The snow was still falling lightly as the convoy emerged onto the winding road that led to the hills of Mirath. The wagon wheels groaned, cutting through the early morning silence like a distant lament. At the front, Damon rode silently, his face hidden by the shadow of his hood, his eyes fixed on the mist that shrouded the valley. Beside him, Ester stood erect, her gloves stained with ash and ink—the traces of everything they had gathered and burned in Paraphal.

Behind them, a silent line of women rode in two covered wagons, wrapped in torn blankets, fear and uncertainty etched in their eyes. With each jolt, one clutched the amulet of faith around her neck, another murmured a silent prayer.

The towers of Mirath appeared first—dark blades slicing through the gray sky—and soon after, the iron gates of Wykes Manor. The Countess's crest, two serpents entwined around a scale, seemed more somber in the cold. Damon took a deep breath and exchanged a quick glance with Ester. Neither spoke, but the message was clear: now was the hard part.

By the time they reached the entrance, the guards were already alert. One of them, a stout man with a short beard and watchful eyes—Sergeant Merod—stepped forward, raising his hand for them to stop.

"Lord Damon?" he asked, with a hint of surprise. "You returned earlier than expected. And…" his eyes slid over the wagons, stopping at the women, "did you bring refugees?"

Damon dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the snow. "They are survivors. From Paraphal Castle."

Merod frowned. "And where are the others? Garrick and Caelam went with you."

The question hung in the air like a blow. Ester dismounted unhurriedly, removing her gloves with methodical calm. Damon took a moment before answering.

"They didn't survive," he said finally, his voice low and unembellished.

The second guard, a young man with a young face and anxious eyes, widened his eyes. "How…?"

Damon looked away, clenching his fist. "We were attacked on the way there. Wood Elves… Ambushed. There was no time to react. They fought to the bitter end."

The silence that followed was almost physical. The young guard lowered his gaze, his lips trembling. Merod took a deep breath, looking at the ground before looking up again.

"I see…" he murmured, his voice heavy. "They were good men."

"They were," Damon confirmed firmly. "Honorable."

Ester, motionless until then, looked up at the guards. "We need to see the Countess. Immediately." Merod nodded, straightening. "Of course. I'll have the gates opened."

As the gears creaked and the gate swung open, Damon watched the women move in the wagons. Maris, who was in the lead, stared at the mansion with teary eyes. The last time he'd seen a large house like this, the owner had been a monster. Now, hope seemed almost a threat.

"It's okay," he said softly, as if trying to convince himself. "It's different here."

Maris nodded slowly, holding tightly to young Nara's hand, which trembled beneath her cloak.

The procession moved slowly through the inner courtyard. The sound of hooves mingled with the rustling of flags in the wind. The servants sweeping the snow glanced at each other, murmuring when they saw the women's haggard faces. The contrast between the nobility of the house and the misery of the refugees was stark.

Ester walked ahead, her chin held high, the posture of someone carrying more than just a report. Damon followed close behind, his eyes alert to every movement—guards, windows, shadows. He was accustomed to looks of suspicion. What he wasn't accustomed to were looks of pity.

Inside the mansion, the warmth of the fireplace enveloped them like a sudden slap. The air smelled of incense and polished wood. Elizabeth Wykes was waiting.

The Countess stood at the large conference table. Beside her, two officers and a scribe were taking notes. When the door opened and Ester entered, Elizabeth looked up—and her expression changed immediately.

"You're too early," she said with studied calm. "What happened?"

Ester bowed briefly and placed the leather bag on the table. "The mission is complete. Paraphal is no more."

Elizabeth frowned. "Explain."

"The Duke was involved in human trafficking, ritualistic crimes, and military corruption. We have evidence. Documents, maps, witnesses." She paused, looking at Damon. "He tried to eliminate us. He was unsuccessful."

The Countess leaned forward slightly, her fingers drumming on the tabletop. "And the Duke?"

"Dead," Ester replied without hesitation.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The crackling of the fire sounded too loud.

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "So it's true."

"Yes," Damon confirmed, crossing his arms. "And it wasn't clean. There were... horrors in that place."

Elizabeth looked at him, considering something unspoken. Then she shifted her gaze to the bag and gestured. One of the officers unzipped it and began to examine the papers.

Meanwhile, Maris, Elen, and Nara were led to the corner of the room, trembling under the Countess's stern gaze. Ester stepped forward.

