The carriage wheels gave one last rumble before slowing to a heavy halt; inside the leather seats, the two of us prepared to rise. Since leaving the cemetery with Rebecca, we had exchanged little more than a brief, pleasant conversation.

Beyond the glass windows, the sun of Veytharis shone bright, but the high walls of the palace softened its brilliance, falling over us like a veil.

Rebecca straightened at the edge of her seat, smoothed the shawl in her hands one last time, and looked at me. In her eyes gleamed the cold light of both triumph and trial.

The brass latch clinked as the door opened. Before us rose the palace of Duke Demetrius: second only to the imperial residence in the capital, its stones burned golden by the sun, its domes inlaid with deep blue tiles.

The carved facades magnified human faces, mythological beasts, and heraldic motifs to absurd scale; each time the sunlight touched the engravings, it was as though a new history was being written.

Columns stood on either wing, framing the broad marble steps and the grand portico where dozens of lamps hung, a weight of grandeur pressing itself upon the eye in a single glance. But the true spectacle was the garden.

The vast courtyard before the palace stretched like a sea of green, defying the stones of Veytharis: a downward slope of grass, long square marble paths, corridors flowing between statues, flowerbeds so meticulously arranged that each rose seemed part of a deliberate painting. In the air lingered the mingled scents of lavender and freshly baked bread.

It was as if the palace kitchens and the gardener's hand shared a silent pact. Even the butterflies on the roses fluttered with caution; here, a single misplaced wingbeat might spark a rumor.

The carriage halted. Knights pulled their horses to a stop and bowed; the porters at the gate bent in turn to shake hands, and then a man, surely the palace's grand steward, stepped forward with a courteous, yet artificial smile to greet us.

"The Duke and Duchess have been informed. Please follow the path." His voice was smooth, formal.

As Rebecca and I descended, the knights moved ahead to receive us. The steward bowed once more, his smile as polished as glass. "The Duke and Duchess are aware of your arrival. Please, follow me."

In his tone was not only grace but also a cool distance. His eyes flicked to me for the briefest moment before withdrawing at once. That glance said much: I did not belong here, yet I was a shadow that could not be ignored.

As we ascended the marble steps, a single question echoed in my mind: How is a bastard received when he returns to such a place, carrying extraordinary triumphs?

The answer was simple. He is not embraced. He is not celebrated. But he is not ignored either.

A count who had outmaneuvered lords greater than himself… A general whose name was known on the empire's borders… Such feats could force even the deepest shame to be acknowledged. In the Duke's eyes, this success, however unwanted, added value to the family.

But it was also a threat.

Noble houses, especially dynasties like ours, rooted in centuries, regard achievement not with affection, but with suspicion.

And when that achievement comes from the "unwanted" child… it is like gold leaf laid upon a flaw: splendid, but unsettling.

I already knew how Duchess Matilda would receive me. Cold, sharp, always within the bounds of propriety. Never too warm, never unnecessarily distant… She was nobility made flesh; her anger never showed, but every word carried poison.

And my siblings? Their pride had long been stained by my existence. Now my victories only made the stain more visible. To them, I was not merely illegitimate. I was a ghost stepping from the shadows to steal their light.

I smiled involuntarily, wondering how they would react once they learned I had been granted the title of Eques Consiliarius, right hand to the crown prince himself.

Rebecca walked tall at my side. Her steps were like a shield, her presence guarding me from the palace's narrow corridors and invisible daggers. Without her support, I knew I would need eyes in the back of my head.

When the great doors opened, a flood of blue and gold grandeur spilled from within. The towering hall between colossal pillars was second only to the imperial palace in majesty. Every step resounded beneath the vaulted ceilings, a reminder that this was Duke Demetrius's domain, and we were but pieces on his board.

Rebecca glanced at me. "You haven't forgotten this place, have you?"

Her question hung in the air. In her eyes was not curiosity but a testing glint.

"How could I forget?" I answered softly.

Her lips curved faintly, not mocking, but approving. Together we ascended the staircase and approached the door on the landing, where the Duke's audience chamber awaited.

The guards before it pressed their swords to their chests in ceremonial gravity. It was more than a sign of respect. It was a message: Our loyalty is to the Duke. Your presence has meaning only with his leave.

