Ardeunius led them to his private chambers on the castle's upper level. The room beyond was exactly what Ryelle expected from a military commander: functional furniture, weapon racks along the walls, maps spread across a central table marked with colored pins and penciled notations.

The chill seemed to seep from the stones themselves, as if the castle's bones had absorbed winter and refused to release it. Even the tapestries hanging from the walls—depicting Order victories over demonic forces—appeared muted, their once-vibrant colors drained to muddy browns and greys.

"Wine?" Ardeunius offered, moving toward a sideboard bearing bottles and goblets. "The road from Ebonheim can be dusty work."

"Thank you," Lorne accepted for all of them.

As Ardeunius poured, Ryelle studied the maps more closely. The markings showed patrol routes, supply caches, known bandit camps—the kind of tactical intelligence any competent military organization would maintain. But something about the pattern felt off, like a melody played in the wrong key.

The patrol routes formed concentric circles around the castle, each ring marked with different colored pins. Red for confirmed threats, blue for regular patrols, yellow for supply runs. Standard enough. But the timing notations scribbled in the margins told a different story—patrols running at odd hours, overlapping coverage in areas that should have been secure, gaps in surveillance where none should exist.

"Your patrol schedules seem more intensive than I'd expect," she observed, accepting a goblet that proved to contain excellent red wine. The vintage was rich, complex, probably worth more than most people in the valley earned in a month. Yet it tasted somehow flat against her tongue.

"Necessary vigilance," Ardeunius replied, though his hand trembled slightly as he raised his own cup. "Recent... developments... require increased attention to detail."

Ryelle traced one of the patrol routes with her finger, noting how it meandered through terrain that offered no tactical advantage. "This route here—it seems to avoid the main trade approaches in favor of... rougher country."

Ardeunius moved to stand beside her, wine sloshing in his goblet as his hand continued its subtle tremor. "That area has shown... irregular activity. Requires... special observation."

"What kind of irregular activity?" Lorne's question carried the careful neutrality of a professional seeking information without appearing to probe.

For a moment, Ardeunius said nothing. His eyes fixed on the fire, and Ryelle watched his face cycle through expressions too quick to interpret—confusion, fear, anger, resignation. When he spoke again, his voice carried an odd, flattened quality.

"Intelligence suggests coordinated activities among bandit groups. Unusual organization. Someone... providing direction... to previously independent operators."

"Someone?" Kaela echoed from where she stood examining a weapon rack. Her fingers hovered over a sword's pommel without quite touching it, but Ryelle caught the way her eyes tracked the room's other occupants.

"Unknown entities. Possibly... political... in nature." Each word seemed to cost Ardeunius effort, as if speaking the thoughts aloud required overcoming some internal resistance. "We investigate... carefully... to avoid premature... conclusions."

Lorne exchanged a glance with Ryelle that lasted perhaps half a second but conveyed volumes. This was not the straightforward, decisive commander who had coordinated with them during the siege. Something was wrong with Ardeunius—not necessarily threatening, but definitely concerning.

"Political entities," Lorne repeated thoughtfully. "Are we talking about neighboring settlements expanding their influence, or something more... external?"

Ardeunius's grip tightened on his wine goblet until his knuckles showed white. "External... influences... remain... under investigation. Definitive conclusions would be... premature... at this time."

The way he spoke reminded Ryelle of someone trying to remember lines from a play they'd only partially memorized. Each pause felt calculated, as if he was checking his words against some internal script before allowing them to emerge.

"Well," Lorne said easily, "that's exactly the kind of challenge where coordination between our organizations could prove valuable. Perhaps we could review your intelligence tomorrow? Compare it with what we've observed from the Ebonheim side of the valley?"

"Yes." Relief flickered across Ardeunius's features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "Yes, that would be... helpful. Shared perspectives. Multiple viewpoints."

A knock at the door interrupted them—three sharp raps followed by a pause, then two more. Some kind of coded sequence, Ryelle assumed. Military organizations loved their protocols.

