The innkeeper was delighted. Most of the common folk, those with no drop of noble blood to their name, gathered their cloaks and slipped into the night. Their excitement at the news was no match for the fear of appearing unworthy before a king's brother.
Burgund rose to follow them, but Macian caught him by the sleeve.
"For them," Macian murmured, "the company of the king's brother is too high. But not for you. You are of noble blood, not some frightened peasant. Sit."
Burgund hesitated, then obeyed and sank back onto the bench beside his uncle.
For a few heartbeats the inn held its breath, then singing, laughter, and the rhythmic clatter of boots and hooves swelled from outside.
The court of Prince Podus, brother to Prince Antrodus, the soon-to-be king, was approaching.
The door swung open, and to the innkeeper's delight, the only brother of Prince Antrodus stepped inside.
Podus was a tall, slender man whose quiet presence revealed little at first glance. His emerald eyes gleamed beneath the torchlight, bright with intelligence and the faintest flicker of mischief. Dark chestnut hair fell in loose waves around a face lined by thin scars, the kind earned in conflicts a man preferred not to retell.
His clothing was plain for a noble: simple earth-toned garments, well-maintained but modest. He wore them with an ease that made him seem almost approachable. To those who saw only the surface, he appeared gentle, soft-spoken, and loyal.
Macian, however, watched him with narrowed eyes.
Beneath that humble exterior lurked something colder. Podus's charm was armor, his smile a blade. Behind every friendly word lay calculation; behind every calm gesture, a man taking stock of the room, weighing dangers and advantages. Few would ever guess that the modest, soft-voiced prince was capable of weaving shadows into weapons—and of betraying a friend with a hand still warm on their shoulder.
As he stepped into The Sly Halfling, the air seemed to tighten, as if even the fire understood a new player had entered the board.
Behind Podus swept his court, a loud, laughing procession of nobles and attendants eager to drink, boast, and enjoy the comforts of the road. Their laughter filled the inn instantly, drowning the quiet murmur that had lingered moments before.
Burgund stared, struck by how gentle and unassuming the prince's brother appeared. There was nothing threatening in Podus's smile or manner. He glanced at Macian, expecting to see the same impression.
But Macian's gaze had hardened.
"Why are you so suspicious of Podus?" Burgund whispered. "He seems… charming."
Macian snorted. "Charming is the first mask of a serpent."
"A serpent?"
"Yes." Macian's voice dropped low. "His father always favored him over Antrodus. Spoiled him from the cradle. Podus learned to scheme instead of lead. He is a clever politician, too clever, but no true ruler."
Macian drank, then continued:
"The old great prince wanted Podus to inherit Gormoran, even though he was the younger. The nobles refused. They rose against it, and Antrodus became Great Prince, as he should. Now Antrodus is to wed our Queen of Lehistan."
He set his mug down with a quiet thud.
"Podus has not forgotten what he thinks was stolen from him. And now, with this marriage, he believes he has a second chance. But we know Antrodus intends for Vaidotas to lead Gormoran when the time comes."
Macian's eyes flicked to Podus, who was laughing with his entourage.
"Mark my words," he said, voice dark as gathering storm. "Podus has not come to celebrate. He has come to plot. And whatever he schemes, it will not bode well for the Queen or Antrodus."
Burgund studied Podus again, searching for the wickedness Macian saw. But all he found was warmth, courtesy, and an easy smile. Eventually he gave up and returned to his beer.
Across the room, the innkeeper bowed deeply before Podus. The prince replied politely, though an effortless authority undercut his tone.
He had just turned toward Macian and Burgund when the inn's door opened once more.
The newcomer was unlike anyone in Podus's court. Small, almost slight, with neatly combed blond hair and a trim moustache beneath a narrow nose. His deep blue eyes held a glint of courage that contradicted his modest appearance. His stature was unimposing, yet at his waist hung a golden belt marking him as a knight, and a short, elegant saber, rare in these lands.
The court fell silent.
Even the rowdiest nobles offered no jest at his height. Instead, they gave quiet, respectful nods.
Even Podus inclined his head.
The weight of the little knight's reputation entered with him.
Podus greeted him with a warm, practiced smile.
"Well, well, well! Count Aldric. What brings you so far from the capital?"
Aldric bowed lightly. "Good evening, my lord. I come on your brother's orders. I will escort you to the capital and ensure your safety."
"Well, you are most welcome," Podus said. "Please, sit."
The innkeeper rushed over with a trembling bottle of wine.
"May I bring you anything, my lord? A fine vintage, just opened!"
"No, thank you," Aldric said. "I do not drink while on duty."
He sat silently, modest yet unmistakably composed. Around them, the court returned to its chatter, quieter now, more cautious.
