anwhile, in the dungeon...
The torchlight flickered along the damp stone walls, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted like dark specters with every subtle movent of fla. A faint draft wound through the narrow corridors, carrying with it the scent of mold, tal, and aged stone. The low ceiling seed to press down, emphasizing the solemn weight of the mont.
"Any news?" Lord Marco's voice echoed in the dim space.
It rang firm and cold, rebounding off the stone with a hollow sharpness. His eyes, narrowed and calculating, turned toward his nephew. The torch nearest to him highlighted the lines of age and authority etched into his face, while his crimson cloak, though dulled in the dungeon's dim light, still spoke of his station. His frown deepened as his tone sharpened.
He looked at his nephew, frowning. "Why did those adventurers attack Ronan? Were they mad?"
Martin stood rigid beneath the oppressive air of the dungeon, his hands clasped behind his back, trying to ignore the chill seeping through his boots. The dungeon was silent except for the occasional drip of water in so distant cell and the muffled creaks of old wood above. It was a place designed for secrecy, for discretion, and for intimidation.
Martin, having overheard Ronan and Frieren at the market, hadn't known about the magical tools.
The mory returned to him in vivid clarity—how the adventurers' nas had passed Ronan's lips like a judge reading a verdict. The market crowd, the tense mont, the ease with which Ronan had disard the situation. Even now, it unsettled him. His brow tightened, and his lips pressed into a flat line. He hadn't wanted to believe it at first.
His expression was complex as he recounted the pugilist's confession.
He shifted his weight, the dungeon's silence pushing him to speak in a hushed, almost reverent tone.
He lowered his voice. "Uncle, I found out, but... I'm not sure it's true. They attacked because Ronan spent six thousand gold coins on magical tools. They're rcenaries; they'll do anything for money. Six thousand... that's like a minor count's wealth. I'd be tempted too. Especially for a team of elite adventurers."
Marco's face darkened.
His eyebrows arched downward, and his jaw clenched, the fury rising in him almost palpable. The crackling torchlight reflected in his eyes like tiny sparks ready to ignite. His right hand lashed out faster than Martin could flinch.
Slap!
The sharp sound echoed, louder than any voice, bouncing off the stone and making even the shadows recoil. Martin's head snapped to the side, a red mark forming on his cheek. He didn't speak, didn't move—only stood straighter, accepting the strike without protest.
"What are you looking at? Do you think I'm an idiot? If he could spend six thousand, don't you see his background? He spent another five thousand today to help with the grain market. Eleven thousand! A century-old count might not be that rich. This is just the tip of the iceberg..."
Marco's voice was no longer just angry—it trembled with the weight of revelation. He began pacing slowly, his boots striking the stone with purpose, his cloak sweeping the dust behind him. He wasn't scolding his nephew out of irritation, but out of fear and awe. He had misjudged Ronan's status, and that mistake could've been fatal—if not in body, then in standing.
He took a deep breath.
The chill in the dungeon seed to recede just slightly as he gathered himself. The fury in his eyes dimd, replaced by cold calculation. He was no fool. Pieces were falling into place, and they painted a picture far beyond what he had expected.
"I was right. He's one of the most powerful people on the continent."
The words settled over the dungeon like a final judgnt. Neither man spoke for a mont, letting the truth solidify. The torchlight wavered as if reacting to the gravity in the air.
"So," Marco said gravely, "forget about hiring assassins or poisoning him. If anything happens, my family's lives wouldn't be enough compensation."
The statent was delivered with calm certainty, but the undercurrent of dread was unmistakable. This wasn't just about avoiding offense—it was about survival. Marco had seen enough of power to know when soone stood beyond reproach. Ronan was one of them.
"Did I say that? You're overthinking," Martin thought, taking the bla.
He clenched his fists, sha crawling up his spine. His pride, once inflated by status and influence, now shrank under the weight of realization.
His uncle was above such things. It was his fault. He deserved punishnt.
His lips parted to offer sothing more, perhaps a deeper apology, but Marco coughed, a sharp sound that broke the silence.
Marco coughed, stopping him. "Enough. It's good you understand. I'll handle this. Keep it secret. Ronan's presence is an honor; we mustn't offend him. I'll be busy preparing gifts; this concerns our family's future. You'll be his guide. Fulfill his requests. If you can't, co to . Understood?"
There was no room for negotiation. The air in the dungeon had turned heavier, laced now with obligation and expectation. Martin knew what was at stake—not just for himself, but for every mber of House Miller.
Martin nodded, determined to succeed. "Yes, Uncle. I'll satisfy them."
The words ca with resolve. There would be no second chances. Every action he took from now on would have to reflect care and deference. Ronan was no ordinary mage, and Martin would not make the mistake of underestimating him again.
"Excellent. I'll be watching," Marco said, smiling, a stark contrast to his previous anger.
It was a smile that revealed no teeth—controlled, practiced. The anger had passed, but the tension remained. His mind was already turning, envisioning the implications, the possibilities. He could see the doors opening, the alliances forming, the future reshaped.
He envisioned a prosperous future for his family.
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