The mountain road to Old Drakon Castle chewed at their horses' hooves like broken teeth, each stone sharper than the last. Ryelle shifted in her saddle, leather creaking beneath her as the path wound higher into air that tasted of iron and old snow. Behind her, Lorne's mount plodded with the steady patience of a warhorse grown wise to long marches, while Kaela's smaller bay picked its way between the loose rocks with the careful grace of something that understood survival.

"Joint Defense Assessment," Ryelle muttered, rolling the official words around her mouth like bitter wine. "Makes it sound like we're here to count spears and measure walls."

"Which we are, in part." Lorne's voice carried the weight of someone who'd learned to make lies taste like truth when necessity demanded it. "The Order's taken considerable responsibility for western security. Understanding their methods serves everyone's interests."

Kaela said nothing, but Ryelle caught the slight tilt of her head—the hawk-eyed woman already cataloging sight lines and escape routes from habit. Her fingers rested loose on her reins, but Ryelle's enhanced senses picked up the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her breathing had shifted to the shallow rhythm of someone preparing for potential violence.

The castle announced itself long before they crested the final ridge. Old Drakon's shadow fell across the mountain face like a bruise, its walls built from stones that seemed to drink sunlight rather than reflect it. Towers thrust upward in defiance of the wind-carved peaks around them, their battlements crowned with iron spikes that gleamed dull as old blood.

"Cheerful place," Ryelle observed, studying the approach. The road funneled toward a gatehouse that could hold off a small army, assuming the defenders cared enough to try. Murder holes gaped black above the entrance, and the portcullis hung like a mouth full of metal teeth.

But something felt wrong. Not obviously—the sentries stood their posts, banners snapped in the mountain wind, smoke rose from chimneys in the expected patterns. Yet the wrongness clung to the place like morning mist, too subtle to name but impossible to ignore.

Lorne's frown deepened as they approached the outer walls. "Guard positions," he said quietly. "They've changed since I was last here."

"How so?" Kaela's question barely disturbed the air between them.

"Watchtowers. After the siege, Ardeunius positioned his people to cover the valley approaches—natural choke points, high ground advantage. Now..." Lorne's gauntleted hand gestured toward the battlements. "They're watching the road from Ebonheim more than anything that might come from hostile territory."

Ryelle's nostrils flared, testing the wind. Stone dust and pine resin, the sharp bite of high altitude, woodsmoke from the castle's many hearths. Beneath it all, something else lingered—metallic, cold, like the taste that filled her mouth before lightning struck. Her draconic heritage stirred uneasily, recognizing a flavor that didn't belong in mountain air.

The outer gates stood open—a good sign, supposedly. Guards in crimson and gold livery watched their approach with the professional attention of soldiers who'd grown comfortable in their duties. Too comfortable, maybe. Their eyes tracked the three riders but their bodies remained loose, hands resting nowhere near sword hilts.

"State your business," called the gate sergeant, though his tone held more courtesy than challenge. A young man with prematurely grey streaks threading through his brown hair, his face bearing the kind of weathering that came from mountain winds rather than battle scars.

"Commander Lorne Miradan of the Silverguard Company," Lorne replied, producing a rolled parchment sealed with Ebonheim's leaf sigil. "Here for the arranged assessment consultation with Commander Ardeunius."

The sergeant examined the seal with more thoroughness than Ryelle expected—or perhaps it just felt that way because her spine itched with the peculiar awareness that came from being watched by hidden eyes. The castle's arrow slits stared down like empty sockets, impossible to tell if they held observers or merely shadows.

"Aye, you're expected," the sergeant said finally. "I'll send word ahead. You know the way to the main keep?"

"I remember it," Lorne said dryly.

They passed through gates thick enough to stable horses in, iron-bound oak that would laugh at battering rams. The courtyard beyond sprawled wider than Ryelle had imagined, paved stones worn smooth by decades of boots and hooves. Practice yards occupied the eastern side, where a handful of Order knights worked through sword forms that looked crisp enough to cut air into ribbons.

But something felt muted about the scene. The ring of steel on steel carried no enthusiasm, no competitive banter between sparring partners. Just the methodical repetition of drills performed because duty demanded it.

"Cheerful bunch," Ryelle muttered, dismounting near a hitching post that had been carved from a single piece of oak. Her boots found the stones with satisfying solidity after three days of saddle leather.

