The door guards straightened when Father stepped into the corridor. His face had the same stone look from last night, only colder.
"Go," he said to the nearest soldier. "Call Fegarth." Fegarth, the old man I'd rescued from the bandits, whose wife had tended to Doyle's and my wounds.
The soldier thumped a fist to his chest and moved to run.
"Wait," I said. "Bring Margery and her mother Matilda as well."
The soldier looked to Father. Father gave a single nod. The man vanished down the hall at a sprint.
Grandfather settled into the nearest chair, cane across his knees, eyes on Father. The room we used for receiving petitioners, Father's official office in the administrative wing, felt too small today. The morning sun angled through high windows and drew pale lines across the floor. Papers lay stacked on the table. The letter from Beaumont sat apart from the rest, as if it did not wish to touch anything else.
"You plan to ask them," Grandfather said quietly.
"I plan to do my duty," Father replied. "If they wish to go, they will go. If they wish to stay, they will stay."
"That is not how counts keep power," Mnex murmured in the back of my head. "That is how decent men make enemies."
I folded my hands to stop them from fidgeting. I told myself I was calm. The tightness in my chest said otherwise.
Footsteps sounded beyond the door. The guard reappeared with three figures close behind. Fegarth entered first, back straighter than I remembered from the cages. Time had not loosened the lines on his face. Behind him came Matilda, eyes down, hands folded, dress mended in careful stitches. Margery trotted at her side, trying to look serious and failing. She saw me and lifted her chin a fraction as if to say she was not afraid.
They stopped three paces from the table and bowed. Father did not sit. He let the silence hold long enough to become heavy, then spoke.
"You know why you are here," he said. "A letter arrived. Baron Kayer, by way of Count Beaumont, claims you were taken from his lands. He asks for your return."
Fegarth's fingers clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Matilda drew a small breath. Margery's eyes flicked to me, then to Father.
"I will ask plainly," Father said. "Do you wish to go back?"
Fegarth glanced at Matilda. She glanced at him. Both turned their eyes to the floor. The words came out in a practiced tone that carried habit, fear and respect in equal parts.
"As you wish, my lord," Fegarth said.
Father shook his head. "If I wished to decide for you, I would not have called you here."
The room stilled. Margery's mouth opened before her mother could stop her.
"I want to stay," she said.
Matilda flinched. "Forgive her, my lord," she rushed to add. "She is a child. She speaks without thinking."
Grandfather's lips curved. Father's eyes softened for the first time that morning.
"You must be Margery," Father said. "And you, mother of Margery. Your daughter has spoken clearly. What do you want?"
Matilda kept her head bowed. She did not answer at once. I could see the battle in the small tremor of her fingers. She lifted her eyes just enough to take us in. Father first, then Grandfather, then me. I met her gaze and nodded once. Speak.
"If we will not cause you trouble," she said, voice steadying as she went, "we wish to stay."
Fegarth took a half step forward. "No," he said. "It will not do. If Baron Kayer sent word through Count Beaumont, then he intends to use this against you. He will claim you stole us. He will make it his reason to act."
Grandfather leaned his cane against the table. "Fegarth," he said, studying the old man as if weighing him on a scale, "you sound like a man who thinks before he speaks. Yet you stand before the lord of House Godfrey. Do you truly think House Godfrey so weak that a borrowed excuse could topple it?"
Color climbed into Fegarth's cheeks. He bowed again, deeper. "Forgive me, my lord. I meant no insult. I only do not wish my life to bring trouble to your door. You have given us shelter. You have given us food. You asked nothing. I cannot repay this with harm."
Father stepped closer, and the old man straightened without being told. "Do not worry, Fegarth," Father said. "You will not put us in a difficult place. I am the lord of these lands. Everyone who lives upon them is my charge. I asked a question and I have my answer."
He lifted his hand toward the guard. The soldier moved to escort them away.
Margery hesitated at the threshold. She looked back over her shoulder, found me, and squared herself like a tiny soldier.
"Henry," she said, then caught herself and tried again. "Lord Henry. You promised to visit. You said you would come back. You did not."
My ears burned. I managed a smile that felt smaller than I wanted. "You are right. I am sorry. As soon as I put things in order, I will visit."
She thought about that, decided it was good enough, and gave a quick, fierce nod. The guard opened the door. Margery went out first with pride in every step. Matilda followed with quiet relief in her shoulders. Fegarth last, a final bow at the threshold, the old dignity of a man who used to have a place and had just found one again.
The door shut. The room seemed larger without them, and colder.
Father's shoulders eased a fraction. He turned to Grandfather. "There it is," he said. "They will stay."
Grandfather lowered himself back into the chair and set his cane aside. "There it is," he echoed. "And now the cost."
"Technically," Mnex said, "you just accepted a liability in a world that monetizes people as taxes. I am obligated to point this out so that when it explodes you cannot say I never warned you."
Thank you, I thought at him.
"You are welcome," he replied. "I accept payment in the form of not dying."
I let the quiet sit for a breath. "Maybe we should tell Captain Theo?" I said. "I mean… if the Janisarions arrive while we're still undecided, they'll force their own decision on us."
