The pain had subsided the following morning. The others allowed him to continue resting on the bed, a comfort that he was very grateful for. Morning light had barely begun to touch the sky. Nearby, gentle snoring filled the room, Alis and Al laid sprawled across their individual bedrolls. 

What had woke Joel up wasn't the snoring. It was the soft muttering that came from the room’s opposite end. Already changed into his modest robes, Sivren faced the corner of the room, kneeling. He was praying to a small light that Joel couldn’t see, blocked by Siv’s form. His voice wasn’t quiet; he simply spoke into his cupped hands to muffle his words.

Joel couldn’t make out what Sivren was saying, speaking in a language that he couldn’t recognize. It also felt nosy to strain to hear someone’s private prayers. So Joel laid there, taking the time to mentally examine his body for pain and mobility. The pain had largely vanished and he felt the strength returning to his legs. He scanned his HP, calling the [Status] screen. 

[HP: 78%]. He wasn’t sure if that felt right but the screen hadn’t lied to him yet. 

A restless itch built within him. It tempted him to interrupt Sivren’s ritual. Perhaps a cough or a loud rustle of the blankets would be enough to warn the praying man of his wakefulness. 

Thankfully, the loud yawn of Alis did that for him. She sat up, stretching her arms. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes until they caught with Joel’s. A small scowl came across her face, reminding Joel of the awkward walk back to the inn yesterday. The rest of that day hadn’t gone much better.

But today was the day. After they’d returned to meet with the others, Al had informed them that a guard captain had got them an audience with the baron. Supposedly it had been quite the whole affair to get the baron’s attention. No one really elaborated on that, which felt annoying. But if he was going to have secrets, so could they. 

Alis’ scowl was his cue to rise. With a soft grunt, he pulled himself up, feeling some of the aches still remained. 

Sivren continued his prayer quietly, before the light in front of him dissipated. He still looked solemn as he turned to face the others, surprisingly serious for someone with such soft features. 

A cheery, thin smile broke out across his face. “Breakfast?”

“Bah, I’m starving,” Alis replied, rubbing her stomach. Her nightgown fluttered as she walked up to her bag, pulling out a silver comb. As she ran it through her hair, straightening blonde knots that formed during the night, she walked over to the still-snoring Al. She poked at him with her foot. “Wake up, if you want to get some food before we’re late.”

Al turned over with a sleepy groan, rolling onto his side. Unfortunately, this only invited more nudges from her foot. A battle of wills that he conceded by finally sitting up, blinking.

Joel pulled a clean white tunic, one of Sivren’s extras, over his bandaged body. He’d been told that his normal clothes wouldn’t be well-received, especially in their current ‘state’. By the time he was fully dressed, he was surprised to find Al already in his armor, tugging on his gloves.

If his armor hadn’t seen so many years and scuffs, one would swear that Al could pass as a fairytale knight-in-shining-armor. With a practiced precision, he tightened the several straps and clasps that adorned his gear while walking to his large bag of assorted weapons. He didn’t bother with the heavy heater shield that leaned against the wall, instead taking his sheathed claymore — a sizable emerald sat in its pommel.

Finishing with his last buckle, Al approached him with clinking greaves and a half-yawn, half-smile. “Get a good night’s sleep?”

“Very much so and I feel better for it. Thanks again for letting me have the bed.”

Al tugged on a strap. “Don’t mention it. But do you feel well enough to do any porting today, if it comes up?”

“I should be good to go,” Joel replied, stretching his arm across his chest as a warm-up exercise. With his [Second Wind] available again, he would be as close to fully healthy as long as he got a hearty meal in. If he really needed to top off, [Lay On Hands] would be there for him. “In fact, I’m feeling a lot better.”

“All of you hurry up or we aren’t going to get any breakfast!” Alis was already dragging Sivren by the arm and out the door. 

Despite the early morning, the dining room was busy and packed with patrons, each trying to squeeze their own meal in before the start of the day. Assorted berries in porridge, the breakfast was a pleasant one, though it compared poorly to Gorum’s cooking.