Rebecca drew subtly closer, walking at my shoulder. In her bearing there was defiance, not toward me, but toward the hall itself. Her gaze carried not the warmth of an ally, but the chill of a judge, as though the chamber itself stood on trial before her.

The steward turned, his voice raised to announce: "His Grace Duke Demetrius and Her Grace Duchess Matilda will receive their guests!"

The massive doors swung inward. Before us stretched the grand audience hall, its chandeliers scattering candle and lamplight into a thousand shimmering stars across the polished marble floor.

At the center, on a dark blue silk carpet, stood two high-backed seats. Duke Demetrius upon the greater, Duchess Matilda upon the lesser.

Demetrius's face bore not a hint of a smile. His eyes scanned me from head to toe, not with paternal warmth but with the cold measure of a commander.

Matilda was another matter. Her beauty defied age: refined features, hands steady as stone, eyes like slender blades. At the corners of her lips lingered an unfinished smile, neither pleased nor displeased, but like a crack in marble, uncertain and unnerving.

The hall was silent. All awaited the first word.

I did not bow deeply. Nor did I hold my head too high. I gave a measured salute; more would seem weakness, less would be insolence.

"Your Grace, Your Excellency," my voice echoed beneath the dome. "I bring the greetings of House Argenholt."

Matilda's eyes narrowed slightly — barely perceptible, yet all eyes were on her. To her, my presence was that of a 'guest' by protocol. But behind it lay a truth she could not accept, yet could not deny.

Demetrius broke the silence. "Your greeting always honors this house," he said, his tone heavy, measured, unyielding.

His voice left a weight in the air — neither anger nor affection, only the cold echo of authority carved into stone.

Rebecca straightened at my side, but her eyes never left mine. As if the true dialogue was between her and me, not the Duke.

I inclined my head slightly. "I am grateful that you open your house to me, Your Grace."

The first exchange with an audience was always symbolic. The Duke and Duchess would not rise; they remained seated, awaiting the guest to approach. It was a mark of superiority; the host never moved, only the visitor.

The steward stepped forward and struck his staff lightly against the marble. The sound rang out, signaling the second stage of the protocol: the guest was to advance before the thrones and offer a measured bow.

Rebecca moved in stride with me without glancing my way. Her steps were a lesson in poise: neither hurried nor languid, knees and shoulders in perfect harmony. She had been trained for this from childhood.

I, however, faced a different trial. As a bastard, bow too deeply and it would be weakness; stand too tall and it would be arrogance. So I inclined my head, but did not bend my back. Measured yet bold enough to be remembered.

Matilda's eyes flickered. The half-smile remained, but within her gaze a sharp splinter of awareness. To her, this bow said: I am not here to submit, only to honor tradition.

The Duke's voice rose again. "Our guests shall share in our honor. All the chambers, all the tables of this palace are open to them."

On the surface, a simple courtesy. Yet everyone knew the weight of the phrase all the tables. Normally, the family's private tables excluded outsiders or lesser guests.

By uttering it here, the Duke was declaring before all that he would not deny my place within these walls. Not acceptance perhaps but not rejection either.

A murmur swept the hall. Servants shifted subtly in formation. Some lowered their heads, others avoided my gaze altogether. Ignoring me was the safest path.

At last, Duchess Matilda spoke. Her voice was delicate, elegant, yet carried an icy undercurrent. "May your victories illuminate rather than cast a shadow upon the honor of this house. For you know when shadows grow, they diminish the worth of light."

A chill silence settled over the hall. This was no mere remark but an unveiled warning, edged to the point of discourtesy.

I lifted my head, meeting her eyes, and recalled a line from my former life. "I agree, Your Excellency. Yet… when the shadow grows, so too does the light shine brighter. Honor is born not of fear, but of strength acknowledged."

A ripple of whispers stirred through the chamber. None had ever dared return such words to the Duchess. At my side, Rebecca drew in a subtle, deep breath. On her face, the faintest trace of pride seemed to glimmer. She was pleased that I had answered her mother without humiliation, with restraint yet with strength.

"Then let Rebecca escort you to your chambers," Matilda said at last. "You must be weary. Rest until the evening meal."

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