For weeks, Ripollès had shimmered in Julien's imagination like a mystical destination. The journey over the Pyrenees, with its rugged peaks and breathtaking vistas, signified the nearing of this much-anticipated location. Julien's heart thrummed with excitement, each step bringing him closer to the unveiling of mysteries.

Yet, as they descended the mountain's slopes and the midday sun cast its light directly overhead, a sting of disappointment crept into Julien's excitement: The settlements at the foot of the Pyrenees, while undeniably picturesque, were not too different from what he had known all his life. Each village and hamlet they passed was charming in its way, sure, but they were not the exotic, otherworldly places Julien had envisioned. His expectations, inflated by weeks of anticipation, clashed with the reality of familiar sights and sounds.

Turning to Gregorio, with his voice tinged with doubt, Julien said: "So, this is it? This is Ripollès?"

Gregorio's response was characteristically succinct, a single word that carried the weight of finality: "Yes."

Julien and Robert found themselves, once again, traversing the lands of Marca Hispanica after a seven-year absence. This time, however, their path veered away from Barcelona's bustling streets and captivating architecture, where they last stopped before heading to battle; Instead, their journey took them through the region's more pastoral landscapes, an area rich with history but far removed from any grandeur, it seemed.

As they rode, Gregorio's voice cut through the quiet, bringing Julien's thoughts back to the present: "Remember what I said about cathedrals and monasteries?" he began, his tone hinting at a deeper relevance, "make sure to visit Santa Maria de Ripoll. It's a place that holds a special significance in our world. It's less than two hours from here."

Julien, absorbing this information, wondered aloud, "so, is that our destination? Are we headed to the monastery for my training?"

Gregorio, however, quickly dispelled this assumption: "No," he corrected with a brief glance towards Robert, "this time, our path leads us to a castle. We're to meet a nobleman there." His gaze lingered momentarily on the corpse. "A count, much like your companion here."

Since their stinging defeat in 1073, the intricacies of Iberian nobility had slipped from Julien's focus. His duties as the true ruler of Omois in Northern Francia had consumed his attention, leaving little to no room for the distant happenings of the Iberian Peninsula. Yet, Gregorio's mention of meeting a count stirred a flicker of curiosity within him: "May I know his name?" Julien inquired, sifting through his memories. The possibility that this count might have been an ally or even a foe in the past loomed in his mind.

"Count Arnau," Gregorio replied without hesitation, "Arnau of Ripollés. He holds dominion over these lands we cross."

The name 'Count Arnau' failed to ignite any spark in Julien's mind. Still, the prospect of meeting another noble, someone who understood the intricate dance of governance and leadership, intrigued him. "Interacting with a fellow ruler of a province could prove enlightening," Julien spoke, pondering the shared experiences and challenges they might discuss.

Catching Julien's thoughtful expression, a fleeting smile briefly crossed Gregorio's lips, "we will see about that," he remarked, his voice marked with smugness.

After a moment's silence, Gregorio glanced at the sky, gauging the progress of the day. "If we maintain our current speed, we should arrive at his castle almost exactly by dusk," he estimated.

Julien's anticipation bubbled to the surface, a mixture of excitement and nostalgia at the thought of returning to a courtly setting. "Why don't we pick up our pace and arrive a bit earlier?" he suggested, the thrill of nearing their destination evident in his voice. "We're on the final stretch of our journey, aren't we? The horses are more than capable of a faster gait!"

Gregorio, however, remained unaffected by Julien's enthusiasm. Without shifting his focus from the path ahead, he nudged his horse into a modestly faster trot, a pace that fell far short of Julien's expectations. Brimming with a readiness to charge ahead, he found himself reined in by Gregorio's steady, measured pace.

As they neared the Montgrony sierra, its imposing presence loomed closer and closer, a majestic backdrop to the final leg of their journey. Nestled in its foothills, a small yet robust Romanesque castle came into view; Its architecture was efficient, featuring a tall, commanding circular tower and an adjoining, more unassuming rectangular structure.

Gregorio reined in his horse, bringing them to a halt as he gestured towards the fortress. "That castle over there, Mataplana," he began, his voice imbued with a note of finality, "will be both your abode and learning ground for the coming days."

The castle of Mataplana, while lacking the charm of Omois in its exterior, possessed practicality: Its solid structure and strategic design spoke of a fortress built with the pragmatism of defense and siege endurance in mind. As they approached, Julien couldn't help but consider the differences.

Breaking his contemplation, Julien turned to Gregorio: "Is Count Arnau expecting our arrival?" he asked, wary of the potential for misinterpretation by the castle's guards; The last thing he wanted was to be greeted with suspicion, or worse, hostility.

Gregorio nodded in his usual serene manner: "Arnau is indeed expecting you," he confirmed. "But not me" he continued, a hint of finality in his voice, "as I am not going there with you."

Julien's expression morphed into one of confusion. "Wait, you're not going to be my mentor in all this?" The realization that Gregorio would not be guiding him through his next steps came as a surprise.

"No," Gregorio replied succinctly, already steering his horse in a different direction. "Give my regards to Count Arnau, and Julien, do not disappoint me."

Julien watched, sheer disbelief in his eyes, as Gregorio suddenly spurred his horse into a swift gallop, disappearing into the distance: "Now he chooses to gallop at full speed," Julien muttered under his breath, his words full of irony.

Turning back to face the castle of Mataplana, Julien took a moment to gather his thoughts. He glanced at the count behind him, the ever-silent companion on his journey. "There's no turning back now, is there, Robert?" he said, more to himself than expecting any response. With a deep, steadying breath, Julien nudged his horse back into a brisk trot towards the castle gates. "Let's get going,” he said with newfound resolve.

