The air of the portal chamber still clung to Rowan's skin when the silence was broken.A mage in deep blue robes stepped forward, inclining his head with measured formality.
"The passage was successful," he said, his voice calm but carrying easily. With a flick of his hand, he gestured to one of the armored knights waiting near the doors. "Escort them out."
The knight bowed and motioned for them to follow. Rowan trailed behind Ferris, the Nirathali knights moving in practiced formation. The chamber opened to a wide courtyard beyond, the stone darker here than in Vareth, veined faintly with silver. Waiting for them was a grand carriage: its lacquered frame polished to a mirror sheen, wheels banded with steel, and its crest emblazoned proudly with the mark of Nirathal's royal line, a silver stag standing beneath a crescent moon.
More knights stood ready around it, their helms gleaming, forming a living wall of steel.
Rowan climbed in after Ferris, sinking into velvet seats softer than he expected. As the carriage rolled forward, the escort of mounted guards closed in tight around them, their lances upright and banners snapping in the chill wind. Through the narrow window, Rowan caught glimpses of Ashvarn, the capital of Nirathal. Its streets stretched wide and ordered, its towers sharp and angular, carved from stone so dark it looked almost black in the fading light. Magic hummed faintly in the air, a constant pulse beneath the city's breath.
They drove straight through the avenues without pause, cutting past markets, plazas, and bridges, until at last the palace came into view. Vast and gleaming white, it dominated the skyline, far larger than the ducal seat of Vexlaar. It rose not from a mountain nor from jagged peaks, but from the heart of the city itself. Its broad walls and soaring arches were crowned with silver banners bearing the crest of Nirathal.
The carriage slowed at the grand stairs, and Ferris was first to step down. He turned briefly to the knights who had followed them since Vareth.
"Your duty is done," he said with curt respect. "Rest well. You've served enough on this road."
The knights saluted once, then dispersed under the guidance of the palace guard.
Ferris motioned for Rowan to follow. Together, they passed through the vast gates and into the palace itself. Hall after hall stretched before them, stone corridors lit with enchanted torches, their glow steady and smokeless. The air carried the weight of silence, broken only by the sound of armored boots and distant murmurs.
At length, they entered a broad hall that reminded Rowan of a medieval office, its shelves stacked with scrolls and ledgers, desks ordered with neat stacks of parchment and ink. At the center sat a man in his thirties, ordinary in appearance, his dark hair cropped short, his clothes simple though well-kept.
"Ferris," the man said as he rose, a small but genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Good to see you again." His eyes then shifted to Rowan, sharp though not unkind. "I take it the escort was successful."
Ferris inclined his head. "Yes. No incidents. Rowan Vexlaar stands before you." His tone carried a finality to it, as though completing a duty long assigned. "Please inform His Majesty."
The man's expression softened with professional ease. "Already done. It may take a few minutes before you are summoned. Wait here."
Rowan sat stiffly, every muscle taut as the silence thickened. Minutes seemed to drag, each one heavier than the last. At last, the doors creaked open, and an attendant stepped inside.
"Master Ferris. Young Rowan Vexlaar. His Majesty summons you both to the throne room."
Rowan's head lifted sharply, though this was no surprise. It was expected that they would be called before the king. Ferris rose at once, his expression calm and composed, as though this had been a matter already decided.
"Very well," he said simply, his voice carrying a steady weight that seemed to cut through Rowan's unease. He adjusted his cloak, then cast a measured glance at Rowan. "Come. Walk with me."
The two of them followed the attendant out into the corridors. The steps of the Nirathali knights echoed behind them, armored boots striking a slow, steady rhythm that matched Rowan's pounding heart. The palace's polished marble floors reflected the glow of enchanted lanterns, and tall windows spilled faint moonlight into the halls.
Rowan tried to steady his breathing, but his chest still tightened the further they went. The last time he had stood in a great hall like this had been under the shadow of the Vexlaar dukedom, cold, suffocating, merciless. His palms grew damp.
Ferris seemed to notice. Without breaking stride, he leaned closer and spoke low, his tone firm but almost reassuring. "Do not let your thoughts trouble you. This is not the court of House Vexlaar. Here, you will not be treated as you were there. You may breathe easier."
Rowan blinked at him, startled, then felt some of the tension in his shoulders loosen. He gave a small nod, his steps steadier. The fear in his chest did not vanish, but it dulled, tempered by Ferris's certainty.
As they approached, the throne room doors loomed tall and imposing, carved with silver-lined etchings of Nirathal's crest. The attendants pushed them open with a slow groan, revealing the vast chamber beyond.
Rowan's breath caught. He stepped inside.
The throne room was vast, far larger than Vexlaar's chamber, its vaulted ceiling stretching high above, banners of deep blue and silver cascading down the walls. Light from enchanted chandeliers fell across marble floors polished to a mirror sheen.
And at the heart of it all, upon a dais flanked by guards in silver plate, sat King Hector Ashvall on his throne.
He was in his early forties, his presence commanding without need for words. Broad-shouldered, robed in dark velvet traced with silver, he moved with deliberate calm, as though every gesture marked the measure of the court itself.
As Rowan entered, he felt eyes pressing down on him from all sides, the lords and ministers seated along the hall's edges. Their expressions were mostly neutral, composed masks of courtesy. Yet beneath it, Rowan sensed the same undercurrent of disdain he had felt in Vexlaar's court. The weight of judgment, unspoken but heavy, pressed in from every corner.
Rowan swallowed hard, his chest tight. It was all too familiar.And now, all eyes turned toward him.
After they entered the center of the court, the chamber quieted.
One of the court officers stepped forward, bowing low before the throne. "Lord Ferris, His Majesty requests your report."
Ferris moved with practiced ease, offering a respectful salute before recounting the escort. Clear skies, steady progress, no disturbances upon the road, and safe arrival in the Crownlands branch. His words carried weight, and each syllable seemed to settle into the chamber like stone.
When he finished, the king leaned back slightly, his sharp gaze falling upon Rowan. For a breath, Rowan felt as though that single look could strip away every layer he wore, leaving nothing hidden.
"Welcome to Nirathal, Rowan," the king said at last, his voice low but carrying across the hall. "You have traveled far. Rest now. We will speak tomorrow."
With a flick of his hand, he gestured to an attendant waiting at the edge of the court. The man stepped forward immediately, bowing and motioning for Rowan to follow.
Rowan cast a final glance at the throne before turning away. The attendant guided him through polished corridors and up a wide staircase, past tapestries woven with threads of silver and blue. Finally, they stopped before a set of tall double doors.
When they opened, Rowan stepped inside. Rich velvet drapes framed the windows, a carved bed stood draped in silks, and a faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. It was a room of elegance and refinement, its quiet luxury undeniable.
For the first time in days, Rowan allowed his shoulders to ease. The tension that had clung to him since leaving Vexlaar slowly unwound, if only a little. Tomorrow he would finally stand before his uncle, the king. What awaited him there, he could not yet know, but the thought stirred a quiet excitement within him. At last, he would have the chance to seek the answers that had haunted him.