Kaela appeared beside her without sound, leading her own mount with the fluid economy of movement that made watching her feel like missing half a conversation.

"Different from last time," she agreed, but quietly, for their ears alone.

Lorne handed his reins to a stable boy who approached with the dutiful silence of youth trying not to seem eager. "Ten years changes things. People, places, purposes." But his eyes swept the courtyard with the systematic attention of someone building mental maps.

"Commander," a passing officer greeted Lorne, his tone polite but distant. "Good journey?"

"As much as could be expected," Lorne replied, his own tone equally professional. "Ardeunius?"

"In the hall," the officer confirmed, his steps never slowing. "Waiting for you."

"Thanks." Lorne watched the man stride away, the weight of his frown deepening at the corners. "Not exactly the welcome I was expecting."

Ryelle shook off the prickling sense of wrongness that crept down her spine. Paranoia, she scolded herself. Not every castle needs to greet outsiders with open arms.

Old Drakon's great hall dominated the castle's central keep. In ages past, it had been the seat of Drakon's petty warlords, their crude stone thrones presiding over rough feasts and blood-soaked ceremonies. Now it bore the trappings of military order—banners and sigils hung in precise ranks, tables laid with maps and paperwork rather than food.

Ardeunius paced among the papers, his dark robes rustling softly with each stride. His back was to the room, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of thought, but at the sound of their footsteps he turned, and Ryelle glimpsed something more than calculation in his pale blue eyes.

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Was it relief? Or something sharper, edged with expectation?

"Lorne." Ardeunius's voice filled the space without effort, his words carrying the rough edge of an old soldier more comfortable on the battlefield than in council. "You made good time." He offered his hand, gripping Lorne's forearm in the traditional warrior's clasp.

"Our roads are well-traveled," Lorne replied, matching Ardeunius's grip. "Easy enough to move quickly when half the work's been done for us."

Ardeunius snorted, a ghost of humor in the sound. "And the weather was in your favor." He turned his attention to Ryelle, his gaze flicking over her in quick, assessing passes. "News of Ebonheim's avatar traveled fast. And true, it seems."

Ryelle returned his appraisal with one of her own. Silver threaded Ardeunius's once-dark hair, his face marked by the creases that only years of hard service could carve. But his shoulders were still broad beneath his robes, and his posture betrayed none of the softness that settled on men who sat at councils too long.

"Ryelle of Ebonheim," she said, nodding in greeting. "In the flesh."

"So I see." Ardeunius's lips quirked, almost smiling. "My congratulations on your creation. Forged in a time of peace—you're a lucky being."

"Depends who you ask," Ryelle muttered, remembering the boredom that had driven her to escape into mortal entertainments.

Ardeunius's chuckle surprised her. "Of that, I have no doubt." He released Lorne's arm and turned to Kaela. "And you, girl. Still holding tight to Lorne's shadow? You don't plan to strike out on your own?"

Kaela's eyes went flat. "I follow my oath, Captain," she said coolly.

"Oaths," Ardeunius snorted. "Shackles of the young and foolish." His gaze lingered on Kaela's face a moment longer. "But what you make of yours is your concern, I suppose."

"And what of the Order's oaths?" Kaela's question was sharper than Ryelle expected, slicing through the hall's tense peace like a blade through rotten fruit. "Do you hold those in the same regard?"

A dangerous edge glinted in Ardeunius's expression, there and gone again in the space between heartbeats. He waved a dismissive hand.

"The Order has grown beyond the need for rigid words," he said. "What good are our oaths to protect the world if we fail to master our own house?" His voice softened, some inner thought gentling its cadence. "Sometimes what we think we know—what we think the world is—must change to make room for new truth."

"Truth?" Ryelle felt something stir inside her, a flicker of draconic awareness that tasted copper and sulfur. "What truth is that?"

"The truth of strength." Ardeunius's response held the echo of some private conviction. "The truth that power, without focus, is a dangerous thing."

"I don't think anyone would argue with that," Ryelle said carefully, trying to feel her way through the conversation's subtle shift. The coppery taste grew stronger, and she fought the urge to scrape her teeth across her tongue, to rid herself of the sudden sourness that coated the back of her throat.

"No," Ardeunius agreed. "But they would argue about the application." He straightened, rubbing one palm with his thumb, as if reminded of some old wound. "Enough philosophy. You're here for the assessment. Let's see to it."

