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The prince's carriage stopped hard in front of the main entrance — no slowing, no grace, as though the coachman had orders to make the whole estate flinch.
"Your Grace," Alan said quietly, "he was not meant to come in person."
"That is exactly why he did," the Duke answered.
The hall had been prepared in haste — too quickly to look truly ready. Nanthelm had only managed to open the shutters and light a few candles in the central holder. The room sat half-drowned in shadow: dark beams overhead, heavy drapes, and the crest cut into stone between the windows. The negotiation table stood in the center, but no one approached it.
The Prince did not wait to be announced. He walked in at once, wearing a smile that never reached his eyes. Black hair, a dark coat without ornament, movements level and precise — the cold certainty of a man who never had to justify his presence. Two men followed him. They stopped at the door, scanning the room with methodical eyes before the Crown Prince spoke his first word.
"Duke."
"Your Highness."
Short bows. Neither man rushed to break the silence. The candles burned without flickering; the air felt frozen in place.
"I decided not to rely on reports. The situation in the east raises too many questions. And you have again refused the sweep of the territories out there. So I will see to it myself."
Alan pressed his lips together, feeling his shoulders go numb.
/"This has nothing to do with the east."/
"My refusal is grounded," the Duke said evenly. "I have my reasons."
The Prince tilted his head, just as a hunter studies prey before the shot.
"And you believe the empire's affairs do not concern you?"
"I believe," the Duke said, weighing each word, "that sending my people to the far edge of the empire would be a mistake."
Alan felt the air in the room draw tighter.
"It is an imperial decree," the Prince reminded him quietly.
"It is an order that does not account for the real state of things."
Their gazes met.
"You are questioning my father's decision?"
"I am questioning the reliability of the information His Majesty received."
The Prince's smile widened. That was the ugliest part of it — it grew more visible exactly when something had struck true.
"Careful, Duke. That sounds as though you know more than the Emperor."
"I know my forest. It has changed."
"Strange," the Prince murmured. "The forest has always been there. And monsters are not meant to appear inside a duchy."
"But they are appearing. And they are moving closer."
Alan took an involuntary half-step forward. The Prince's gaze slid to him — a single second, no more — and the cold of it went straight to the bone.
"That is a local problem," the Crown Prince snapped. "The east needs your people specifically."
"My duty is to defend my own lands."
"Your duty is to follow the Crown's orders."
"If I send my people east," the Duke said calmly, "no one will be left here to hold back what is already closing in."
The Prince took a step — not toward the Duke, but sideways, as if to study an old tapestry on the wall. Alan recognized the maneuver at once: a predator circling for a weak point in the defense.
"By my reports, the monsters have not merely grown active. They are migrating — specifically from the east. And if that is true..." — the Prince's smile thinned — "then your forest may only be a consequence."
"Or a pretext."
The Prince gave a small shrug.
"Interesting," Erebus said quietly. "You speak with such certainty, as though you already know the two are connected."
Something shifted in the Duke's face — a muscle near his eyes twitched, and then his expression settled into a single frozen mask.
"I work with the facts I have."
"Of course."
Now it was the Duke who closed the distance.
"Monsters in the east, and sudden changes in my forest." His eyes held Erebus's without blinking. "And you know about both."
The Duke let the words settle before he went on.
"I would guess it is one and the same problem. Or someone very much wants us to think so. I do not play games with this."
"And I do."
"Because if they are connected," the Duke's voice hardened, "then someone is either controlling it, or deliberately creating the conditions to let it happen."
"Are you implying something, Duke?"
"I am only trying to understand who benefits."
For a moment the silence turned almost tangible. Even the candle wicks made no sound. The Prince's fingers curled, briefly, into a fist — a gesture shorter than a heartbeat — and then his hand relaxed again. The smile returned, but it was different now. Tighter. More deliberate.
"Careful, Duke. Assumptions like that can look... dangerous."
Alan caught the flicker in the Prince's hand and held his breath. It was not the words that frightened him — it was the pause before the last one.
/"He struck something."/
Alan glanced at his lord. The Duke's face stayed unreadable. Too unreadable.
/"He did that on purpose."/
The tension in the room climbed to its edge. But the Prince had the look of a man who had received exactly what he came for. Not a defeat — a confirmation.
/"If the Prince decides to answer this... it will no longer be a conversation."/
But the Duke did not look away.
"I rely on facts alone."
"Excellent, then. In that case, I will stay at your estate for a while."
The Prince turned slowly to the window, where the tended rows of the garden stretched into the evening dusk. His voice came out indifferent, as though his thoughts had already wandered elsewhere.
"I want to see everything with my own eyes."
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