"Enter," Ardeunius called.

The man who stepped through the doorway looked like he'd been carved from marble and then polished to remove any interesting imperfections. Tall, broad-shouldered, with pale skin and prematurely white hair cropped close to his skull, he wore the same crimson robes as Ardeunius but carried himself with the rigid bearing of someone who'd never learned to bend.

"Captain Belenton," Ardeunius said, and Ryelle caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "Allow me to present our guests. Commander Lorne Miradan, Lady Ryelle, and Kaela Shadowhawk."

"Commander. Lady. Miss." Belenton's acknowledgments came out like items being checked off a list. His pale blue eyes swept over each of them with the mechanical thoroughness of a sentry counting posts. "I trust your journey was without incident?"

"Quite pleasant, actually," Lorne replied. "Good weather, clear roads, no trouble."

"Excellent. Security along the approaches has been... maintained... according to protocols." Belenton's speech held the same careful, measured quality as Ardeunius's, but without the underlying struggle. This man seemed comfortable with whatever constraints governed his words.

Ryelle studied Belenton's face as he spoke, noting details that felt significant without quite knowing why. His skin held a waxy quality that spoke of too much time indoors, and his movements carried the precise economy of someone who never wasted energy on unnecessary gestures. When he turned his head, the motion seemed to originate from his spine rather than his neck, as if his body moved in sections rather than flowing as a whole.

"Captain Belenton oversees our field operations," Ardeunius explained, though his introduction lacked warmth. "Tactical planning, patrol coordination, threat assessment."

"Perhaps we could discuss your current threat assessments?" Lorne suggested. "Compare notes on what you're seeing from the western approaches versus what we observe from the valley?"

"Certainly. Information sharing serves mutual... interests." Belenton's nod was precise as a military salute. "I will prepare briefing materials for tomorrow's review sessions."

Something about the way he said 'review sessions' made the words sound like 'interrogations,' though his tone remained professionally neutral. Ryelle found herself wondering what those briefing materials might contain, and whether they would reflect reality or some carefully curated version of it.

"I should mention," Belenton continued, "Brother Marcus has requested introduction to your intelligence specialist." His gaze fixed on Kaela with uncomfortable intensity. "Archival cross-referencing. Historical pattern analysis. Such... coordination... proves valuable."

Kaela's expression didn't change, but Ryelle caught the slight shift in her posture—weight moving imperceptibly forward, ready to move in any direction necessary. "I'd be happy to discuss methodologies with Brother Marcus."

"Excellent. He maintains extensive records. Comprehensive... documentation... of regional activities." Belenton's pale eyes remained fixed on Kaela for several heartbeats longer than conversational courtesy required. "Very... thorough... in his attention to detail."

The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably long. Ardeunius cleared his throat and moved to refill his wine goblet, the sound of liquid hitting crystal unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

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Another knock interrupted them—this time a rapid series of taps that sounded almost frantic. Ardeunius's face cycled through that same sequence of conflicting expressions before settling into careful blankness.

"Enter."

The man who stepped through the doorway was thin to the point of gauntness, with pale skin that seemed almost translucent and dark hair that hung limp around a face marked by premature lines. His robes hung loose on his frame, and his movements carried the careful precision of someone conserving energy for more important tasks.

Brother Marcus moved like liquid shadow, each step placed with deliberate care that suggested he was listening to sounds the rest of them couldn't hear. His fingers, Ryelle noted, were stained with ink to the second knuckle—the mark of someone who spent his days bent over parchments and ledgers.

"Brother Marcus," Ardeunius said, and this time Ryelle definitely caught the underlying tension. "Our guests from Ebonheim."

"Commander Miradan. Lady Ryelle. Miss Shadowhawk." Marcus's voice came out as barely more than a whisper, but each word arrived with crystalline clarity. "Welcome to Old Drakon Castle. I trust your accommodations will prove... adequate... for your needs."

