My hand trembled as I clutched the crumpled piece of paper, its edges softened from my nervous folding and unfolding. The grand metal gates loomed before me, their intricate swirls and menacing spikes seeming to mock my confusion.

"Luci?" Eamon's voice pulled me back from the edge of my daze, "What are you waiting for?"

I blinked, turning to face him, my green eyes clouded with doubt. 

"This can't be right," I murmured, gesturing helplessly at the address written in my mother's elegant script. "In her final days, maybe she didn't know what she was writing."

Eamon peered over my shoulder at the stately home, its windows watching us like silent observers in the afternoon sun. 

"Why would you think that?"

"Because," I sighed, the word heavy on my tongue, "she never spoke of coming from this." I gestured to the grand mansion before us. 

He chuckled softly, the sound strangely hollow against the backdrop of such opulence. 

"In fairness, Luci, your mother never really talked much about her family or past. And it's not like you grew up a peasant yourself. You were once wealthy—"

I cut him off with a quick shake of my head, my dark hair whipping across my cheeks. 

"Not like this," I whispered, overwhelmed by the enormity of the estate.

The resolve that had carried me across continents and oceans wilted under the weight of intimidation. 

"I'll come back another day," I decided abruptly, turning to leave.

As we started to retreat, the rattle of wheels on cobblestone halted us. A carriage, lacquered and gleaming, drew up to the estate. With military precision, several guards appeared, their uniforms pristine, to open the gates and shield those inside from the commoners' gaze. 

My attention snagged on the briefest flutter of curtains; a pair of green eyes met mine, curious and fleeting, before the carriage slipped into the property and left us behind.

"Luci," Eamon caught up to my retreating form, his steps brisk. "Why don't you ask? Confirm this is the place?"

"It didn't feel like the right time," I admitted, though my own words rang hollow even to my ears.

"Six months, Luciana," Eamon reminded me gently. "We've been traveling for six months to get here."

"Sorry," I muttered, knowing the toll our journey had taken on us both. "But I'm just not ready to face a family I've never known, who likely doesn't even know who I am. Especially one that must clearly be nobility."

Our footsteps echoed off the stone streets as we made our way Fyrastra, Aurorea's capital, passing vendors hawking exotic spices and colorful textiles. Buildings rose around us, their facades adorned with the gilded remains of history. The air was thick with the sounds of commerce and the sweet tang of life in full bloom.

Eventually, we arrived at an inn nestled between two imposing structures. Its sign creaked softly in the breeze. The inn promised warmth and rest, a respite from the grand uncertainties looming over my head.

"Two rooms for the night?" Eamon inquired of the innkeeper, his voice steady despite the day's revelations.

"Of course," came the reply as two keys slid across the worn wooden counter into my outstretched hand.

With a weary nod of thanks, we ascended the stairs, the promise of sanctuary guiding our way.

Eamon opened the door to my modest room, stepping into the dim, comforting space.

 "Shall we find some dinner?" he asked, his voice tinged with the lightness of routine.

I fished out a small pouch from my pocket, letting the few remaining coins jingle dismally. I shook my head, rueful. 

"We'll have to share something. And I can pick up some work tomorrow."

Eamon's brows knitting together in concern, "We must tread carefully here. Aurorea is not like Nimrea, your talents... they could draw unwanted attention. I will look for work."

I laughed. 

"And what labor will you seek? The role of 'esteemed personal attendant' isn't widely sought after in these parts."

Eamon feigned a wounded expression, touching a hand to his chest. 

"There's more to me than meets the eye," he protested, though the glint in his blue eyes betrayed his mirth.

"Sure there is," I chuckled, my gaze fond. "After all, who would know you better than I?"

We descended the stairs to the pub area, where the scent of roasting meat and spiced ale filled the air. We quickly found a table in the middle of the room, and a young girl approached, pad in hand, ready to take our orders.

"What'll it be tonight?" she chirped, looking between us expectantly.

"Roasted chicken, some side dishes of vegetables and rice, and your cheapest fruit juice." Eamon requested, his tone polite and practiced.