“Now remember, all of us have to be on our best behavior,” said Al, dropping his spoon in his finished bowl. “The baron is known as a fickle man, so be mindful of your manners. And don’t take any offense to whatever venom he spits. We’re here to get approval to enter the mines.”

Sivren voiced his agreement. “Wise words. Even amongst the clergy, the baron is famous for his ill-temper.”

“Losing both your sons during their tours would do that to any father,” Al said softly, absentmindedly playing with the gilded chain around his neck, a glimmer of blue reflecting the early morning light.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll all make sure to not bring that up.” Alis gave each of them a look that threatened them for even thinking otherwise.

While they had called themselves the lowest tier of Freewalkers, it surprised Joel how well-informed they seemed to be. All around his own age, they seemed worldly despite their youth, especially Al, though Joel had to admit that it seemed more likely for someone to grow up quicker here.

Suppose that is what it takes to live the life of an adventurer.

However, one question still confused Joel.

“If the baron’s having problems, and asked for Freewalkers, why would he give you all a hard time?” Joel felt his face get red when they all turned to him. “I mean, he has a problem that needs to be taken care of, right?”

Sivren shook his head with a smile. “That’d be the case if the baron wasn’t one of the wealthiest noblemen in Lorent and couldn’t afford an open contract. Then a set group of the League members would’ve been assigned to handle it. But the open contract allows the baron to invite any and all willing Freewalkers to offer their service.”

“More importantly, it gives him grounds to be even more choosey,” said Alis, annoyed, as she popped blueberry into her mouth. 

“It turns into a race against time. If the higher tiers start arriving, they might wrap this up before we get a shot. We’d had an earlier tip off about this,” Al began to put his gloves back on. “But we didn’t make good time on the road.”

Or because of having to care for an injured stranger. Joel felt a pang of guilt; four jobs were a fair exchange. For each one, he’d be the best porter they’d ever had. 

“So we’re not the first ones?” he asked, biting his last spoonful.

“We aren’t,” Al replied, shaking his head and getting to his feet. “Supposedly a group’s already gone through. However, considering the baron’s willing to grant us an audience, I’d wager we have a chance.”

Sivren stacked the empty bowls before following the rest of them up. “Well, best to not squander this opportunity. Shall we go?”

The town was as busy as the day before, this time with people getting ready for their day. Rainclouds darkened above, making a dimmer morning. By the time they’d arrived on less crowded streets, rain began to trickle down.

Sitting in the center of the town, a stone castle towered over the other buildings. Gray walls were draped in the crimson banners emblazoned with a sigil — three vertical columns of interlinked chains. A lattice of iron bars, the keep’s gate had several well-armed guardsmen stationed.

Joel had half-expected the guards to give them a difficult time, asking probing or redundant questions. To his pleasant surprise, the sentrymen listened carefully as the group explained the reason for their arrival. It wasn’t long before one of them scampered off to find the castle steward.

The steward was a diminutive man, closer to a dwarf in stature but with none of the lavish facial hair. He was well in his years, age wrinkling his features and thinning his short hair. Yet, he was dressed in the manner one would expect of someone who served a wealthy lord. His garments were of fine wool; rings of silver and gold adorned his fingers. Well-groomed through and through.

“Welcome, I am Lester Drefan,” said the man, bowing his head deep. “Steward and servant of Lord Ulrain Valgruv, Baron of Wardenhal.”

Everyone dipped their own heads in polite response so Joel did the same.

“Well met, we are Freewalkers from the League,” Al responded, using his hand to keep the drizzle from his face. “We were told we’d be granted an audience with the baron.”

There was a look of surprise and a deeper bow from the steward. “Syr Alarion, my apologies. Please, come in from the rain. I will announce your arrival to my lord.”

Alarion? Syr? Going to have to ask about that later.

“It’s Alarion. I no longer carry other titles.” Al’s tone turned cold. 

Maybe not.

“Apologies once more.” The steward bowed again before motioning them to follow him.

Despite the misty spray of rain, it failed to fog over the splendor of the tidy courtyard. Blooming flowers and trimmed hedges, accompanied with marble statues of smiling women and children, decorated the space. A vibrant garden provided further splashes of color across the backdrop of boring stone. 

