The dining hall of Castle Larkenshire proved nothing like the grand chambers of Ayzelsted.

  Where the Cardinal City boasted soaring ceilings and pristine stonework, this room offered a different kind of charm—warm, lived?in, undeniably cozy. Oil lamps cast a gentle glow across the space, joined by a crackling hearth that pushed back the evening chill. Edric noticed colorful tapestries hung to disguise the more obvious repair work, their vibrant threads depicting scenes of halfling folklore.

  The table itself was surprisingly large, given the stature of its usual occupants—a solid oak affair that could easily seat twelve. Instead of typical chairs, most places were set with cushioned backstools raised high enough for halflings to reach the table comfortably. By contrast, the full?sized chairs clearly prepared for Edric and Mira looked almost throne?like.

  “We had this built for giants who never come,” Zylenaia joked, catching Edric eyeing the furniture.

  “Prepared just in case we'd ever host foreign delegates.” She gestured toward the larger chairs. “I’m happy they've become useful now.”

  “They look comfortable,” Edric assured her, taking his seat.

  Mira moved to pull out Zylenaia’s stool, but the Regent waved her off.

  “Not tonight,” she said firmly. “Tonight you’re a guest, not staff.”

  The door opened, admitting a halfling man in simple religious vestments. His most striking feature was the intricate web of tattooed crests covering every visible inch of skin—face, neck, and hands, all patterned with faded sigils. Despite the intimidating markings, his eyes were warm and kind, his bearing calm and measured.

  “Brother Tarvish,” Zylenaia greeted him with genuine affection. “Thank you for joining us.”

  The priest bowed slightly, his voice soft and melodic. “The Herald’s favor is evident, Regent—you return home with one of His Heroes at your side!” Gentle wonder swirled in his eyes. “Galenmurk is honored to receive such rare guests beneath our humble roof.”

  *Another religious fanatic,* Edric thought, suppressing a grimace as memories of the robed figures from the summoning chamber flashed through his mind.

  “Brother Tarvish serves as our head clergyman here in Larkenshire,” Zylenaia said. “May I introduce Sir Edric—the Herald’s chosen Ranger Hero—and his attendant, Lady Mira.”

  Tarvish’s eyes lingered on Edric with curiosity. “Welcome to Galenmurk,” he said simply. “May you find what you seek here.”

  The next arrival was a stout halfling man in his mid?forties, dressed in practical clothing and a fur?lined vest that spoke of modest prosperity. His fingers were ink?stained, and a small ledger hung from his belt. He carried the easy confidence of someone long accustomed to difficult decisions.

  “Regent,” he greeted Zylenaia with a respectful nod. “Welcome home.”

  “Dorin,” she said warmly. Turning to Edric and Mira, she added, “Dorin heads our merchant guild. Without him, our economy would have collapsed years ago.”

  Dorin gave a self?deprecating chuckle. “The Regent exaggerates. I merely keep the ledgers balanced and the trade flowing.”

  He extended a hand to Edric. “A pleasure to meet the new hero. We’ve heard… interesting reports from the capital.”

  Edric accepted the handshake, appreciating the man’s direct manner. *A practical businessman,* he thought.

  The door opened again to admit a grizzled halfling whose weathered face told of decades in hard service. He walked with a slight limp, and Edric noticed he was missing two fingers from his left hand. Despite his small stature, his bearing was unmistakably military—back straight, eyes alert and assessing.

  “General Rennard,” Zylenaia acknowledged. “Sheriff of Larkenshire and head of Galenmurk defenses.”

  Rennard gave Edric a brief once?over—professional, noncommittal. There was no mockery in his gaze, only the careful measure of a veteran evaluating a potential asset… or liability.

  “Sir Edric,” he said, inclining his head.

  *He’s seen too much to be easily impressed,* Edric thought.

  The final arrival was a familiar face. Kornic entered without ceremony, his wolfish features unreadable as he claimed a seat. His cynical eyes lingered on Edric.

  “Kornic represents the Timblewhiff’s crew tonight,” Zylenaia explained, though the introduction seemed unnecessary.