"I'm sure they will," Lorne replied diplomatically.

Marcus's dark eyes—which Ryelle now noticed were paler than they should be, as if someone had mixed grey paint into brown—fixed on each of them in turn. When his gaze reached Kaela, his head tilted slightly, like a bird studying something that might be prey or predator.

"Miss Shadowhawk. I understand you specialize in... discrete information gathering?" The way he said 'discrete' made it sound vaguely obscene.

"Among other things," Kaela replied evenly.

"Excellent. I maintain comprehensive archives regarding regional activities. Historical patterns. Recurring... themes... in local disturbances." Marcus's smile was perfectly polite and completely empty. "I believe you will find our records... illuminating."

Ryelle found herself studying the way Marcus held himself—spine rigid, shoulders square, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that suggested military discipline but felt somehow artificial. Like someone had explained proper posture to him without him ever having learned it naturally.

"I look forward to reviewing them," Kaela said, though Ryelle caught the slight tension in her voice.

"Tomorrow, then. After evening observances." Marcus's pale eyes swept the room once more. "If you will excuse me, I have... obligations... requiring attention."

He withdrew as silently as he'd entered, leaving behind an awkward silence that stretched several heartbeats too long. The fire crackled in the hearth, but even that sound seemed muffled, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

"Dedicated man," Ardeunius said finally, though his tone suggested the dedication wasn't necessarily a good thing. "Very... focused... on his duties."

"Essential qualities in an archivist," Lorne agreed neutrally.

Captain Belenton checked the position of the sun through the windows, his movements mechanical and precise. "If you will excuse me, I must attend to patrol assignments. Commander Miradan, perhaps we could discuss tactical coordination tomorrow morning? After you've had opportunity to... observe... our current operational parameters?"

"That sounds ideal," Lorne said.

Belenton offered another precise nod and withdrew, leaving just the four of them in Ardeunius's chambers. The commander moved to refill their wine goblets, and Ryelle noticed his hands were steadier now—as if the presence of his subordinates had required some effort he was now free to relax.

"Your people seem very... dedicated," she observed carefully.

"Yes." Ardeunius's agreement came quietly, almost sadly. "Very dedicated. Sometimes... perhaps... overly so." He caught himself, blinking as if surprised by his own words. "That is... commitment to duty... essential for our mission success."

They spent another hour in professional discussion—comparing patrol routes, discussing supply chains, reviewing the kind of tactical minutiae that made effective coordination possible. But underneath the surface courtesies, Ryelle felt currents she couldn't quite identify.

Ardeunius seemed to struggle with his words when discussing certain topics, while speaking easily about others. His subordinates had shown the kind of rigid professionalism that usually indicated either exceptional discipline or carefully controlled fear.

When full darkness settled over the mountains, Ardeunius arranged for their quarters—guest chambers in the keep's northern tower, spacious enough for comfort but positioned where their movements could be easily observed. Not necessarily suspicious, just prudent caution when hosting representatives of a neighboring power.

"Dinner will be served in the great hall," Ardeunius explained as he led them through torch-lit corridors that seemed to stretch longer than they should. "Though if you prefer privacy, meals can be brought to your chambers."

"The great hall sounds fine," Lorne said. "Good to meet more of your people in informal settings."

"Of course. Though you may find... conversation... somewhat limited. Evening duties occupy much of our attention during these hours."

"Evening duties?"

"Oath recitation. Contemplation of duties. Personal reflection on... daily obligations." Ardeunius's explanation came out like he was reading from a manual. "Essential for maintaining... proper perspective... on our sacred mission."

Their chambers proved comfortable enough—three interconnected rooms with a shared common area, furnished in the practical style of military accommodation. Clean beds, functional furniture, adequate heating from a fireplace that shared a chimney with the rooms below. Nothing fancy, but perfectly acceptable for their supposed purpose.