Inside the keep, the atrium was a similar lavish display. Golden candlesticks, studded with tiny gems, lit the halls and jeweled frames held the painted visages of Valgruvs past. Each shared a severe expression, inherited from their respective predecessor. 

As they went, they passed several servants, all hurrying to and fro. Every single one, from the maid to the cook, were well-dressed and groomed, except for the sweat that pooled on their brow as they paced. It reminded Joel of a busy kitchen at a fast food restaurant, though Lester’s presence seemed to part the fray for them.

They arrived at a hall that felt cavernous; it felt empty with the few people within. Several long tables were laid out, though only the one at the far end — the lord’s table — was being used. The smell of roasted fowls and fish mingled with the scent of spiced wine, all laid out across the table with platefuls of fresh bread and simmering soup. A roaring fireplace warmed the room, behind the two present at the high table.

Sitting at the center of the table and draped in fur cloaks, Lord Ulrain Valgruv was a bear of a man. His hulking frame made his cutlery and bowl look like toys. A scowl that would make anyone flinch was etched across the old man’s face, only made even more dour by his salt and pepper hair. His beard — short and neat —  did little to hide his thick neck, moving rhythmically as he swallowed food. 

Next to him, a younger woman picked at her plate. Her brown hair came down one shoulder, its dark contrasting the vivid purple of her dress. Despite her striking features, her expression was stoic. Though perhaps it was boredom, as her eyes darted towards their approach to the high table. 

With a deep bow, followed by the rest of them, the steward prepared to begin their introductions, giving a small cough to clear his throat. Joel saw Lester contain a faint frown as the low rumble of the baron’s voice interrupted his steward before he could start. 

“Not everyday you see a son of the great Jharro Havret. How is the count?” The words sat between a scoff and a smirk. The rings on the baron’s fingers gleamed blue and green as he forked a morsel of pheasant. Turning to the lady beside him, he pointed his fork at Al. “I saw his father catch a stag between the eyes on horseback. On horseback! Incredible shot.” He turned back to them while popping a forkful of food into his mouth. “Still hunts every new moon?”

“My father is well, Lord Valgruv,” Al responded light-heartedly, giving another thankful bow. The answer was quick, too quick, as if rehearsed for an anticipated question. “Though he no longer goes on his monthly hunts, I know he would appreciate you asking about his well-being. While we never had the chance to hunt together, my father often told me you were an excellent huntsman yourself.”

Raucous laughter erupted from the baron. “Then your father is not only a great hunter but a seasoned story-teller. I am anything but that. At my size, one does not hunt well in cramped woodlands.”  

Of course. The random assortment of jewels that Al had, his understanding of the personal history and behaviour of other nobles, even the fact that he had plate armor. All of it was explained by Al’s — or Alarion’s — noble heritage.

Taking gulps from his goblet, Lord Ulrain’s gaze drifted to the siblings behind Al. “And the famous halfblood wards of House Havret?” He waved his hand, as if trying to brush away the tension that filled the room. “Now, now, don’t make such faces. You’re in Wardenhal, no one will bat an eye at your mixed lineage.”

Eyes lowered, neither Alis nor Sivren were looking directly at the baron. A ruby flush had come across Alis’ cheeks and her jaw clenched to a shake. Meanwhile, Sivren kept his sapphire eyes to the floor. His face was calm, with a practiced serenity, as if he was letting the words pass through him without effect.

The sparkling eyes, the slightly pointed ears, that strange etherealness they exuded. Half-elves? The look on their faces told him that it was a subject to be avoided with them. Good to know.

The baron’s eyes turned to Joel. “I haven’t heard of this one though.”

Wow, it was suddenly feeling very warm when everyone stared at him.

“I’m Joel.” He chewed on the inside of his lip before adding to the introduction. “My lord.” Was he supposed to bow to the lady too? Better safe than sorry, he ducked his head to her as well. “My lady.”

A thin smile broke her expressionless face. “Well met once again, Joel.”

“What?”