The Verith castle juts up over the mountains, a dark stone edifice against the deep blue sky. Irenis swallows. It looks nothing like the Casmenoc mansion. The enormous gates are barred with steel and Irenis can feel the warding runes’ power from here.

Sir Gurstel doesn’t seem to notice the wards at all. He swaggers up to the gates and knocks on them. “Hello! Hail the castle!”

The walls bristle with guards almost immediately. Irenis shrinks in her saddle. “That’s a lot of guards.”

Sir Jacryn gives her a reassuring smile. “I think they’re mostly all here because this margravate guards from regular monster attacks. The Casmenocs were set to defend from pirates, so they have a smaller land guard and a much more robust navy.”

That’s right, they do. There was a famine when Irenis was seven, but even without potatoes or bread there was still fish. Pirates or other nations didn’t attack their sole food source because of the Casmenoc navy.

One of the Verith guards calls down, “What is your purpose here?”

Sir Gurstel blusters, “Why I never! Shouldn’t you welcome reinforcements with open arms? We are here from the Casmenoc margravate to join the forces on the ramparts!”

The Verith guards look at each other. The one on the left gestures slightly down at their visitors. The one on the right shrugs and calls down, “We received no notice of your visit! Please allow us a moment to check with the margrave!” A small head bobs briefly above the battlements before disappearing. That was probably a page sent for the margrave.

Sir Gurstel stalks back over to the group. “What kind of establishment are they running? They should at least let us in and give us shelter! The hospitality in this place…”

Irenis tunes him out. Letting twenty armed knights with unknown intentions into your stronghold is very bad practice, even to Irenis’s untrained eye.

Everyone takes the chance to get off their horses and stretch their legs. Irenis combs Midge to get off all the mud from last night’s rain. Midge tries to eat her hair.

Sir Jacryn kindly doesn’t laugh at her predicament. “Irenis, would you like to do drills together?”

Irenis blinks at him, then smiles. “Sure! Let me put my hair up.” Her hair tie is coming loose and almost all her bobby pins are scattered along the King’s Road, but she still manages to fit her hair under a helmet.

Sir Jacryn watches with a wistful expression. “I wish I knew how to do up my hair like that.”

“Hm?” Irenis lowers her hands cautiously, but the helmet and braids stay in place. “This is really a style more for balls and parties than for training. It’s really fancy.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Sir Jacryn pushes his braid back over his shoulder. “There’s a reason I grew out my hair so long.”

It has been kind of fun to braid someone’s hair other than hers. Irenis gives her helmet one more tap and holds out her hands. “I could do your hair for you?”

“I’d be honored.” Sir Jacryn combs his hair out with his fingers and turns around to sit with his back to Irenis.

The idiots are mercifully occupied debating whether they can shoot that deer, or if doing so will bring the monstrous margrave’s wrath down on their heads. Irenis starts humming a minuet to tune them out and focuses on Jacryn’s hair.

It’s really nice hair for a male knight. Even Irenis’s is never this soft and easy to work with. “How do you make your hair so nice?”

“I use a comb instead of a brush, and there are a couple potions that I know how to make and apply weekly. You might have noticed I smell astringent sometimes?”

“I assumed that it was your soap and that it’d be rude to ask.” Though that does explain why his skin is so dry and the dark circles under his eyes are so prominent. Any soap worth the money would moisturize.

“It’s hair potion.”

“Cool.” Irenis finishes the last braid and starts weaving them all together. This style is useful in that it holds itself up with only one or two bobby pins, and it’s small enough to fit under a helmet.

Sir Jacryn reaches up to pat the braids when she’s done. “Nice and secure. I like it.”

Irenis pulls some water out of her canteen to make a mirror for him.

“Oh, it’s so pretty! Thank you!” Sir Jacryn beams at her with what seems like honest joy. Irenis beams back.

Sir Jacryn stands up and brushes off his trousers. “Now then, shall we drill?”

They get through two of the drills before the idiots lose track of the deer. Sir Gurstel stalks over and sneers, “Wow, your hair’s so cute, Jacryn!”