"These women are the witnesses. The victims. They were held captive for years."

Elizabeth turned her gaze to them. "How many more are there like you?"

Maris hesitated, then answered hoarsely, "Many, madam. Some fled, others... stayed. But what we found... no one should see."

The Countess took a deep breath, pushing a strand of ash-blond hair back from her face. "And Garrick? Caelam?"

Damon clenched his jaw, looking away. "They didn't come back."

"Dead?"

He nodded.

Elizabeth lowered her head for a moment, her lips pressed into a cold line. When she spoke again, her voice was firm: "Understood. They knew the risk. And they did their duty."

Elizabeth remained silent for a few seconds. The crackling of the fire in the grate was the only sound that filled the room. The Countess's face was still, as if carved in stone—but there was something in her gaze that betrayed the weight of the decisions that lay ahead. She took a deep breath, resting her hands on the table.

"Garrick and Caelam," she repeated slowly, as if savoring the name of someone who would not return. "They died serving me. They did what was right."

Ester stood firm, her eyes lowered. Damon, on the other hand, merely nodded—once, slowly and stiffly.

Elizabeth looked up and stared at one of the officers to her right. "Provide the families with due compensation. Money, land, whatever is necessary. I want their children to have a future, and for no one in Mirath to say that loyal men have been forgotten."

The officer bowed slightly. "Yes, my lady."

She continued, "Write a personal letter as well. I want it to bear the seal of House Wykes. They died fighting corruption and evil within our own borders. This will not be hidden."

Damon watched silently. He knew that tone—a mixture of pragmatism and restrained compassion. Elizabeth Wykes was not a woman of tears, but her words carried weight. When she spoke of honor, their echoes echoed.

The Countess then walked to the high windows, surveying the snow-covered courtyard where the rescued women waited. Some sat, others still standing, shivering, trying to understand what was happening.

"What remains of Paraphal," she said quietly, "must be treated with care. They cannot return to the villages." Nor should they. Most people will see them as cursed.

Ester nodded slightly. "I've already figured that out. I thought we could use the old inns in the southern district. They've been empty since the Port War."

"Good idea." Elizabeth turned slowly. "Let's reorganize the wards. Food, clothing, medical care." She looked at the scribe. "I want lists by the end of the afternoon. No bureaucratic mercy. If anyone complains about the cost, send them to me."

The scribe bowed quickly, his quill almost slipping from his hands.

Ester took a deep breath. There was a calmness about Elizabeth that always disconcerted her. It was as if everything she'd seen in Paraphal—blood, corruption, despair—had been collected and transformed into order, into practical tasks, into policy.

But Damon, standing further back, couldn't relax. Images of the journey still pulsed beneath his skin: the bodies left in the snow, the smell of blood mixed with the cold, the short screams and the bluish light of elven arrows. He had survived, but it didn't feel like victory.

Elizabeth noticed his silence. She turned, walking until she was face to face with the warrior. Her gaze rested on him for a long, assessing moment.

"You look pale, Damon," she said, her tone dry and sounding both worry and command. "How many days without sleep?"

"Two, maybe three," he replied, looking away. "We needed to get there quickly."

"And you did," she said, crossing her arms. "But I know that look. You're exhausted."

Ester opened her mouth to say something, but Elizabeth held up her hand, signaling silence.

"Do me a favor, Damon," the Countess continued, with a half-smile that seemed to contain more than it said. "Go to Aria's chambers. Now."

Damon blinked, confused. "Aria's room?"

Elizabeth nodded, almost amused. "That's right."

"Why?" He frowned, visibly disconcerted. "I… I don't understand."

Elizabeth's smile widened just a fraction. "Because, according to the healer and half the east corridor, she's on fire waiting for you."

Ester arched an eyebrow, stifling a laugh that threatened to escape. Damon stood completely still for a second—the expression of a man who'd just been hit by an emotional catapult.

"I… I'm sorry, what?" he finally managed.

"Don't feign ignorance, Damon," Elizabeth said, returning to her seat at the head of the table, with the serene air of someone who'd just moved a piece on the board. "The girl has been on my heels for the last two days, asking if you were alive, if you were injured, if you needed medicine, if she should send letters, if she should go get you herself. The poor girl nearly set the garden on fire with her nerves."

Ester leaned against the wall, crossing her arms, clearly enjoying herself. "Well... at least someone still misses you, Damon."

He sighed, running a hand over his face. "She didn't need to worry so much."

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