Once Anita's column had vanished completely from sight, Morgana and Jaenor resumed their journey through the winding forest paths. The oppressive silence that had settled over the woods during the army's passage gradually gave way to the natural sounds of wildlife, though both travellers remained alert for any sign of pursuit.

"You're worried about them," Morgana observed, noting the tension in Jaenor's shoulders as they picked their way through the underbrush.

"Of course I am," he replied, pausing to check their bearings against the position of the sun.

"But Darian is there to protect them. He may serve as my knight, but his skills extend far beyond personal protection. He's one of the finest tactical minds I've ever encountered, and his loyalty to our cause runs deeper than the roots of these ancient trees," Morgana said.

Jaenor nodded, though concern still flickered in his eyes.

He may be strong, but he can't protect them all. There were a lot of things to consider.

After his departure, Morgana got through his sense of thinking.

He may be able to fend himself off against those witches, but what about his friends and his family? Once they learn about them, they will surely use them as bait to lure him in.

The memory of Anita's cold presence lingered like a bad taste, and something about the Witch's reputation suggested that even Darian's considerable abilities might not be enough.

"Besides," Morgana continued, seemingly reading his thoughts, "the chosen ones, three of them, were directly sent by the Mother Supreme herself, so she wouldn't do anything to hurt them, and nobody would dare."

They walked in companionable silence for the better part of an hour, the forest gradually thinning as they approached the edges of civilized lands.

It was Morgana who broke the quiet, stopping suddenly beside a weathered wooden sign that marked the boundary of a small farming village.

"We need horses," she announced, studying the modest collection of thatched-roof buildings nestled in the valley below.

"I want to keep our travel bound to land—flying draws too much attention, and we can't afford to be spotted by enemy scouts."

He just nodded as his mind was occupied with the thoughts of his own.

Swefarna could have taken them away, but it would draw too much attention.

The village proved welcoming enough, its inhabitants clearly desperate for any news from the outside world.

Morgana spun a carefully edited tale of merchants seeking safe passage to the southern duchies, and within an hour, they had acquired two sturdy mountain horses along with provisions for several days' travel.

"Where exactly are we heading?" Jaenor asked as they rode out of the village, following the old trade road that wound southward through rolling hills and scattered woodland.

"Drakenten," Morgana replied, a note of something—anticipation? apprehension?—creeping into her voice.

"There's someone there I need you to meet."

-

-

Three days of steady travel brought them to the borders of Drakenten, and Jaenor felt his breath catch as they crested the final hill overlooking the duchy.

The landscape spread below them like something from a fairy tale—rolling green fields bisected by a crystal-clear river that meandered through the heart of the territory before disappearing into the distant mountains.

But it was the duchy's capital that truly took his breath away.

The town rose from the riverbanks in elegant tiers, each level connected by graceful stone bridges and winding cobblestone streets. Canals branched off from the main river, creating a network of waterways that ran between buildings like liquid silver. Boats of every size and description plied these channels, from simple fishing vessels to ornate pleasure barges draped with silk and flowers.

At the heart of it all stood the chateau—a magnificent structure that seemed to have grown from the landscape itself rather than being built upon it. Its towers and spires reached toward the sky like the fingers of some benevolent giant, their walls gleaming white stone that caught and reflected the afternoon sunlight. Gardens cascaded down the hillsides in terraced splendour, and the sound of fountains carried clearly across the water.

"It's like something from a story," Jaenor breathed, his eyes wide with wonder as they approached the outer gates of the town.

The people they passed were dressed in clothing unlike anything he had seen before—not the rough, practical garments of frontier settlements, but elegant fabrics cut in sophisticated styles that spoke of prosperity and refined taste. The very machinery of daily life seemed more advanced here: mill wheels turned by carefully engineered water channels, street lamps that burned with a clean, bright flame, and bridges constructed with an architectural precision that rivalled the great works of the ancient kingdoms.

Even the horses pulling carriages through the streets moved with a grace that spoke to careful breeding and excellent care.