  Edric felt a prickle of unease under Kornic’s watchful stare. *Not simple skepticism,* he guessed. *Something else. Something more personal.*

  The room quieted as the door opened once more to admit a halfling woman carrying the infant King Browen. Everyone—including Zylenaia—rose or inclined their heads in a brief show of respect. Edric found the gesture simultaneously absurd and oddly touching.

  *They’re treating a teething infant like an actual monarch,* he thought, fighting the urge to smile. *But their respect feels genuine.*

  Conversation resumed once the young king was settled in a specially designed high chair at the head of the table, with his caretaker seated beside him. Servants began bringing the first courses.

  Edric glanced around. Here—while skepticism lingered—there was also warmth, a sense of familiarity that felt almost… normal. As if he were simply a guest at dinner.

  *More like a family meal than a royal event,* he thought. *A good sign, perhaps.*

  When the final dish was set down, Brother Tarvish lifted his hand.

  “If I may offer the blessing?”

  The table quieted. Edric felt his shoulders tense, a familiar resentment rising as the priest began to pray to the Herald—the same god who had torn him from his world, from Sarah, and thrust him into this alien life. His jaw tightened as he stared at his plate, refusing to shut his eyes.

  The prayer was mercifully brief, but when Edric looked up, Brother Tarvish was studying him with that same gentle gaze.

  “Only once a generation does the Herald’s voice cross between worlds,” the priest said softly, eyes steady on Edric. “None are summoned without purpose.”

  Edric kept his expression composed, though anger burned beneath it. *Purpose? That’s supposed to make it better?* He had no interest in some holy design that had torn him away from the people he loved. He just wanted to go home—an impossibility growing fainter with every passing day.

  Servants brought platters of steaming food to the table—roasted duck glazed in a dark berry reduction, root vegetables fermented through the winter in ceramic crocks, and hearty loaves of bread that filled the air with a warm, yeasty aroma.

  Edric took a cautious bite of the vegetables, pleasantly surprised by their complex, tangy flavor. The meals in Ayzelsted’s prison had been bland sustenance at best, and even the lavish tournament feast had to prioritize catering to a larger venue. This, by contrast, was clearly prepared with care and pride.

  “How do you find our local fare, Sir Edric?” Dorin asked, breaking open a fresh loaf. A cloud of fragrant steam rose between them. “Different from what you’re accustomed to, I imagine.”

  “It’s good,” Edric said honestly, reaching for another helping of the vegetables. “These especially. I wasn’t expecting them to be so flavorful.”

  Zylenaia smiled, clearly pleased. “We may lack Ayzelsted’s refinement, but halfling cooking has its own merits. Those vegetables are made from an old family recipe—the longer they ferment, the better they taste.”

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  “The duck’s from yesterday’s hunt,” General Rennard added, tearing off a chunk with obvious relish. “Good hunting near the western marshes this season.”

  Brother Tarvish passed Edric a small ceramic pot. “Try this with the bread,” he offered. “Mushroom butter made from forest fungi—a local specialty.”

  Edric spread a dab across a slice of crusty loaf and found the earthy, rich flavor complemented the bread perfectly.

  Trying these new foods brought a familiar ache to his chest. Sarah had always delighted in tormenting him with new foods—smirking at his reluctance as she urged him to “Just try one bite.”

  “We haven’t had a proper feast in some time,” Dorin remarked, glancing toward the infant king, who was happily mashing bits of soft vegetables under his caretaker’s patient supervision. “The mood in Larkenshire has been… cautious since the raid.”

  “Understandably so,” Zylenaia agreed, her expression sobering. “But life continues, and there are reasons to celebrate. The harvest looks promising, the trade routes are stabilizing, and now we have a hero in our midst.”

  Edric caught a flicker of skepticism across General Rennard’s face at that last comment before he masked it behind a sip of wine.

  As the first edge of hunger faded and conversation began to flow more easily, Zylenaia set down her utensils and cleared her throat. The table quieted, attention shifting to her.

  “I should mention,” she began, “that I’ll be departing again tomorrow. The Timblewhiff will be making its usual circuit of the settlements.”

  Edric felt a faint twist of disappointment. Just as he was beginning to find his footing, his most valuable ally was leaving.

  Kornic leaned forward, amber eyes glinting in the lamplight. “Ship leaves tomorrow afternoon. Full supply run—three, maybe four weeks depending on weather and business.”