Father gave me a look that was not quite a glare. "Theo has his orders," he said. "I gave them before I called the three in."
He lifted Beaumont's letter and tapped it once against his palm. "This," he said, "does not leave this table. Not as rumor, not as a game. When the Janisarions stand at our gate, we will answer them with calm. We will answer them with order."
Grandfather nodded. "And with a hall full of witnesses," he added. "If they come to make a show of power, let our people see who bows first."
He looked at me. "Do you understand what just happened, Henry?"
I thought of Matilda's breath when she spoke. I thought of the way Fegarth had said no to protect the man who saved him. I thought of a little girl who remembered a promise.
"I think so," I said.
Grandfather's smile did not reach his eyes. "Then prepare yourself to be tested on it."
Father set the letter down again, then rubbed at the bridge of his nose. For a moment he looked older than I had ever seen him. When he spoke again, his voice had its strength back.
"Henry," he said, "you will go to the lower courtyard. Speak with the people you brought from Kayer's lands. Tell them the same thing I told those three. No one is forced to stay. No one is pushed to go. Those who remain will be counted and assigned. Those who leave will be escorted to the border with three days of rations."
"Rations are expensive," Mnex whispered. "But the cost of hatred is higher."
"I will go," I said.
Grandfather rose with a soft grunt and took up his cane. "And I will go to the walls," he said. "If our watchers have already spotted them, they'll be at our gate by noon. I want eyes on every angle and arrows counted twice."
Father nodded. "Do it."
We were about to part when the door opened again. The same guard stepped in, breath under control but eyes a shade too bright.
"My lord," he said to Father, "Captain Theo asks whether the eastern tower should bear our banner now, or only once the Janisarions are in sight."
Grandfather's gaze sharpened. Father thought for a heartbeat.
"Now," he said. "Let them know who we are from the very first step."
The guard saluted and left.
Grandfather moved to go as well, then paused beside me. He put a hand on my shoulder and pressed once.
"You did well to include them. Most lords wouldn't have. Small choices matter, Henry. Remember this one." he said.
"That hardly counts as doing well," I muttered.
"That is more than most lords do," he replied. "Remember this feeling when the price arrives."
He left. Father stayed a moment longer, staring at Beaumont's seal. Then he took the letter, folded it along its crease, and slid it into the drawer.
"Go on," he said.
I bowed and turned to the door. My hand touched the latch.
"Henry," Father said behind me.
I looked back.
"I do not regret giving them the choice to stay," he said. "Whatever comes."
Something in my chest loosened. I nodded. "Neither do I."
The mansion sounded different when the city waited. Servants spoke in hushed tones, their usual laughter gone. Boots echoed louder in the halls, the clink of armor sharper. In the courtyard, squad leaders barked counts, and boys hurried with bundles of arrows pressed to their chests. Someone had brushed fresh tar on the inner gate, precaution more than certainty, its black sheen stark under the morning light.
People from Kayer's villages were gathered near the well, clutching satchels and bundles. Faces I had seen by firelight looked different in daylight. Tired, but not broken. Some turned when I approached. Margery spotted me first and waved like we were friends. Matilda caught her hand and lowered it, but she could not hide the small smile.
Fegarth stood with two others, speaking low. He saw me and came forward.
"My lord," he said.
"Henry is fine," I said. "I am here to tell everyone what you heard inside. If you wish to go back, we will escort you. If you wish to stay, we will find you work and a roof. No one will be forced either way."
A murmur moved through the crowd. Some faces brightened. Some closed off, already counting risks. A woman with a baby asked about food. Someone asked about tools. Others stayed silent, their eyes fixed on the walls, remembering the shadows of other banners.
"Tell them about rations for those who leave," Mnex advised. "It matters."
"There will be three days of rations for those who choose to return," I added. "And a guard to keep the road clear."
That eased a corner of the worry. Questions rose and I answered what I could. Names were taken. Hands were counted. Choices were made with glances between parents and children, between siblings, between neighbors. It felt like handling glass, each word a careful place to set a fragile thing.
When the line thinned, Margery broke free again and planted herself in front of me with the authority of a queen in a too large dress.
"You said you would visit," she said. "Do not forget again."
"I will not," I said.
She nodded and stepped aside with great ceremony so that others could pass. Matilda mouthed a thank you she did not say aloud. Fegarth stood a little taller, as if a weight had shifted from his back to his legs where it belonged.
Across the courtyard, a banner unfurled over the gatehouse. The crest of Godfrey, three falcons over a mountain, each holding a scroll, a sword, and a ring, snapped once in the wind and streamed out, bright against the sky. People looked up and fell quiet.
"Symbolism," Mnex said. "Primitive, effective, unavoidable."
I looked up with them. For a moment, with the sun on the cloth and the city gathered below, it felt like the world could still be steered by hands instead of threats.
Then the bell at the eastern gate struck twice. The sound rolled across the yard and bounced from stone to stone. The boys with arrows stopped. The squad leaders turned. The murmur died.
Visitors on the road.