Isaac Grant woke up in the all-too-familiar damp cell. The tip of his nose was freezing from the overnight frost that penetrated straight to his bones - as if on purpose, the guard had "forgotten" to light the stove in the very wing where the mercenary was held that night.

Shifting on the hard wooden cot, Grant stretched and cracked his stiff neck. Sitting on the thin straw mattress, he tried with all his might to occupy his thoughts with anything else, yet time and again his mind returned to that girl.

“Spitting image...” he muttered softly into the empty darkness of the cell, mentally comparing her to the late Adelissa.

He immediately shook his head in frustration, attempting to brush the thoughts aside.

“Nonsense. Of course she looks like her... Her eyes are almost like Adrian’s, and her hair - they say his mother had hair just as snow-white. That’s all. Except... her facial features. And that look.”

The intense strain of his thoughts and memories brought a wild, throbbing pain surging back into the base of his skull.

“Damn it... Cursed hangover,” the prisoner rasped, leaning heavily back onto the wooden frame and covering his eyes with his palm.

The heavy, echoing sound of footsteps coming down the stone stairs reached his ears. Grant recognized the gait instantly. Two men were coming. One walked with the heavy, solid tread of an outpost guard; the other moved with small, hurried steps.

“You damned drunkard... I spent so much money on you last time, and now I had to fork out twice as much!” the merchant Oswald declared angrily, approaching the bars with tiny steps and brushing frost from his fur coat. “Are you even alive in there?”

“Alive and well... Always forgetting to die,” Grant replied without bothering to rise from the straw mattress. “Stop whining over my own money.”

“Yours, not yours - what difference does it make?! It’s the exact same thing every single time! The moment I manage to earn a bit extra, you inevitably get yourself into trouble, and boom - more unnecessary expenses!” Oswald rubbed his plump hands, which had grown cold in the damp cellar, and turned irritably to the silent guard. “Why is it so cold in here?! A man could freeze to death in this kennel!”

Isaac let out a bitter chuckle.

“Afraid your 'coin purse' will freeze? Or hoping for it?” Opening one eye, he offered the merchant a lazy squint. “In any case... when am I getting out of here?”

Oswald hesitated visibly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Well, here’s the thing... I paid the compensation to the injured guard in full, just as you said. The lad has no further grievances. However, the newly appointed temporary commander... the marquis’s representative... isn't in a hurry to let you out. He ordered you kept under lock and key until he meets you in person. That arrogant boy...”

The guard cleared his throat loudly and dryly, preparing to reprimand the merchant for disrespect toward authority.

“Anyway, just endure it a bit longer,” Oswald continued quickly, dropping his voice. “You should be released soon. And if they dig in their heels, I’ll figure something out.”

The merchant carefully slipped a small flask through the thick oak bars of the grate.

“It isn't alcohol. Hot herbal brew - drink it. To soothe your wretched head.”

Isaac rose lazily from the cot, walked over to the bars, and took the flask. The warm metal felt pleasant against his frozen fingers.

“Did you take the medallion to be repaired?” he asked quietly, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Ah... that...” Oswald sighed. “Barely managed to find a local jeweler. He’ll repair the casing and the latch, but... the flower crumbled. The dried daisy turned to dust the moment he opened the lid.”

Grant merely smirked bitterly, watching the warm steam rise from the flask.

“Turned to ash as well, then...”

Uncapping the flask, he drained the herbal brew to the bottom in a few greedy gulps.

“You don't need to pick up the medallion from the shop, Oswald. Leave it to the jeweler for his trouble. I have no use for it anymore.”

Felix von Allen carefully stepped over the wooden debris that had been a sturdy chair just yesterday. The young lord slowly surveyed the wrecked office, his eyes coming to a rest on a deep mark left by a sword in the stone wall - where the dried, dark traces of Vogel’s blood still lingered.

Stepping closer, Felix let out a low whistle of surprise and respect.

“And the night brawler did this?” Allen asked without even turning his head toward Adrian, who stood frozen near the door.

“Yes, Grant did that when he pinned the previous commander to the wall,” Fornweir replied in a restrained tone.

Allen shook his head, genuinely impressed by the depth and force of the blow.

“The former knight must still be in formidable shape to pull off something like this against an armed man so easily...”

The new temporary commander of the outpost walked unhurriedly over to the massive oak armchair and sank into it. A faint, subtle, and slightly slippery smile flickered across his young, aristocratic face. With a graceful gesture, he motioned Fornweir toward the surviving chair opposite the desk.

Adrian sat down in silence, maintaining his military bearing and an unreadable expression.

“His Grace, Marquis de Beaufort, personally tasked me with restoring order at this outpost and returning all the funds stolen by Vogel to the treasury. I was informed that it was you who uncovered the culprit and his audacious crime.”

“It was not I,” Adrian corrected him in an even tone. “All the discrepancies in the figures were found by my daughter, Adelissa. I merely helped her properly organize the evidence and dispatched it to the marquis via the mail carriage.”

Felix von Allen steeled his fingers into a steepled wedge and leaned forward slightly.

“Right, right...” he drawled thoughtfully, an ironical, dangerous gleam flashing in his eyes. “Corruption, embezzlement, favoritism, explicitly hiring close relatives...”

Adrian flinched almost imperceptibly, instantly catching where the young lord was heading. Noticing this sharp reaction, Felix let out a quiet, genuine laugh.

“It’s quite all right, Master Fornweir - do not strain yourself so. In remote places like Grünwald, there is always a catastrophic shortage of literate folk. And your daughter not only uncovered hidden evidence of a crime, but she didn't flinch either when His Grace the Marquis’s men intercepted her yesterday. She explained your joint plan to them with complete clarity and purpose.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits from his satisfied smile.

Adrian silently caught his breath, feeling a subtle weight lift from his heart. Yet in the very next second, the air in the office grew perceptibly heavy once more.

“You belong to the ancestral branch of the late queen, do you not?” Allen asked dryly, his tone suddenly dropping heavy and cold as he stared directly at him with deliberate pressure.

Fornweir winced internally at such a rapid shift in the young lord's demeanor.

“I do,” Adrian stated flatly.

“Short and to the point. I approve,” Felix smiled again instantly, as though that icy tone had never existed. “To be frank, I was quite surprised that you were admitted into the local administrative service at all, given that you bear the brand of a family of traitors. Nevertheless, you perform your duties more than admirably. I have examined your records thoroughly: during your first years in exile, you even taught local children literacy at the school.”

Felix rose unhurriedly from behind the desk and stepped right up to Fornweir. Though the young nobleman was nearly half Adrian's age, the aura radiating from him felt... dangerous, smooth, and almost serpentine.

“Since I currently lack a deputy of my own, I am in dire need of someone who knows the terrain, the locals, and the internal operations,” Allen said, looking down at him. “As of today, I am officially appointing you to that position. Warn your family that in the coming weeks, you will regularly be staying late.”

He paused and extended his hand to Adrian for a handshake.