After carefully marking the secret missive, Viscount Andrew rolled it with precision, sealing it with a wax stamp bearing his personal crest. When the task was done, he exhaled slowly, running over the contents once more in his mind.
He had left no gaps — all that they had agreed upon was contained within, and every word sounded plausible and true. Andrew prided himself on his ability to spin a believable tale when needed. Anyone reading that letter would believe he had personally witnessed the unfolding events.
The rest depended not on him, but on the will of the old king in the far-off Solis Ardent — whether His Majesty would choose to believe the truth that had come to light.
Or whether he would pretend it had never happened.
It was a gamble — but the Viscount was no stranger to risk. If not for his willingness to gamble, he would never have risen above his seven elder siblings to inherit the House of Lescaille.
He simply hadn't expected his latest wager to be tied so intimately to the House of Seawright — that fading branch of nobility, forgotten by the courts, reduced to a footnote in the annals of the kingdom.
Andrew had always kept a close eye on his "neighbors." Not merely because their lands bordered one another — trade and necessity kept them aware — but because the decline of House Seawright had become particularly steep in recent years. At the pace they were going, Andrew had privately expected to double the size of his demesne within his own lifetime, swallowing up Seawright's ruins without a fight.
Rebecca Seawright, the young heir, was earnest but painfully unready. She was never going to hold what little remained of her inheritance.
But fate — mischievous, wicked fate — had played its cruel trick.
First came rumors that monsters had swallowed the entire Seawright Marches. Then came word that the creatures resembled those from the ancient tales of the Calamity. Next, there were whispers of a dragon. And finally, when Rebecca and Hestia Seawright arrived at his castle with a man claiming to be the Ancestor of their House...
Andrew had, at least, kept a commendable composure.
Mostly because, by that point, he had become numb.
Returning to his chambers after that strange meeting, the Viscount had come to a decision: An extinguished bloodline and a burnt-out land were worthless. He would gain more by transforming himself from a ruthless creditor into a benevolent neighbor.
Especially now that he had every reason — ninety percent certainty, at least — to believe that the "Ancestor" was truly who he claimed to be.
Seawright with Gwayne was not the same as Seawright without him.
Andrew placed the sealed missive into a silver scroll-tube, wound it tightly with a thread of binding magic, and handed it to his steward.
"Give it to our swiftest gryphon-rider. Have him depart immediately — he must time it so the letter reaches Solis Ardent after the first courier, but before the Seawrights themselves arrive."
The steward accepted the scroll with a bow. "And the other matter, my lord?"
Andrew hesitated, then added: "Go to the treasury. Return to House Seawright the gold and silver that was taken — in full."
"Only what was taken, my lord? Nothing more?"
Andru tapped his fingers against the desk. "In full — and before they depart, I'll add a small 'travel fund' as a token of goodwill."
The winds had shifted. The petty profits squeezed from desperation now burned in his hands like hot coals. Returning them was merely the first step — but it would be unwise to act too hastily, lest he seem insincere.
He could only hope that this ancient, unpredictable Gwayne Seawright would recognize a genuine olive branch when he saw it.
Night had fallen.
Gwayne, wearing a loose night-robe, stepped out onto the balcony of his guest chamber. The castle's second-story terrace overlooked a still, silent world.
This world had no moon. Above stretched a sky filled with far more stars than Earth had ever known — an endless scattering of cold, sharp light.
Gwayne gazed upward, the myriad stars reflected faintly in his eyes. He had done this often since his awakening — day or night, staring at the heavens. By day, the vast, less-blinding sun. By night, the otherworldly constellations.
His eyes drifted, searching instinctively among the stars for something — a place, a shape, anything that might be familiar.
It was hopeless, of course. There were too many stars, and he lacked the data, the calculations, the precise instruments he would have needed. Even if he could find the location from which he had once gazed down on this world... he had no way to be sure.
Still, he could not help but search.
Because Gwayne — more than anyone else alive — knew the truth: Something lurked in the skies of this world. A monitor. A satellite. A station. A ship. He had no way of knowing if it was still active... but he couldn't rule out the possibility.
He himself had once been linked to that monitoring system — or so he now suspected, after piecing together fragmented memories and observations.
If he had not experienced the strange visions from orbit before awakening in Gwayne Seawright's body, he might never have realized. Might never have even felt this gnawing urgency.
But he had. And like any rational man, he could not simply ignore it.
Something hung in the heavens — and he needed to know what it was. Who had made it. Why it was there. And whether it would stay quiet... or not.
It was like living beneath a silent alien dreadnought, forever unseen — no sane person could rest easy knowing it was there.
Even without the anxiety, even just from curiosity, Gwayne could not turn his eyes away.
"You're always looking up," said a girl's voice behind him.
Gwayne turned to see Amber perched lazily on the balcony railing, her legs swinging into empty air. She grinned mischievously.
"You know," she said, "sneaking onto a man's balcony uninvited in the dead of night isn't exactly polite."
Amber winked and leaned back dangerously. "Night's my domain — wherever there's shadow, there's me." She flickered — merging briefly with the darkness — and appeared at the far side of the terrace. "Besides, you're the great ancient hero! You can't be afraid of a girl whispering behind you, can you?"
Gwayne silently thanked his self-control for not shrieking like a startled cat.
"So seriously," Amber said, "what are you always looking at? Are you a stargazer? Do you know astrology?"
Instead of answering, Gwayne asked, "What do you think is up there?"
Amber shrugged. "Stars, the sun, same as everyone knows. Unless you're about to tell me the gods live up there too. 'Cause if so, save it — I already worship the Lady of Shadows."
"The Lady of Shadows, huh?" Gwayne raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
He had learned enough of this world's tangled pantheons to know the Lady of Shadows was one of the quieter deities, rarely demanding prayer or sacrifice.
"Yeah," Amber said cheerfully. "It's easy faith. No tithes, no sermons, no attendance. Just whisper a prayer now and then — she doesn't seem to mind."
Gwayne shook his head, choosing not to comment. (He thought grimly that both sides of Amber's bloodline should probably be ashamed.)
"Anyway," Amber pressed, swinging back toward him, "what are you looking for?"
Gwayne half-smirked. "Have you ever heard the old belief? That when a person dies, their soul rises into the heavens and becomes a star?"
Amber laughed. "Never heard that one. I heard souls get sorted after death — faithful ones get scooped up by their gods, unbelievers get snatched by the Lord of Death, wiped clean, and tossed back into the world. Some say everyone, in the end, belongs to Death, no matter their faith."
"But your story sounds fun," she added. "Was it a seven-hundred-year-old belief?"
Gwayne scratched his head awkwardly. "Eh... not exactly."
Amber's eyes suddenly lit up. "Wait! You died!" she cried, as if just realizing. "You actually died seven hundred years ago! What's it like?! Tell me! Tell me!"
"Get off, you crazy half-sprite!" Gwayne grunted, pushing her face away firmly. "When you're dead, you don't know anything. End of story. And I was just talking nonsense earlier."
Amber pouted. "Boo! Old people are so boring!"
Gwayne glared. "You want to say that again?"
With a flick of shadow, Amber vanished.