings soaring three stories high, floors of polished obsidian reflecting torchlight like black mirrors.
Historic scenes lined the walls: scenes of conquest, of Lucius Vasco founding the house, of Zwalter annexing counties with fire and sword.
Halfway down the hall, Aden's steps slowed.
Above the massive hearth hung a painting larger than life, newer than the others, its colors still vivid.
It showed four figures standing together on a windswept northern ridge, the empire's banners snapping behind them.
Zwalter Vasco in his prime, massive and gray-bearded, hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword.
Beside him, Rudeus, younger, fierce-eyed, armor gleaming.
Ed Vasco in the center, tall and unyielding, the Sword of the North in all his cold glory.
And at his right hand, barely twelve, stood Aden himself, face sharp and determined, eyes burning with the same ruthless fire as his father's, the silver wolf emblazoned across his chest.
The family at its peak. Unbreakable. Terrifying.
Aden stared up at it, breath catching.
Sylvia stopped beside him. She took in the painting slowly, first the grandfather, then the brothers, then the young man who looked so much like the one standing next to her now, yet so different. Harder. Unbroken. Untouched by exile or regret.
Her green eyes shifted to Aden's hooded profile. She saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his gloved hand flexed at his side.
She said nothing, only slipped her free hand into his and held it firmly.
Aden exhaled, tore his gaze away, and kept walking.
Ghislain slowed beside them, voice low and steady.
"Welcome home, young master."
The words struck like a blade between ribs.
Aden did not answer. He only nodded once and kept walking.
They climbed the final staircase, broad marble steps worn smooth by generations of Vasco boots. At the top, massive double doors of carved oak stood closed, flanked by two silent Ghost Legion veterans.
Ghislain dismissed the escort with a gesture. The knights took positions along the hall, leaving only the three adults and the child, now stirring sleepily in Sylvia's arms.
The doors loomed ahead, the entrance to the Archduke's private wing.
Aden's heart began to pound, harder than it had in any battle he could remember.