Days passed.
The rhythm of peace settled like dust around them all.
The survivors adapted to it faster than Damien expected. The camp beca less a refuge and more a temporary ho. They laughed again, even if the laughter was brittle. They worked, they nded, they slept.
But Damien didn't.
He spent the early mornings sitting by the camp's edge, watching the sunrise spill over the rooftops. The city's walls frad the horizon like a cage. The first few days had been tolerable, almost welco. But as the calm stretched into a week, unease began to take shape inside him, shapeless, quiet, and persistent.
It wasn't danger. Not the kind he could see or sense. That was what bothered him the most.
He tried to explain it to Apnoch one evening as they patrolled the periter.
"Everything's too normal," Damien said. "Too quiet."
Apnoch gave a half-laugh. "You've probably forgotten what normal feels like."
"Maybe," Damien admitted. "Or maybe I just don't trust it anymore."
Apnoch didn't argue. He didn't have to. They both knew what a silence like this could hide.
By the fifth day, the guards had grown accustod to the refugees. Suspicion faded, replaced by routine. The city lord, who until then had stayed out of sight, finally sent word. A formal invitation delivered by a young soldier in polished armor.
"The Lord requests the presence of Captain Apnoch of Delwig and the man known as Damien," the ssenger announced stiffly, bowing low before the campfire that morning.
Apnoch exchanged a wary look with Damien.
"The city lord, huh? Took him long enough."
Damien folded his arms. "Probably waited to see if we'd cause trouble first."
A faint smirk tugged at Apnoch's lips. "He's not wrong to be cautious. Refugees from a destroyed city? That's enough to make any lord lose sleep."
"Let's see what he wants," Damien said. "At least it's a change of scenery."
Arielle stepped forward as they prepared to leave. "You sure it's safe?"
"It's a dinner invitation, not a trap," Apnoch replied dryly. "Though, after what we've been through, I'll admit I'd be disappointed if it were that simple."
Damien adjusted his cloak, the faintest shadow of amusent flickering across his face. "If it is, we'll handle it."
Lyone and Arielle stayed behind with the rest, tasked with keeping the camp organized until their return.
The path to the lord's manor cut through the heart of the city.
It was early evening, the streets alive with movent. The air slled of roasted grain and oil lamps. So places had it worse. It reeked of fishes. Different kinds.
As they walked, Damien caught the faint rhythm of city life; laughter, footsteps, haggling, the chi of bells from the central plaza. All sounds that should've soothed him. They didn't. Every noise felt like a distraction, like a thin layer hiding sothing beneath.
Apnoch noticed the tension in his stride. "Still paranoid?"
"Always," Damien said quietly.
"You could try pretending to relax."
"Pretending gets people killed," he said, his tone flat. "And I've done enough pretending to last a lifeti."
Apnoch just grunted. He'd learned not to press.
The manor stood on elevated ground near the inner walls — a broad estate surrounded by high stone fences and guarded by spearn in polished silver armor. Two banners fluttered above the gates, the crest of the city lord embroidered in gold. It was a lion coiled around a rising sun.
As they approached, the guards stepped aside at once, bowing slightly. Clearly, the lord's orders carried weight.
Inside, the air slled faintly of incense and polished wood. The manor's courtyard was wide and orderly, paved with granite tiles and lined with glowing lanterns. Servants in clean robes moved with quiet precision, bowing as the two n passed.
Apnoch let out a low whistle. "Not bad. Almost makes miss Delwig's banquet hall."
Damien didn't reply. He hadn't witnessed the banquet halls so he had no solid response to give.
His gaze drifted to the marble pillars and the faint shimr of mana lamps set along the walls. Everything was too perfect, too arranged. The kind of order that usually ant soone was trying too hard to make an impression. 'Or maybe this is how he naturally is.'
At the top of a short stairway stood the city lord himself.
He was tall, silver-haired, dressed in a dark robe trimd with red. His eyes were sharp, intelligent — the kind of man who saw more than he said. When he smiled, it was with calculated warmth.
"Captain Apnoch of Delwig," he greeted, stepping forward. "And you must be the rcenary I've heard so much about."
"Damien," Apnoch said, bowing slightly. "Lord—?"
"Lord rith," the man supplied smoothly. "Governor of this city and protectors or better still, Watchers of the Verdant Verge." He studied them both for a mont, then gestured toward the open doors behind him. "Please, co in. You've been through enough hardship. My table is yours tonight."
The servants stepped aside, ushering them through the grand entryway. The scent of seasoned at and warm bread drifted through the air.
Apnoch leaned closer as they entered. "He's polite," he murmured. "That worries ."
"Polite n usually are," Damien replied under his breath.
The dining hall was modest by noble standards but elegant nonetheless — a long polished table of dark oak, silverware gleaming beneath a chandelier of crystal orbs. Servants poured wine and set dishes one after another: roasted bird, spiced roots, soft bread, and a decanter of amber liquid that filled the air with sweetness.
Lord rith motioned toward the seats near the head of the table. "Please, sit. You're guests, not prisoners."
Apnoch didn't hesitate. "After days of rations, you don't have to tell twice." He dropped into the chair with a low sigh. "Feels strange sitting at a real table again."
Damien remained standing for a mont longer, scanning the hall — the exits, the windows, the servants' paths — before finally sitting opposite the lord.
rith noticed. "Still wary, I see."
"Habit," Damien said simply.
"A good one," rith said, raising his glass. "Especially in tis like these."
Apnoch reached for his own drink with no hesitation. "To survival, then."
"To survival," the lord echoed, smiling faintly.
Damien didn't drink yet. His fingers rested on the stem of the glass, his eyes locked on the liquid's reflection — the faint tremor of red light from the chandelier rippling across its surface.
He wasn't sure if it was instinct or paranoia. But even as laughter and conversation began to flow around him, that quiet, gnawing sense of unease returned — stronger now, sharper.
He couldn't see it, couldn't na it. But sothing was wrong.
'What the hell is wrong then?' Damien was in a furious protest in his own head.
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