Yvain chuckled at her quip, the tension in his shoulders easing for the briefest moment. For all her reckless streak and dangerous humor, Celeste was often right. She had always danced along the edge of madness, but she understood power, and how little of it truly existed in this backwater city.
"I suppose you're right," he replied.
He wasn't boasting, just stating the facts. He knew his own strength well, the depth of his breath, the precision of his augury, and the lethality of his conjurations. He wasn't invincible, there were still those in the world he'd rather not cross, powerful thaumaturges like Vaelha, whose mastery of breath overshadowed his own. But those were rare souls, legends still walking, and none of them were here.
"Perhaps I am too cautious," he conceded with a sigh.
"One of us has to be," she said, brushing her fingers through a strand of his silvered hair. "And it sure as hell isn't me."
Before he could answer, her gaze drifted. Her hand lingered at his nape, then she whispered close to his ear.
"We have company."
He turned slowly, eyes scanning down the path that coiled like a snake from the cliff's edge to the overlook above. Four figures approached.
Brother Lome led the way, robed and solemn, his expression unreadable. At his side was his young apprentice Darien, whose eyes darted anxiously between the others. And flanking them were two armored men. One of them was a knight of the Chevalier, anonymous and indistinct in a steel half-helm. The other, however, was Ser Hardron.
"Wonderful," Yvain murmured under his breath. "Just what I needed."
Celeste's smile returned, more razor than charm this time. "Think they're here for tea and pleasantries?"
Yvain didn't answer. He was already watching Lome's face, trying to divine the purpose behind this sudden visit.
Minerva rejoined them just as the four men arrived at the overlook. Her posture was composed, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease at the sight of Ser Hardron's blackened armor.
Brother Lome was the first to speak, his tone warm but formal, that priestly smile fixed to his face like a mask. "This here is Ser Gaspard of the Chevalier," he said, gesturing to the older knight beside him. "Master of their chapter here in Adwini. And I believe you already know Ser Hardron, half the city does by now."
Yvain noted Ser Gaspard silently. Broad-shouldered, aged but unyielding, with a knight's hard discipline etched into every movement. The man said nothing, merely nodded.
Ser Hardron stepped forward, his expression polite but calculated, the wind pulling gently at the sunburst sigil on his cloak. "My demonstration yesterday was meant only to remind the heretics what awaits them. I regret if it unsettled the good folk of Adwini."
Lome's smile didn't falter. "Yes, of course. A reminder." He turned to the others, tone laced with careful neutrality. "Ser Hardron has been tasked with investigating new arrivals in the city, particularly among the gifted. Nothing intrusive, merely inquiries."
"Inquiries," Celeste echoed under her breath, her tone light.
Ser Hardron gave a pleasant smile, though there was steel beneath it. "Brother Lome tells me the three of you arrived just a few weeks ago, is that correct?"
"Yes," Yvain said without hesitation.
"Your name, kind sir?" Hardron asked, voice smooth.
"Yvain," he replied evenly. "And this is my cousin, Celeste. We hail from Salem, in the Arken Trade States."
Hardron's gaze swept over him, then lingered a beat too long on Celeste. She met it without flinching, hands on her hips, a subtle smirk playing at the corner of her lips. Her attire, though not indecent by mage standards, was far from modest. A long skirt with a high slit, revealing the supple flesh of one leg, and a sleeveless top that left her stomach exposed. Sanctuary doctrine encouraged modesty, especially from women, but mages were always an exception, a tolerated stain on sacred cloth.
Still, Hardron's lips thinned before he turned his attention to Minerva.
"And you, young miss?"
"Minerva," she said clearly. "Apprentice to Master Palladius."
At that, Hardron's brow lifted ever so slightly. "Palladius?" he repeated. "The royal alchemist? Advisor to the king?"
"Yes," Minerva replied, meeting his gaze. Her tone was proud, though the heat of her earlier fluster still clung faintly to her cheeks.
Hardron gave an approving nod. "A respectable lineage of knowledge."
"What is it you're hoping to find among new arrivals?" Yvain asked, voice polite, but firm.
Hardron's eyes returned to him. "Only truth, Master Yvain. The cultists grow bolder in these times. Sorcerers, sadly, make tempting allies for such heresies. We simply hope to ensure the city is not harboring danger beneath the surface."
"Probably because knights are little more than dogs in armor," Celeste cut in, her tone sugar-coated with contempt.
Hardron's smile strained. Ser Gaspard's jaw clenched, but he still didn't speak.
It was no secret where the soft spot lay. For all their vows, and their shining oaths, knights had always chafed under one cruel truth, they would never wield true thaumaturgy. They were forever outside the sanctum, their fingers brushing the veil of divinity, but never parting it.
The tradition of knighthood stretched back to the Fourth Age. Many lacked the innate talent, others the means to undergo the rites of passage. But still, they yearned for purpose, for elevation.
So they tempered themselves instead. Through agony, discipline, and martial devotion, they carved out a new path. One of steel, not spellcraft.
It was the ancient House Dehmohseni, kings of the world and architects of its breaking, who first formalized this alternative. They required champions who could wield the Breath in lesser form. Enhanced reflexes, endurance, feats of will, but posed no threat to the ruling sorcerer elite. These warrior-adepts would never challenge a magus in raw power, but they would serve. With loyalty bred from reverence. With strength forged in obedience.
Thus were the knightly orders born.
The Chevalier were the first. Shieldbearers of the realm, hammer and anvil of the Dehmohseni legions. They shattered enemies in formation, held the line when spells faltered. Once the backbone of an empire's might, they had since fractured into regional chapters, city guardians more than conquering warbands.
The Errant followed next. Wandering blades who swore no fealty but to a code, choosing the path of exile and noble deeds. Romanticized in ballads, though most became swordarms for hire or quiet zealots seeking death with honor.
The third order, the Herald, was most intimate. Knights bonded to individual magi, sworn as protectors, companions, and hands. They were extensions of their master's will, living shields against both steel and spell. This practice waned with the fall of the old houses, but among hidden cabals, and in the cloisters of power, especially within the inner circles of the Sanctuary, it endured.
Then came the current age, and with it, the fourth order. The Inquisition.
Yvain understood that knights had a place in the order of things, but Celeste saw them as little more than half-lit candles in a world of stars.
Ser Hardron's smile returned. "As the Endless wills it," he said, voice smooth with practiced piety. "I trust He wills your safe and quiet stay in Adwini."
With a nod to Ser Gaspard, the two knights turned and began ascending the winding path. Brother Lome lingered only a moment longer. His eyes crinkled with amusement as he cast a parting smile at Celeste, clearly pleased with how she had needled them. Then he, too, departed in silence.
As their silhouettes vanished up the path, Darien finally spoke. "There was no need for that," he muttered, clearly uneasy.
Celeste gave an exaggerated shrug.
Before Darien could respond, she took Yvain by the arm and pulled him aside, her expression turning more serious. "You think your lie will hold?"
"It should," Yvain replied calmly. "They'd have to go all the way to Arken to prove otherwise, and even if they tried, the Sanctuary's reach doesn't stretch far there. In the Trade States, coin speaks louder than creeds."
Celeste smirked, satisfied. "Good."
Her gaze flicked to where Darien was awkwardly fussing over Minerva, who was still flushed from earlier embarrassment. Celeste's grin softened, almost fond.
"I'm quite enjoying my stay," she murmured. "Would be a shame if zealots ruined it."