He went to Kyra once he was done with Master Kerfel.
She had returned to her station in the antechamber before the Duchess's office. A modest desk stood near the wide stone fireplace, which a servant tended hourly, feeding it split logs to keep the northern chill at bay. Wax dripped steadily from a tall candle at her elbow, pooling neatly beside stacks of parchment arranged with almost obsessive precision.
Kyra stood out among the North-folk.
Her bright and unapologetically red, caught the firelight and seemed almost aflame against the muted stone walls. She dressed in the fitted dark attire of a secretary, sleeves rolled neatly to the wrist, collar buttoned high. But the cut of the fabric did not hide the athletic lines beneath. Her posture was straight without stiffness, with shoulders set as one accustomed to bearing weight, not merely ink and paper. Even seated, there was an economy to her movements that betrayed her training.
After all, St. Alfons did not produce ornaments.
It produced weapons of different kinds.
He knew for a fact that Kyra could do more than wield a pen. He now remembered the glimpses of it during their academy days, her footwork precise, her grip steady on a training blade. Flexibility was only part of it. There had been strength there and discipline.
No one at St. Alfons merely studied. Martial skill, political maneuvering, scholarship were all sharpened. He himself had leaned more toward economics and logistics. Someone had to understand coin if they wished to survive the games of nobility. And as a Free Knight whose friends are more into coin, he needed that more.
"Lady Kyra," he began, stepping toward her desk. "You seem to have neglected to mention that Ser Sullybane and Huntsman Karlos are in no condition to speak."
Her pen paused mid-stroke.
She looked up over the rim of her spectacles.
"Did you attempt to wake them?" she asked evenly. "Master Kerfel informed me they are not at death's threshold."
"They are frightened," he replied. "And fractured in spirit. Even if they possess useful information, I doubt it will emerge between screams."
A faint crease formed between her brows.
"Then you are out of leads?"
"Not yet."
He placed his palm against the edge of her desk. The wood was warm from the hearth.
"I require the addresses of both men. And I need precise directions to the Quiet Pass. The exact location where the bodies were found. I intend to examine the site myself."
Kyra's quill stopped entirely.
"Are you hearing yourself?" she asked, voice lowering. "Fifty men rode to the Quiet Pass. All Northerners. Hardened riders. And they struggled."
He snorted softly.
"You are correct. But the Duchess has tasked me with determining whether these assailants are not her people. Thus far, the evidence suggests 'others.' But we cannot discount concealment."
She watched him carefully.
"Eight of the Duke's best," he continued. "Fifty of Captain Vandal's riders. They return bloodied, without a single enemy corpse to show for it. That is either incompetence or something deliberate."
"You believe they staged it?" she asked.
"I believe it is strange," he answered plainly. "Either we are dealing with horned phantoms from icy hells or disciplined veterans who know the terrain far better than they should. Men who understand retreat. Men who understand leaving no evidence."
"You have thought this through," she observed.
"Please," he replied dryly. "I am not reckless. Merely thorough."
She leaned back slightly in her chair, studying him.
"I will provide the map," she said at last. "But I do not understand why you require the addresses of Ser Sullybane and Karlos."
"They live," he said simply. "Others do not."
Her eyes sharpened.
"You suspect them."
"I suspect everyone," he corrected. "They survived when others fell. That alone demands examination. It does not mean they are guilty. But if there is a scheme as the Duchess truly believes, then we must entertain the possibility that survivors are part of it."
Kyra's fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
"Do you truly believe they are capable of such deception?" she asked.
He shrugged faintly.
"Capability is irrelevant. Motivation is what matters. Their wounds appear real. Their nightmares are genuine. We may well be probing innocent men."
He met her gaze evenly.
"But you asked me to investigate. And I will do so properly. Eliminate the impossible. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then she nodded.
"I understand the reasoning."
She opened a drawer and withdrew a rolled map, untying the cord with deliberate care. Spreading it across the desk, she anchored the corners with small brass weights shaped like wolves' heads.
Her finger traced the familiar outline of the Argent Peaks, then slid northeast.
"Here," she said, marking a narrow break between ridgelines with a precise stroke of charcoal. "The Quiet Pass. It is unguarded most days. Accessible only by a narrow ascent through this ravine."
She circled another area further along.
"Thirty kilometers from Icy's End. This is where Captain Vandal reported finding the Duke."
Another mark, slightly beyond.
"And here, the Heir."
Her movements were exact with no hesitation.
She then reached for a smaller ledger and flipped through its pages before copying two addresses onto a scrap of parchment.
"Ser Sullybane resides here," she said, tapping the first notation. "Within the lower quarter near the smithies. Karlos the huntsman lives on the outskirts, north of the market road, near the treeline."
She handed the parchment to him.
"If you intend to question their households, do so carefully," she added. "Grief breeds suspicion quickly."
He folded the paper and slipped it inside his cloak.
"The Quiet Pass can wait," he said. "I will begin with their homes."
Kyra regarded him steadily.
"You tread dangerous ground, Ser Dalens."
"Can't be helped."
He offered a faint, humorless smile.
As he turned to leave, the fire cracked softly behind her, casting shifting light across her composed features.
Beautiful eyes watching him still.