As Julien drew closer to the castle, its true condition became painfully apparent: The courtyard, overgrown and unkempt, spoke of long neglect; The stone walls, though originally of fine craftsmanship, bore the scars of years without care - ivy creeping over them, and moss clinging to their crevices; An eerie silence hung over the place, devoid of the usual bustle and clamor of castle life; No soldiers patrolled the ramparts, no heads peered down from the tower; Even the gate, crafted from what once must have been magnificent wood, now stood weathered and worn. "What in the name of our Lord is this place?" Julien whispered to himself, a sense of unease creeping into his heart.

The castle, nestled within the dense forest at the foot of a mountain, exuded an aura of abandonment that was quite unsettling already, but now, with dusk casting its shadowy veil, the ominous feeling just deepened.

Resigned yet determined, Julien gathered his courage: "No turning back now," he reaffirmed, his voice barely audible. He approached the battered gate and raised his hand, hesitating just a moment before knocking firmly on the ancient wood, the sound echoing hollowly into the quiet of the approaching night.

After a tense but short wait, the creaking gate begrudgingly gave way: It opened just wide enough to reveal a figure stepping forth from the shadowy interior of the castle. The man, slightly taller than Julien, presented a striking image with his short black hair and an unkempt beard framing a pale face. His hazel eyes, underscored by deep dark circles, contrasted sharply with his elaborate (and even gaudy) yet faded noble attire that had seen better days.

Despite the disheveled appearance, the man's smile was unexpectedly warm and welcoming: "You must be Julien Mazars," he said, his voice rich with an unfamiliar accent, but definitely bearing kindness, "Gregorio must have spoken of me, I presume? I am Count Arnau of Ripollès," he introduced himself with a flourish, extending his hand in a gesture of cordiality.

Julien's handshake with Count Arnau was hesitant, and his response cautious yet polite: "Nice to meet you as well," he said.

Count Arnau's demeanor shifted slightly, a playful smugness creeping into his smile as he turned his attention to Robert: "And this must be Count Robert of Omois, correct?" he asked with a light chuckle. "A fellow count, though I've heard it was you, Julien, who truly steered the helm of his domain." His words were tinged with a hint of jest.

Julien's surprise was evident. "How do you know all this?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Count Arnau's laughter rang out, a carefree sound that momentarily lightened the atmosphere. "Let's just say we Enochians in Iberia have our ways of keeping well-informed," he said cryptically, "but let's not dwell on that now. You must be famished and weary from your journey. Come, let us share a meal, and then I'll show you to your quarters. Our training begins on the morrow."

Julien, accompanied closely by Robert, made his way to the castle's dining room: Like much of what he had seen so far, that room was also an amalgamation of elegance and decay; Opulent furnishings and decorations showed signs of wear, their once-vibrant colors faded with time. The lighting was dim, and had it not been for the mild warmth of the summer evening, the room would surely have felt quite cold.

Count Arnau had vanished into the depths of the castle, leaving Julien and Robert alone for a tense handful of minutes. Under different circumstances, Julien might have been tempted to explore the room and adjacent corridors, seeking to uncover the stories hidden within their walls. However, he felt that nothing in the castle would truly captivate him, and so he stayed there, seated at the table. Robert stood silently behind him, next to the wall.

The sound of footsteps announced Arnau's return; The count re-entered the dining room with an air of casual hospitality, carrying two bowls in his hands: "I trust a hearty boar stew will be to your liking, Julien Mazars," he said, placing a generous portion before Julien and then seating himself with his own bowl, "it's a simple fare, actually, but I assure you the ingredients are as fresh as can be found."

As Julien began to eat, he couldn't shake off the peculiarity of the situation; The absence of servants in such a grand, albeit faded, castle was unusual. After a few moments of contemplation, he voiced his observation: "Count Arnau, don't you have any servants to assist you?"

Count Arnau's response came with a light-hearted chuckle: "When one is accustomed to life on the road, the need for servants diminishes," he explained, his smile warm and genuine, "and cooking, for instance, happens to be a passion of mine."

As Julien savored the rich flavors of the boar stew, he had to admit it was among the finest he'd ever tasted. Yet, another question simmered in his mind, prompting him to delve deeper into the count's unusual lifestyle: "With no servants at hand, how do you manage the affairs of your realm?" he inquired.

Count Arnau, eating his meal with a combination of finesse and a certain hunger-driven focus, replied between bites: "Ah, if it's the intricacies of governance you're interested in, you'd be better off visiting Ripoll and speaking with the abbot there," he suggested casually, "he's the real manager of these lands."

Julien pondered this revelation, his thoughts turning to the abbot of Ripoll. "This abbot and I would probably have a lot to talk about," he mused silently, while he continued to relish the fantastic stew.

A brief silence had settled over the dinner, but was eventually broken by Count Arnau, his voice punctuating the stillness: "So," he began, leaning back in his chair after finishing his meal, in contemplative pause, "did Gregorio enlighten you about our kind at all?"

Julien sifted through his memories, trying to make sense of the sea of cryptic information he had been given a few weeks prior: "Something about Enochians, and... magic energy, I suppose?" He replied, his words tangled in confusion.

Arnau's laughter filled the room, a hearty sound that seemed to momentarily lift the evening's somber atmosphere. "Hagic energy, you mean?" He corrected, still chuckling. "Well, it's clear we have much to discuss, but there's no shame in starting from the beginning, my friend."

After the meal, Arnau led Julien to his chamber, a room as sparse and dimly lit as the rest of the castle. The austerity of the space, however, did little to hinder Julien's weariness. Exhausted from the month-long journey, sleep claimed him quickly, offering a brief respite before the start of his new and uncertain path under Arnau's guidance.