  Zylenaia cast an apologetic look toward Edric. “I regret that I won’t be here while you settle in, but these runs are vital, especially for our more isolated settlements.”

  Kornic turned to Dorin. “Merchants ready by midday? Any last shipments we need to log?”

  The Guild Master shook his head. “Everything’s been arranged since your departure for Ayzelsted. No changes to the manifest.”

  “Good,” Kornic grunted, reaching for another helping.

  Zylenaia let her gaze travel around the table, lingering on each face in turn. “I trust that in my absence, all of you will help Sir Edric find his place here.” Her tone made it clear this was both a request and a command.

  Brother Tarvish dipped his head solemnly. Dorin answered with a practical nod. General Rennard kept eating, his expression tactically neutral.

  The Regent turned to him. “General Rennard, I’m placing Sir Edric under your guidance for combat training and integration into our defenses. He is, after all, the Herald’s chosen Ranger.”

  Rennard’s chewing slowed. His weathered face displayed his skepticism before he swallowed and replied.

  “With all respect, Regent, I’d expected a hero to be long past the basics.” His tone held no sarcasm—only blunt honesty. “But I’ll do as you ask.”

  “Excellent,” Zylenaia said, choosing to ignore the underlying doubt. “Sir Edric has talents that may surprise you.”

  She shifted her attention to Mira, her expression softening with regret. “Lady Mira, there’s another matter I must address. During this trip, I’ll also be making a diplomatic call to Merovia, our neighboring territory.” She hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. “As you’re aware, the Queen was adamant that I travel with a properly trained attendant.”

  Mira’s composure briefly betrayed her. She glanced briefly at Edric before asking, “You… wish me to accompany you? For the entire journey?” Her concern seemed aimed less at the voyage than at whom she’d be leaving behind.

  Edric looked between her and Kornic, a surge of protectiveness catching him off guard. The thought of Mira spending weeks aboard the Timblewhiff, surrounded by its coarse crew with only Zylenaia standing between them, didn’t sit well. Kornic caught the look and responded with a subdued smirk.

  Zylenaia noted the silent exchange, eyes narrowing slightly as if reading an unspoken argument. “Yes,” she confirmed softly. “The Queen’s orders were quite clear on this point.”

  Reading the tension around the table, Dorin urged the conversation toward safer ground.

  “Regarding your diplomatic visit, Regent,” he said, spreading a small portion of mushroom butter over his bread, “I’ve prepared a list of our current trade priorities.”

  Zylenaia’s posture eased, grateful for the change in subject. “Please, share your insights.”

  “Metal goods remain our greatest need,” Dorin explained, his merchant’s discipline evident in each carefully chosen word. “Particularly iron tools and weapons, which we cannot produce in sufficient quantity ourselves. In exchange, we can offer the usual—bog iron ore, preserved meats, and medicinal herbs from the marshlands.”

  “What about preserved food stocks?” Zylenaia asked. “Winter isn’t far off.”

  “Our situation is… adequate, though not comfortable,” Dorin admitted. “The last harvest was better than expected, but we’re still recovering from what we lost in the raid. Any additional reserves would be welcome—especially grains.”

  Kornic gave a low grunt of agreement. “The eastern settlements have it worse. Some lost entire storehouses.”

  “We’ll bring them what we can spare,” Zylenaia said, her tone firm. “But a favorable trade deal could make the difference between mere survival and comfort when the cold sets in.”

  “Speaking of bog iron,” Edric interjected, seizing an opening, “do you process it yourselves?”

  “To a degree,” Dorin said. “We extract and refine some into wrought iron, but our capacity is limited. Most of it’s traded raw—or shaped into simple bars.”

  Edric nodded thoughtfully, mind churning. In his world, the difference between raw material and manufactured goods could mean a ten—or twenty—fold increase in profit. Control both extraction and production, and Galenmurk could transform its fragile economy into something stable, perhaps even powerful.

  “With the right tools and training,” Edric said at last, “you could increase the value of your exports dramatically by working that iron here rather than trading it raw.”

  Dorin’s sharp eyes narrowed with intrigue. “You’re familiar with metalworking, Sir Edric?”