“Thank you.” Sir Jacryn doesn’t even seem ruffled. Irenis wants to learn that composure.

“Though one thing confuses me. It’s almost like you want to look like a girl!”

“It’s almost like you think being womanly is shameful.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Irenis notices activity on the walls. The guards are all running around now. She glances over her shoulder, but she can’t see any monsters that would freak them out like that.

Sir Gurstel, not getting any anger from Jacryn, leans sideways to leer at Irenis. “Do you really think this is going to do anything?”

Irenis swallows and tries to ignore him.

“No matter how hard you work, you’ll always be a bastard who should’ve been sent off to a convent. Or drowned.”

Don’t react. Don’t react. Sir Jacryn doesn’t react, so why are you crying, stupid girl?

A trumpet blast interrupts Sir Gurstel’s next jeer. One of the Verith guards shouts, “You can come in and meet the margrave now!”

Yay! Irenis quickly puts on Midge’s harness and follows the Casmenoc knights up to the gates.

The gates creak open and the wards pop as the group leads their horses through. Irenis shakes her head and stretches her jaw. The pops felt like they were inside her skull. Very bad sensation.

No one else seems to have noticed, or maybe they’re just better at hiding their discomfort.

The courtyard spreads out around them. There’s some grass, dull and wilted this late in the year, but most of the ground is hard-packed dirt with some gravel. Along the insides of the walls are shops and artisans’ quarters, built out of well-cut and sturdy wood. A smaller stone building attached to the main castle has colorful textiles hung in the windows. That must be either a weavers’ factory or a merchant dormitory.

Most notably, though, all the people look different from each other. The Casmenocs hired locally for everything, from scullerymaids to the butler and head maid. Hegemony was a virtue there. However, it seems the Veriths don’t care about where their hires lived before coming here. The people are almost as colorful as the textiles, with a range of skin colors and a rainbow riot of hair colors. Irenis almost blends in among them.

Several grooms arrive to take the horses. Irenis can only tell they’re grooms from their uniforms; they look like soldiers, down to curved knives at their belts. Midge tries to lip Irenis’s hair one more time and then lets herself be led away. Irenis wants to wave goodbye, but keeps her hands at her sides. She needs to be mature.

From the courtyard, they’re led through the grand doors. They’re solid wood and warded even more strongly than the gates. As they pass through, Irenis doesn’t stretch her jaw this time, but it takes an effort. Good thing I’ll be going to the ramparts after this. I’d hate having to deal with that every single day.

As they continue through the simply but attractively decorated foyer, Irenis notices something that disturbs her. She taps Sir Jacryn’s gauntlet. “All the servants are armed.”

“Good eye. I’d noticed that as well. I wonder why.” Sir Jacryn falls back slightly. Irenis breathes a tiny sigh of relief. Having someone trustworthy at her back makes her feel so much better.

They get into the receiving hall, a tall and airy room that’s draped with banners and tapestries. Irenis peers at one out of the corner of her eye which seems to be depicting a godly hunt. Or something? The colorwork is much different from that of the Casmenocs’ decorations. It’s all blocky and the human figures are picked out in color on black fabric. Overall, the room seems far less sterile than the Casmenoc receiving halls.

The dais in front of them holds two chairs of equal size with almost identical decoration. Irenis can’t tell which one is for the margrave and which is for the margravine. Both are emblazoned with the Verith crest, a dragon roaring on a verdant shield.

In front of the dais stands a man in simple clothing. He’s on the tall side of average, with dark brown skin, a short, neatly-trimmed beard, and deep black hair that falls down his back in small, stiff curls. Other than a simple golden circlet to keep his hair out of his dark eyes, he doesn’t wear much ornamentation. Merely a golden earring and a wedding brooch over his heart.

Sir Gurstel inhales, probably to complain. Irenis screws up her courage, steps forward and on Sir Gurstel’s foot, and curtsies deeply. “We humbly greet the margrave Maedis Verith and thank him for his hospitality in receiving us.”

The margrave is no monster. He’s merely a man, and a handsome man at that. Irenis’s stomach churns. What else could the Casmenocs have been wrong about?