Turning her attention to me, the young girl hesitated before asking, "And for you, miss?"

"We'll share," interjected Eamon before I had the chance to speak. The girl gave a curt nod and disappeared back towards the kitchen.

"Old habits die hard, do they?" I ribbed him gently, "You're not my attendant anymore, Eamon."

"Then what am I?" he asked, a half-smile curving his lips as he leaned back into his chair.

"Simply my best friend," I affirmed, our connection softening the edges between us.

When the food arrived, the portions were laughably small, a far cry from the hearty meals surrounding patrons enjoyed. Glancing towards the kitchen, I caught sight of the cook and barmaid exchanging sneers in our direction. It was an intentional slight. Eamon's jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly as he prepared to rise, but I laid a calming hand on his arm.

"Leave it," I murmured before bowing my head, my hands coming together in an imitation of prayer. Eamon watched me, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he recognized the subtle movements of my fingers—I was no more praying than the cook was innocent.

A sharp cry shattered the murmurs of the pub, followed by a cacophony of crashing pots and clanging pans. Heads whipped toward the kitchen as a cloud of flour dust billowed out like a specter escaping confinement. Through the haze, the cook, his apron askew, teetered on one foot before landing squarely on his backside amidst a scattered array of vegetables.

The barmaid, in her attempt to navigate the chaos, skidded on a rogue tomato, flailing wildly with a tray of ale mugs that took flight, showering their golden contents like a summer rain over the cook's prone form. The patrons erupted into laughter as the two disgruntled employees exchanged a mortified glance, their earlier sneers wiped clean by the slapstick misfortune.

"Brilliantly done, my lady," Eamon whispered to me, leaning closer with admiration glittering in his eyes.

"Whatever do you mean?" I replied, my voice laced with feigned innocence while a knowing smirk played upon my lips.

As we turned back to our meager meal, the pub door swung open with an authoritative thud, catching the attention of all within the pub. Three dashing men adorned in crisp emerald and gold uniforms strode in, their presence commanding immediate silence.

Eamon's gaze lingered a moment too long, his admiration palpable. I, amused by his infatuation, offered him a napkin with a teasing arch of my brow. 

"For your drool, dear Eamon."

The whispers now returned, swirling through the room like an invisible tide. "Knights of the Marquess of Lorne... here? Why?" Puzzled glances were exchanged, the patrons' curiosity piqued as the knights scanned the room with a sense of purpose that sent a ripple of tension through the air.

My hand tightened around my fork, the metal cool against my skin, as I watched the knights' every move with wary green eyes. Eamon, still enchanted by the unexpected guests, barely registered the unease settling heavy in the room.

Eamon's cheeks flushed a shade of rose as the lead knight locked eyes on our table, his stride confident and purposeful. Quick fingers tugged at the collar of his shirt as Eamon smoothed out imaginary creases while his other hand swept through his dirty blond hair, streaked with strands of moonlight silver that glistened under the inn's dim lighting.

"Oh, they're coming over here. How do I look?" Eamon's voice quivered slightly, betraying his composed exterior.

I couldn't help but laugh softly, my gaze affectionate. 

"As beautiful as always," I assured him, my words echoing the truth I saw every day. 

Eamon, with his sharp jawline that could cut glass, eyes as bright and captivating as a clear summer day, and hair that seemed to capture the perfect balance between meticulously styled and effortlessly tousled, was undeniably attractive. He was the kind of person who drew eyes wherever he went, a fact I was acutely aware of, having seen countless people lavish him with attention all my life.

Despite the numerous admirers, Eamon had remained curiously detached from any serious entanglements, a topic that had once come up in our many conversations. 

"I enjoy the chase, the validation," he had confessed to me, his voice carrying a hint of amusement and a touch of melancholy. "But once that's achieved, the interest wanes."

The first knight, his own attractiveness notable with broad shoulders and chiseled features, halted before us. His voice cut through the murmurs of the pub like a sword through silk. "Miss, you must come with me," he said directly to me. 

Eamon, ever the protective friend, arched an eyebrow, masking his concern with a dash of his usual charm. 