"That easy?" Lorne's question held careful neutrality. "No protocols or niceties to observe?"

Ardeunius's smile lacked warmth. "Not anymore." He strode toward a side door, his long legs setting a brisk pace through the echoing hall. "We've pared things down to the essentials, you'll find. Saved us no end of trouble."

They followed him across the courtyard, and Ryelle found herself cataloguing details that felt significant without knowing why. The practice yards held fewer knights than a castle this size should maintain. The ones present moved through their forms with mechanical precision, but their breathing seemed... shallow. Like men conserving energy for a marathon rather than training for war.

"How many knights do you maintain now?" Lorne asked, his question casual enough to pass for professional curiosity. "We're estimating four hundred for the assessment."

"Four hundred and seventy-three," Ardeunius corrected. "By my last accounting."

"A formidable force," Kaela murmured.

"Only as much as it needs to be." Ardeunius led them into the barracks block, his steps unerring in the darkness. Oil lamps hung at wide intervals, barely enough to shape the shadows into anything comprehensible.

The castle's interior struck her immediately as too quiet. Their footsteps echoed off stone walls hung with tapestries depicting Order victories—demons falling beneath blessed blades, corrupt priests dragged from their altars, monsters driven back into whatever hells had spawned them. All very traditional, very proper imagery for a military order dedicated to hunting supernatural threats.

But the halls felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with the number of people moving through them.

"Your operations have expanded beyond demon hunting, I understand," Lorne said as they climbed a spiral staircase toward what Ryelle assumed would be Ardeunius's private chambers.

"Evolved," Ardeunius corrected, though he paused for half a heartbeat before speaking, as if the word had taken effort to find. "The nature of threats to order has... diversified. We adapt accordingly."

"Such as?"

"Bandit suppression along the trade routes. Investigation of arcane anomalies. General peacekeeping where local authorities lack the necessary expertise." Each item emerged from Ardeunius's mouth with the rote quality of a man repeating policy he hadn't helped write.

They reached a landing where tall windows looked out over the western approaches. Beyond the glass, the road they'd traveled wound down through forest toward distant valleys where smoke rose from unseen settlements. Peaceful country, dotted with the productive activity of people going about their lives under the protection of those who held strength in service to order.

"Impressive view," Ryelle observed, meaning it. From up here, the strategic value of the castle's position was undeniable. Nothing moved along the western approaches without being observed from these heights.

"Indeed. We maintain constant vigilance." Ardeunius gestured toward the window. "Though the threats we watch for have... changed... over the years."

Again that pause, as if words required extra effort to surface.

"How so?" Kaela asked quietly, her first contribution to the conversation.

Ardeunius turned toward her, and for an instant his expression flickered—confusion, perhaps, or irritation at having to explain something that should be obvious. Then the polite mask settled back into place.

"External pressures. Political instabilities. The kind of challenges that require... broader solutions... than simply hunting monsters in dark places."

Lorne nodded thoughtfully. "Hence our mutual interest in improving coordination between our organizations. Shared intelligence, complementary capabilities."

"Yes." Ardeunius's agreement came quickly, eagerly, as if latching onto familiar ground. "Shared purpose. United strength against... against common threats."

"Speaking of which," Lorne continued smoothly, "I'd be interested in meeting some of your senior knights. Compare notes on tactics, equipment, that sort of thing."

"Of course. I'll arrange introductions." Ardeunius led them down another corridor lined with portraits of previous Order commanders. Their painted eyes seemed to follow the group's passage with expressions ranging from stern approval to outright suspicion.

"Captain Belenton commands our field operations. Brother Marcus maintains our archives and intelligence gathering. Both would welcome professional discourse."

Ryelle found herself watching Ardeunius as he spoke. His body language seemed... off, somehow. The way he moved, the way he spoke—everything felt slightly forced, like a puppeteer trying too hard to make a marionette appear natural.

And again, the coppery scent in the air grew stronger with each passing moment. Something was scratching at the base of her brain, something important that danced just beyond her reach, elusive as a dream upon waking.

They paused before a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands and mystical wards that pulsed with the subdued power of well-crafted enchantment. Ardeunius produced a key that looked like it had been carved from black bone, intricate symbols etched along its length.

"My chambers," he explained, working the key in its lock. "We can speak more freely here."

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