"How is this possible?" Jaenor asked as they guided their mounts through streets that seemed untouched by the war raging across the continent. "How has this place remained so... pristine?"

Morgana's expression was complex, mixing pride with something that might have been sorrow. "The Arkwright family has ruled here for centuries," she said quietly.

"They've always valued knowledge and beauty alongside strength. Even in the darkest times, Drakenten has remained a beacon of civilization."

They approached the chateau's main gates, where guards in immaculate uniforms stood at attention.

The moment they caught sight of Morgana, their formal demeanour shifted to one of genuine warmth and respect.

"Lady Morgana!" the senior guard called out, his weathered face breaking into a smile.

"By the old gods, it's good to see you alive. Word was sent ahead the moment you were spotted on the approach road."

"Thank you, Captain Morris," Morgana replied, dismounting with practiced grace.

"Is she...?"

"Waiting for you in the main hall, my lady. Been pacing like a caged lioness since the message arrived."

The guard's eyes shifted curiously to Jaenor, taking in his distinctive features and amazed expression.

Before Morgana could make introductions, a commotion arose from the chateau's main entrance. A woman emerged from the grand doors, moving with the kind of regal bearing that spoke to a lifetime of authority. She was perhaps fifty years of age, her silver-streaked auburn hair elegantly arranged and her dress of deep blue silk perfectly fitted. But it was her eyes—warm brown shot through with flecks of gold—that captured Jaenor's attention.

Those eyes fixed on Morgana with an intensity that spoke of deep affection and profound relief. The woman covered the distance between them with swift, graceful steps and, without hesitation, pulled Morgana into a fierce embrace.

"My dear girl," she murmured, her hands framing Morgana's face as she studied her features with the careful attention of someone searching for signs of injury or hardship.

"I've been so worried."

"I'm fine, Emma," Morgana assured her, though her own voice was thick with emotion. "Travel-worn and weary, but whole."

It was then that the woman—Emma—noticed Jaenor standing uncertainly beside his horse. Her gaze shifted to him, and something extraordinary happened. Her composure, so carefully maintained despite her obvious relief at Morgana's safety, cracked completely. Tears began to flow down her cheeks as she stared at him with an expression of wonder and disbelief.

"Morgana," she whispered, never taking her eyes off Jaenor.

"Please tell me..."

There are only three of them standing there.

"Emma," Morgana said gently, moving to place a supportive hand on the older woman's arm.

"I'd like you to meet Jaenor.

Jaenor... meet your grandmother, Emmanuelle Arkwright."

He stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he had just heard.

Grandmother?

He thought only Morgana was left in his family. Or so he had always believed.

Emmanuelle stepped toward him with trembling hands, her tears flowing freely now.

"You look exactly like your grandfather," she breathed, reaching up to touch his face with gentle fingers.

"The same eyes, the same proud bearing. Oh, my dear boy, my dear, dear boy..."

Without waiting for his response—indeed, he seemed incapable of forming one—she pulled him into an embrace that spoke of years of grief and longing, finally finding release.

Jaenor stood rigid with shock for a moment before something deep within him, some long-buried need for connection, caused him to return the gesture hesitantly.

"I... I don't understand," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Inside," Emmanuelle said, pulling back to study his face once more before wiping at her tears. "We have much to discuss, but first, you both need rest, food, and proper care. I must instruct the staff to prepare a feast worthy of this reunion."

She bustled away toward the chateau's interior, calling out instructions to various servants who appeared as if from nowhere.

Jaenor watched her go, still reeling from the revelation, before turning to Morgana with eyes full of questions.

"She was your grandfather's second wife," Morgana explained quietly, leading him toward the entrance.

"After... after what happened to our family, she grieved deeply for the loss of her husband and chose to remain here in the chateau, maintaining the Arkwright name and title."

Jaenor stood with a still dazed expression. Technically, she would be his step-gran; he shook his head, feeling amazed that such a person existed.

Morgana and Emmanuelle seemed to have a good relationship.

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