"I'll leave you to settle in," Ardeunius said from the doorway. "Dinner will be served in an hour. Simply follow the main corridor down two levels—you can't miss the great hall."

When his footsteps faded down the corridor, Lorne quietly checked the walls and windows for listening devices or observation points. Old habits from less trusting times, but habits that had kept him alive through various conflicts.

"Clean," he said finally, keeping his voice low anyway.

"So," Ryelle said, settling into a chair that creaked under her weight, "what do we think?"

"Ardeunius is fighting something," Lorne said without hesitation. "I've seen that look before—good men trying to hold onto themselves when outside pressures want to reshape them. Question is whether the pressure comes from his own people or somewhere else."

"Belenton feels like a statue that learned to walk," Kaela observed from where she stood near the window, watching the courtyard below. "All the right movements, none of the life behind them."

"And Marcus?" Ryelle asked.

"He makes my skin crawl," Kaela said bluntly. "Something about his eyes. Too pale, too focused, like he's looking at you through water."

"Could be nothing," Lorne cautioned. "Ten years changes people. Military life wears on everyone eventually, and these isolated postings can make anyone seem odd to outsiders."

"Could be," Ryelle agreed. "But my instincts say otherwise. Something about this place feels... muffled. Like everyone's holding their breath, waiting for permission to exhale."

"The way they spoke," Kaela added, "like they were checking each word against some internal list before letting it out. Natural conversation doesn't work that way."

"Tomorrow we'll have better opportunities to observe their behavior when they think we're not paying attention," Lorne decided. "Tonight confirmed our suspicions that something is fundamentally wrong here."

An hour later, they made their way to the great hall, following corridors that seemed to grow colder with each step. The great hall proved to be a cavernous space dominated by long tables arranged in precise rows. Knights of the Order sat in careful order, their conversations muted to barely audible murmurs. The meal itself was well-prepared but oddly tasteless—roasted meat, vegetables, bread that should have been delicious but somehow wasn't.

Ryelle found herself watching the other diners, noting how they ate with mechanical precision, how their conversations never rose above whispers, how they avoided making eye contact with anyone outside their immediate seating group. It felt less like a communal meal than a carefully choreographed performance.

"Tell me about your recent operations," Lorne said to a young knight seated across from them. "What's the most challenging assignment you've faced lately?"

The knight—barely old enough to shave—looked up with eyes that seemed older than his face. "Patrol assignments are... distributed... according to operational requirements," he said carefully. "Recent activities have been... routine... in nature."

Every answer they received followed the same pattern—careful, measured responses that conveyed no real information. It was like talking to people who'd been trained to speak without saying anything meaningful.

When they returned to their quarters, the weight of what they'd observed settled over them like a shroud.

"Well," Ryelle said, settling back into her chair, "that was illuminating."

"That dinner felt like eating with corpses," Kaela observed quietly. "Everyone going through the motions of being alive without actually living."

"And what if we're wrong?" Lorne asked quietly. "What if they're exactly what they claim to be—a military order adapting to changing circumstances, and we're seeing conspiracy where there's only evolution?"

"Then we report that back to Ebonheim and apologize for wasting everyone's time," Ryelle said firmly. "Better to investigate nothing than to ignore something."

Lorne nodded agreement, though none of them could shake the feeling that they were walking into something larger and more dangerous than simple paranoia. The borrowed memories of the siege painted the Order as straightforward, honorable warriors dedicated to their sacred mission. What they'd observed today felt like shadows wearing familiar shapes—close enough to the original to pass casual inspection, but wrong in ways that set their teeth on edge.

"One more day," Ryelle said, more to herself than to her companions. "One more day and we'll know better what we're dealing with."

Tomorrow would bring answers. Tonight brought only questions, and the growing certainty that some truths were more dangerous than comfortable lies.

But that was tomorrow's problem. For now, they were guests in a castle built to guard against monsters, trying to determine whether the monsters had found a way inside after all.

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