Chapter 22: Tensions
Damon walked through the gate to the innyard with a leisurely stride, feeling the firm weight of his new acquisition in his right hand. The lance’s shaft, worn with age, had a rough texture that suited his grip well. The blade, even in the gray light of the sky, glead almost intimidatingly.
In the center of the courtyard, the two knights—Garrick and Caelan—finished tying the last of the barrels and sacks of provisions to the back of the carriage. The sll of fresh bread wafted from one of the sacks, mingling with the strong aroma of leather and ironwork.
Garrick was the first to notice Damon approaching. His eyes flicked from Damon’s face to the lance and narrowed.
"What the hell is this?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the weapon. "I thought you were going to buy sothing decent, new... not so museum hunk of iron."
Caelan, who was adjusting the strings, also glanced over and frowned. "Yeah... this spear looks like it’s seen about ten wars."
Damon gave a half-smile, holding the weapon up so they could both get a better look. "The blacksmith said it’s too heavy for most people. Good enough for ."
Garrick snorted, almost laughing. "Too heavy? That thing must just be... too old."
"Old or not," Damon ran his hand over the sharp blade, "it cuts better than a lot of new weapons out there."
Caelan straightened, wiping his hands on his pants. "So you spent your reward on this?"
"Partially," Damon replied, resting the spearhead on the ground and letting the weight settle naturally. "Besides, wasn’t I the one who told you to buy a decent spear?" He gave a sidelong glance, almost as if speaking to soone who wasn’t there, but the na was implied.
Garrick gave a short laugh. "Ah... so it was the ’Lady Commander’ who sent you, huh?"
"Sothing like that," Damon replied, not bothering to deny it.
The cold wind blew through the courtyard, making the inn’s banners flutter and the tip of the blade reflect an icy sheen.
Garrick shrugged, returning to his task. "Well, as long as you know how to use it... you won’t look bad."
The soft creak of the inn’s main door interrupted the sound of the ropes being tightened. Esther stepped out, closely followed by the two maids. Her dark blue cloak moved elegantly in the icy wind, and her sharp gaze flicked from Garrick to Caelan, finally settling on Damon... or, more precisely, the spear he held.
She approached with firm strides, the heels of her boots clicking against the stone floor of the courtyard. When she stopped in front of him, she raised an eyebrow.
"Is that the ’proper spear’ I ordered?" she asked, her tone not quite anger, but clearly dissatisfied.
Damon twirled the hilt between his fingers, as if testing its weight. "It’s good. Old, yes... but sharp and sturdy."
Ester crossed her arms. "I didn’t ask if it’s ’good.’ I asked why you didn’t buy a better one."
"Because this one fits ," he replied calmly, without taking his eyes off her.
She studied him for a mont, then changed her question:
"How much did you get for the head of the leader of the Hounds?"
"Five hundred silver pieces."
The two knights stopped what they were doing, and their eyes widened almost simultaneously. Garrick even let out a low whistle.
"Five hundred?" he repeated, incredulous. "By all the gods, that’s... noble contract stuff. Normally they pay twenty, thirty at most."
Caelan shook his head, impressed. "That’s half a year’s wages."
Ester maintained her posture, but her eyes flashed for a mont with calculated interest.
"And how much did you pay for this... relic?" she asked, almost as if she were about to dismantle any excuse he might have made.
"Ten coins," Damon replied dryly.
For a mont, they simply stared at each other. She, still as a statue, and he, with that air of defiant calm. The cold wind passed between them, lifting Ester’s cloak slightly and making the stallion’s mane in the stable beyond ruffle.
Then Damon reached into his cloak and pulled out a small leather bag. The tallic sound of coins clinking broke the silence. He extended his arm and, without changing his expression, tossed the bag to her.
"You who did it all, the reward is yours, Lady Ester," he said simply, as if handing over sothing worthless.
Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the knights. "Do you need any help?" he asked, already walking toward the back of the carriage.
Behind him, Ester stood motionless for a few seconds, the heavy sack in her hands, staring at the retreating figure. There was no anger, no contempt... but there was no response either. Only a silence that, for anyone who knew Ester, was rarer than any complint.
...[In Mirath, Elizabeth Wykes’s room]
The scene shifts to a dark, silent room, lit only by the silvery moonlight streaming through the high window. Elizabeth stood before her, her eyes fixed on the moonlight, thoughtful, her face serene but marked by a subtle tension. The soft glow of the moon cast long shadows on the walls, reflecting the mystery of the mont.
Suddenly, a shadow ford behind her, silent and unobtrusive. It was one of her informants, who approached silently.
"Ma’am," he began, his voice low and careful, "we have news. It seems Ester... used magic."
Elizabeth turned slowly, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of surprise and sothing bordering on satisfaction. An enigmatic smile played across her lips.
"It’s good to know the general still lives inside that maid," she murmured, almost to herself.
With a gentle gesture, she motioned for him to continue.
"Regarding the county’s neighbors," the informant continued hesitantly, "tensions are rising. There are rumors of dissatisfaction in the border villages and disputes between the local lords. A crisis may be brewing that... perhaps will directly affect our domain."
Elizabeth crossed her arms, her eyes now focused on sothing beyond the window, perhaps on the future that was unfolding.
"Keep monitoring," she ordered firmly. "I want to know everything that happens before this crisis erupts. Besides..."
"That item... did you manage to acquire it?"
"Yes. We managed to buy it at auction in the Grand Duchy... But... why do you want sothing like that? We have magic—"
"It’s not for ... it’s for my dear Incubus."
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