Podus beckoned to his herald with a subtle motion and conveyed a quiet instruction. The herald inclined his head in acknowledgment before advancing with measured grace toward Macian and Burgund.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he began, offering a courteous bow. "My lord, Podus, requests the honour of your acquaintance and inquires as to your identities."
Macian presented both his name and his coat of arms with impeccable formality, each word delivered with deliberate precision. The herald received this with a dignified nod.
"Then you are indeed of noble lineage. My lord extends to you an invitation to join him at his table."
Macian inclined his head in return. "We are most obliged, though we confess ourselves at a loss as to why so eminent a personage should take an interest in us."
The herald paid little heed to the cool restraint in his tone, merely gesturing with quiet authority for them to accompany him
Moments later, they were seated beside Podus, who studied them with polite curiosity, and something unreadable beneath it.
"Good evening, men of honor," Podus began, eyes drifting to the golden belt at Macian's waist. "I see you are knights. Forgive my curiosity, but I must know who you are and where you come from."
Macian introduced them fully, recounting their recent campaigns. Podus listened attentively, nodding.
When Macian finished, Podus sighed.
"All this," he said, "because of my nephew's poor political decision. Eight years ago he handed Viridispria to the Order as a peace offering. Now the people rebel, and the Order blames Gormoran. The child will never learn to rule."
"With all respect," Macian replied, "Prince Vaidotas acted wisely. By giving Viridispria to the Order against its inhabitants' will, he ensured rebellion. He fractured their perfect organization. It was the first step in breaking the Peacers."
For the briefest instant, no more than a flicker, Podus's pleasant smile twisted into a grimace. It was so quick that anyone blinking would have missed it. But in the next heartbeat his charming expression returned, smooth and effortless, as though nothing had happened.
He turned toward Count Aldric, who appeared deep in thought, his blue eyes unfocused.
"And what do you think, my dear friend?" Podus asked lightly.
Aldric straightened, awakened from his reverie."I agree with Sir Macian," he said calmly. "Prince Vaidotas acted wisely. The Order was wounded the moment Viridispra was thrust upon them."
This time, Podus's smile did not falter, but something in his eyes cooled, just for a moment. He clearly did not like Aldric's answer, though he hid it beneath a mask of polite amusement.
Time passed. The inn grew quiet as Podus's drunkards slipped under the tables. The smell of wine and smoke thickened the air.
At last, the door opened again.
A tall figure in a grey cloak entered, head shaved, posture straight. Everyone recognized him instantly: a wizard, a monk of the Arcanum Nebularum, whose great monastery stood here in Greyfort.
Podus rose half-heartedly.
"Well. Good evening, son of Caligor. What brings you here?"
The wizard bowed deeply. "My master wishes to know why Your Majesty chose not to remain at our headquarters, but instead stays in a place so poor, so unworthy, so inadequate for your sublimity."
The innkeeper glared, offended, but the monk's humility was sincere.
Podus rolled his eyes.
"I will decide where I stay. We wished for a lively evening, not to hear your philosophers drone about the balance of nature. Thank you."
The monk nodded.
"Then I have another question. My master asks whether Your Majesty could come to our monastery tomorrow morning, if not tonight."
"We can manage that," Podus said. "Tell Caligor we will be there tomorrow."
The monk bowed again. "Then I wish you good night, my lord."
He departed silently, his cloak trailing like smoke.
"Very well, gentlemen," Podus said with a yawn. "It grows late. Innkeeper, show me to my lodging."
Within the span of a quarter hour, the inn had fallen into a profound and almost unnatural stillness. One by one, the companions of Prince Podus succumbed to slumber-each, it seemed, claimed by an unseen hand of weariness.
All save the prince himself, and his ever-faithful herald.
In the inn's most appointed chamber, its door secured against intrusion, the two remained seated amidst the tremulous glow of candlelight. The wavering flame cast long, restless shadows across Podus's countenance, wherein strain and troubled thought were writ plain.
"What do you say, Malus… when is he expected to arrive?" the prince murmured at length, his voice scarcely rising above a breath. "What is your estimation?"
"He travels beneath the veil of night, Your Highness," the herald replied in hushed and measured tones. "It is his wish to avoid any interception by your royal brother."
At this, Podus faltered, drawing in a tight breath as unease took hold. "And if misfortune has already befallen him?" he asked, the words edged with apprehension. "What if he has been seized?"
"My lord," returned Malus with quiet assurance, "the man is possessed of no small cunning. He is well-versed in the art of eluding watchful eyes, your brother's not least among them. I cannot conceive that he would be so easily apprehended."
The prince exhaled, though the breath trembled as it left him. "Yes… yes, you speak with reason," he said, more to steady himself than from conviction. "I find my composure wanting, I have allowed unease to overtake me."
"He will come, Your Highness," Malus said, with a confidence both calm and unwavering. "He has ever proved punctual in such matters… and I see no cause why tonight should prove the exception."