"And just where do you plan on taking my lady?" he inquired, his tone laced with mock indignation.

It was as if the knight truly noticed Eamon for the first time, his gaze flicking towards him but offering no reply. Instead, he doubled down on his demand to me. 

"You are required to accompany me back. The Marquess has summoned you."

Confusion rippled between Eamon and me, a silent conversation passing through our shared glance. 

"What could the Marquess possibly want with me? I have no dealings with him," I finally voiced, my confusion turning into a hint of defiance.

The knight's face twisted into a look of scorn, his patience wearing thin. 

"My lady, it would be wise not to cause a scene. It's in your best interest to comply," he pressed, his tone veering into the realm of threats.

That was the last straw for Eamon. Gone was the playful demeanor, replaced by a steely resolve as he stood, placing himself squarely between me and the knight. 

"As the lady has clearly stated, she has no business with the Marquess," Eamon retorted, meeting the knight's gaze with an unwavering one of his own.

Tension crackled in the air, palpable and sharp, as the two knights behind their spokesman subtly reached for their swords. The pub, a moment ago buzzing with the hum of quiet conversations, fell into hushed anticipation.

Just as the standoff seemed to reach its peak, another figure stepped into the pub, commanding attention with a simple, "That is quite enough." At his words, the knights reluctantly relaxed, hands moving away from their weapons.

The aged man's gait was slow but purposeful as he approached their table, his silvered hair a stark contrast against the black threads that clung to youth. His eyes held a gravity that commanded attention, yet they softened apologetically as he spoke, "My deepest regrets for the commotion. The knights serve with a zeal that sometimes outpaces their discretion."

I felt my spine stiffen, with my skepticism a stone in my gut. Eamon's hand rested lightly on my arm, a silent assurance of our united front.

"Earlier, you stood at the gates of Marquess of Lorne's estate," the older gentleman continued, a sigh slipping through his words as neither Eamon nor I made a move to rise. "You were seen by his lordship. "

A flicker of understanding passed between Eamon and me as we both recalled the arriving carriage.

"Ah," the gentleman murmured, noting our dawning realization. He turned on a heel, his movement signaling they follow him when the barmaid's shrill voice cut through the hushed whispers of the inn.

"Wait! You need to pay for your meal."

I reached for the small pouch, its light jingle belying the scant coins within, but was stayed by the elder's upraised hand. 

"The Marquess' estate shall cover the expenses," he declared, intercepting the bill from the waitress whose earlier malice had now dissolved into curiosity.

A crease marked his brow as he perused the charges, and glanced at the food on our table. His lips pressing into a thin line. 

With a strained smile and the clink of coin, the matter was settled.

Outside, the air was cool, carrying the scents of the capital as we approached a carriage of green and gold, waiting on the cobblestone street. It was elegant without ostentation, a graceful vessel amidst the city's heartbeat. Eamon's hand was gentle at my back, guiding me into the carriage before following suit.

The older man exchanged hushed words with the knights — a clandestine conversation punctuated by stern nods before two disappeared back into the pub. The assertive knight who had spoken to me inside, mounted a magnificent black steed, a silent sentinel watching over as the carriage door closed with a soft click.

Silence enveloped us as the carriage wheels began their steady roll against the cobbled path. My heart thrummed a nervous rhythm, mirrored by the clop-clop of hooves outside.

"Who are you and what does the Marquess want with my lady?" Eamon's voice finally shattered the quiet, his usual charm subdued by the gravity of their situation.

The older gentleman's gaze lingered on us, a well of secrets behind his contemplative stare.

"I am Lord Abernathy, advisor to the Marquess," he finally replied, dipping his head deferentially. "My apologies for the rather...forceful summons. The Marquess is not accustomed to refusal, you see. As for why you are needed, I'm afraid the particulars must come directly from him."

I bristled, my earlier defiance sparking anew. "And if we choose not to accompany you further?"

Abernathy's smile faded, his eyes glinting dangerously. "I would not advise that course, my lady."

With that, the carriage rolled on, the night wrapping around us, a cocoon from which they would emerge into an uncertain dawn.