* * * *
He left Kyra with the map and the addresses folded inside his armored cloak.
The lower quarter near the smithies was one of the largest districts in the entire city. He had been there before, when he inquired about the walls, speaking with masons and builders about stone composition and foundation of the walls. It had been loud then. It was louder still.
The moment he descended into the quarter, the air changed.
Heat rolled outward from open forges and smelters, pushing back the ever-present northern frost. Snow that lingered elsewhere in the city melted here into slush and steam. The clang of hammer on anvil rang in uneven rhythm, metal striking metal in sharp bursts that echoed between close-built structures. Sparks leapt like fireflies from workshop mouths, briefly illuminating sooted faces and thick leather aprons.
And the smell.
Gods, the smell.
Charcoal smoke clung to the air, heavy and acrid. Beneath it lingered molten iron, oil, wet wool, and the faint sourness of bodies laboring long hours in enclosed heat. It stuffed the nose, and coated the tongue. Yet for all its harshness, it spoke of industry and of coin being forged as surely as steel.
No wonder many chose to live here. Warmth in the North was currency of its own.
He moved through the bustle with steady pace until he found the house marked in Kyra's careful script.
Ser Sullybane's residence stood apart from the smaller worker homes. It was a two-story structure of timber and stone with the lower level paneled in thick wood, the upper reinforced with fitted stone blocks. The craftsmanship was solid. Not ostentatious, but secure.
Through the wooden gate, he glimpsed movement.
Servants, by their attire. A lady seated within the yard. Children nearby.
He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that Sullybane might live alone.
But of course he did not.
Sullybane bore the title "Ser," not "Sir." A distinction subtle to outsiders, but obvious to those trained in heraldry and lineage. "Ser" denoted noble birth, a knight of blood and standing. "Sir" was granted to those raised by merit alone. Sullybane had coin, position, and a place within the former Duke's retinue.
Naturally, he had a household.
Cendre felt a flicker of irritation at himself. He should have assumed as much.
He did not enjoy stepping into homes bearing doubt like a concealed blade.
"Greetings," he called, voice pitched loud yet courteous.
Servants froze. The children stared openly. The lady of the house rose at once, pressing her hands together before her as two house guards stepped subtly closer.
Cendre approached no further than propriety allowed. He inclined his head formally.
"My name is Cendre Dalens," he said evenly.
He withdrew the ring given by the Duchess and held it where all could see the sigil of House Blanc gleaming in the smithy-light.
"I have been tasked by Her Grace with matters pertaining to recent events."
The lady's expression shifted at once—from caution to formal composure.
"I am Lady Elowen Sullybane," she replied, voice steady though faint strain lingered beneath it. "It is an honor for a son of a Baron House Dalens to grace our home."
There was practiced courtesy in her tone, yet her eyes betrayed fatigue.
"You know my House?" he asked lightly.
A small, almost proud smile touched her lips.
"I was educated in the principal houses of the North, Central, and South," she said. "House Dalens is known for its vineyards and summer estates. Your valley—guarded by winds and narrow passageways. Some call it the Basins of Dalens."
He allowed himself a faint nod.
She was correct.
The Dalens lands sat in a natural basin where steady winds deterred invasion and fostered temperate climate. Vineyards thrived there. The narrow pass leading inward made raids difficult. It was a place where coins grew from soil and sun.
"I am honored," he replied sincerely, "that my House is remembered so far north."
With courtesy exchanged, the matter at hand pressed forward.
"Your husband," he said carefully, "is awake."
Her fingers tightened visibly.
"But his experiences have left him ill with nightmares. And right."
Her breath caught.
"He… was not awake I visit," she admitted softly. "The physician says he must rest."
"He must," Cendre agreed.
He chose his next words with care.
"There are… concerns," he continued. "Superstitions, even. Whispers of curses surrounding the Quiet Pass. I have been instructed to examine all possible influences that may have followed those who returned."
It was not entirely a lie. Merely framed it to be convenient for him.
"I would request permission to inspect your husband's private chambers," he added. "To ensure that nothing untoward lingers. It may also help in breaking the curse that frightens your husband into such a state."
Her eyes widened slightly at the word curse.
Fear was easier to direct than suspicion.
For a moment, she hesitated.
And he saw it, the calculation. The instinct to guard her household against intrusion.
But worry overrode it.
"If it will help him," she said quickly, "you may inspect whatever you must."
Love blinds, he thought.
Had she been calmer, less stricken, she might have wondered why an investigator would search a man's chambers rather than the place where it was fought.
Two guards opened the gate.
He stepped inside.
The yard was modest but well-kept. Firewood stacked neatly. Children watching him with solemn curiosity.
Lady Elowen led him toward the interior stair.
"My husband has always been loyal," she said quietly as they ascended. "He would never—"
She stopped herself.
He heard the unfinished thought.
"I am not here to accuse," he replied evenly, impressed that her wits caught up to her, despite being blinded by her love for a second. "Only to understand."
They reached the upper floor.
The chamber was spacious by northern standards. A hearth, a writing desk, a heavy bed framed in carved oak. Weapons mounted along the wall were well-maintained. A chest at the foot of the bed.
He stepped inside slowly.
Every object in a room told a story.
And he intended to read them all.