Come evening, Brendon Carey requested a leave of absence, changed out of his uniform, and made his way into the city for the first time in a while.
Hudore was vast and carved into countless districts. Beyond the noble quarter surrounding the palace lay streets bustling with commoners. The city itself had grown remarkably from what was once a small settlement clustered around the knights’ order.
Raised a sincere, frugal man, Brendon rarely wandered the city for personal reasons. The order provided everything he needed, so his days were spent between the barracks and the training grounds. He went farther afield only for patrols or the occasional dinner invitation from a colleague. Or when that man sent a summons.
Brendon passed through the crowded streets and slipped into a back alley. It was lined with reputable stores and restaurants, so he wasn’t surprised to see a few connoisseurs sauntering about. Before long, he turned onto a night street—one where doors opened only after dark. Despite being known as one of the most straitlaced knights in the order, he entered a building without hesitation, paying no mind to the fact that it had yet to open.
At the reception desk, a man was busy counting coins. He glanced up at Brendon and said simply, “Second floor.”
“All right,” Brendon replied.
He went upstairs to the door at the end of the corridor, knocked twice, and entered.
The room was clean but unremarkable: a table, some chairs, and a couch. Most of the other rooms were cramped, offering little more than beds and dressing tables, but this one was reserved for special guests.
Brendon looked around with practiced caution. He had to be sure there were no hidden passages or magical eyes or ears—anything that might threaten their privacy. Only once he was satisfied did he close the curtains. Then, leaving the lamps unlit, he watched the street below through a narrow gap and waited.
Brendon had been waiting for some time when his shoulders twitched. The door had opened without warning, admitting a man dressed entirely in black, from his overcoat and gloves to his fedora. His high status was obvious at a glance. The cane in his hand was plain but finely made, and Brendon knew it was more than an accessory; it would become a deadly sword the instant an enemy appeared.
“It certainly has been a while, uncle.”
“How have you been, Brendon?”
“Well, thank you.”
The man removed his overcoat and fedora, then sat in a nearby chair. He shot Brendon a sharp look, inviting him to sit as well.
Brendon gave a small nod and took the seat across the table from the new arrival: Marquess Kenneth, his mother’s younger brother, and the very man he had been waiting for.
“How is Billy?” the knight asked.
Marquess Kenneth’s expression softened at the mention of his youngest son. “Still as cheeky as ever. He wanted to see you.”
“He wrote that he became an apprentice in the Kenneth knights’ order.”
“Yes—and he’s still as green as they come. I’m sure he’ll ask you for a practice match one of these days.”
Though the captain of the Seventh seldom let his emotions show, Marquess Kenneth’s words brought a rare smile to his face.
Brendon had developed a good relationship with Billy Kenneth while living at his own family home in the Kenneth marquessate. He was a commoner by birth; his mother had married a commoner and lost her noble status, something possible only because the marquessate maintained an unusually narrow divide between nobles and commoners. In principle, he would never have been allowed to mix with his noble cousins—but his mother remained on good terms with Marquess Kenneth, so Brendon had played with them regularly as a child.
Like Billy, Brendon had originally planned to join the local knights’ order, but he had accepted the marquess’s recommendation to join the royal order instead. Even so, his new status as a knight had done nothing to change his relationship with his cousins.
Brendon wiped the smile from his face; he hadn’t come to reminisce.
“His Highness is investigating the matter in secret,” he said. “How successful he will be, I cannot tell.”
“I see. Is he acting alone?”
“No; the second son of the western tiger is helping him.”
The marquess looked up at the ceiling and stroked his chin. “I thought the second son took more after his mother.”
“It isn’t clear yet, but he seems focused on military arts.”
“I see.” The marquess’s eyes darkened. “If he carried more of his father’s blood, his admiration for the crown prince could easily have swayed many nobles to support him as well.”
Brendon remained silent. He understood exactly what his uncle was thinking.
Duke Ealdred—the “western tiger” in question—had been hailed as a child prodigy in his youth. Most such children grew into ordinary adults, but the duke had proven genuinely exceptional. People still spoke of when, in his twenties, he took on five opponents at chess simultaneously, even wearing a blindfold “as a handicap.” Each challenger had been confident in their skill, yet he moved his pieces without hesitation and ultimately won every match.
Austin, his son, was Riley’s close aide. If he possessed even a measure of his father’s talent, nobles would rally under the crown prince’s banner. Unfortunately, the duke’s blood couldn’t be felt in him at present.
Brendon struggled to find the right words even on his best days, and this was no exception. He racked his brain, then finally ventured, “This is just my opinion...”
The marquess turned back to him, prompting him to continue.
“But I think His Highness is trying to gather allies among the promising sons of influential nobles. Those around his own age, specifically.”
“Oh?” The marquess’s eyes brightened. Brendon’s words had clearly caught his attention.