  “It was part of my trade,” Edric answered carefully, keeping his tone neutral. “Different processes than you might be used to.”

  “An interesting proposition,” Dorin mused, exchanging a fleeting glance with Zylenaia. “Though our current capacity for such work is… limited.”

  *There’s more to that,* Edric thought, catching the faint tension that crept into their voices. *Something they’re not saying outright.*

  ---

  Mira, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since learning of her required journey, suddenly straightened in her chair. Her hands, which had been tightly clasped in her lap, now rested on the edge of the table.

  “If I may,” Mira began, her voice steadier than her face suggested, “I believe I have a solution that would satisfy all parties.”

  She looked directly at Zylenaia. “Sir Edric could accompany us on the journey.”

  Edric blinked, caught off guard by both the suggestion and the quiet resolve in her tone.

  “It would be an excellent opportunity for him to see the territory firsthand,” Mira continued, gaining momentum. “To meet the people he’s meant to protect, to understand the settlements and their needs.” She glanced at Edric, an unspoken plea in her eyes. “Such knowledge would only aid his effectiveness as Galenmurk’s hero.”

  *She doesn’t want to be separated from me,* Edric realized. Her duty was tied to his—but beneath that formality, he sensed genuine concern.

  “An interesting suggestion,” Zylenaia said carefully, “but there are several complications.”

  “I assure you, I would ensure Sir Edric’s comfort and presentation during the diplomatic portions of the—” Mira began, but Zylenaia lifted a hand, gently cutting her off.

  “Sir Edric needs time to establish himself here in Larkenshire,” the Regent explained. “To meet with craftsmen, to begin his training with General Rennard.” Her gaze softened as it fell to the infant king, happily smearing bread across his tray. “And I would ask that he check in on His Majesty occasionally during my absence.”

  Her voice mellowed with sympathy. “More importantly, Sir Edric cannot leave Galenmurk’s borders without royal permission—a process far too slow to complete before tomorrow’s departure.”

  Edric recognized the tension gathering behind Mira’s composed exterior and stepped in. “I’ll be fine, Mira,” he assured her. “Honestly, I’m more comfortable without the formalities. Your skills will be better put to use serving the Regent.”

  Mira pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes flashing with equal parts frustration and hurt. “With respect, Sir Edric, my duty is to the hero, not the throne,” she said quietly but firmly, “I would prefer to serve the archer hero, as I was appointed.”

  *She takes her role so seriously,* Edric thought. Sympathetic to her dedication, yet uncomfortable having a servant in his service.

  “Perhaps,” Mira ventured after a pause, “the Regent could shorten her journey—complete the diplomatic visit, then return sooner, postponing some deliveries for a later trip?”

  Kornic’s hand tightened around his cup. He didn’t speak, but his displeasure showed.

  Before he could protest, Brother Tarvish intervened, tattooed face calm under the lamplight.

  “Shortening the trip would leave our remote settlements without vital supplies,” he said gently. “Some lack clergy to relay messages—we could remain unaware of their condition for weeks.”

  Edric frowned at that remark. *Clergy relaying messages?* The connection wasn’t clear, but he tucked the thought away for later.

  Zylenaia sat for a moment in contemplation, fingertips drumming lightly against the wood. Then she nodded.

  “A compromise, then. Kornic, we’ll prioritize the diplomatic call and the most urgent deliveries first, then make a brief return to Larkenshire to bring Mira back before completing the rest.”

  Kornic looked far from happy but gave a grudging nod. “As you wish, Regent.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” Zylenaia said, turning to Mira. “In the future, I’ll schedule trade runs and diplomatic visits separately. But I must ask you to endure this arrangement—just this once.”

  Kornic’s lips curled in a mocking approximation of a smile as he looked between Mira and Edric.

  “Don’t worry, girl,” he said, his tone far too amused to be reassuring. “You’ll be perfectly safe with us.”

  Neither Edric nor Mira looked convinced. Edric met Zylenaia’s eyes, silently appealing for assurance.

  The Regent gave a small nod of understanding—though even in that subtle motion, he sensed the boundaries of her authority over Kornic and his crew.

  *Her hold on those men is fragile,* Edric thought grimly. *And Mira knows it too.*

  For now, he could only trust Zylenaia—and hope it would all go well this once.