When Prince Edmund Moravien left, he wore a satisfied smile. It seemed the meeting had gone well enough for him. He politely declined Gwayne's invitation to stay for supper, saying he had to return swiftly to Solis Ardent—High King Francis awaited word of his success.
Once Edmund was gone, Rebecca finally spoke up: "He seems like a good person! I thought a crown prince would be all haughty and stiff, with a whole mess of court etiquette…"
Gwayne gave her a sideways glance.
"That's because you're seeing him as he wants you to see him—a dutiful young man in front of a revered elder. He wasn't showing his real face, Rebecca. Far from it. The fact that he matched my speech and attitude so naturally only proves one thing: he studied me beforehand."
Rebecca blinked.
"Eh?"
Gwayne sighed.
"Look, when you strip down all the fancy tactics, negotiation boils down to one thing: knowing how to speak differently to different people. Edmund came here as a prince paying respects to an ancient noble ancestor—he showed just the right balance of humility and poise. The moment he caught on to my casual tone, he immediately loosened up too, making me more inclined to talk. That, Rebecca, is real skill."
Rebecca scratched her head, looking bewildered.
"Uhh... okay?"
Gwayne rubbed his temples.
"...Just stick to practicing the four ways to cast a fireball."
Even Rebecca, dense as she could be, sensed Gwayne's heavy-hearted sigh. She grew a little anxious.
"Ancestor... am I really that bad at this kind of thing?"
"Everyone has their strengths," Gwayne said, patting her on the head (because tall people do as they please). "Yours just doesn't lie in diplomacy. And honestly, I don't even like these games. I miss the old days—when a handful of men would throw themselves against the wilds, placing life and death on the line just to carve out a future."
Rebecca nodded solemnly, half understanding, half swept up by the grandeur of it. After a moment, she hesitated, then asked:
"Ancestor... was what you said earlier true?"
Gwayne raised an eyebrow.
"About what?"
"About you all giving a single barrel of wine thirty-six different names, and writing a sonnet for each?"
Gwayne sighed.
"Of course it's true."
Rebecca's eyes shone.
"That sounds amazing!"
"It was because we were poor, Rebecca," Gwayne said dryly. "We hadn't even reached the fertile plains yet. We barely had enough to eat. That barrel was the last wine we had, and giving it fancy names and poems was the only entertainment left to us. Remember this—most of the grand ceremonies and tedious etiquettes of the nobility? They all come from either having too much to eat… or not enough."
Rebecca looked as if she had learned some great and terrible truth. Hestia would never have told her that.
At that moment, the window suddenly swung open with a thud.
Amber tumbled inside, landing lightly in a chair, grinning as she swung her legs.
"Y'know, for an old geezer, you're pretty cool," she said cheekily. "Just for that speech alone, I like you more than any other noble I've ever met."
"Quit calling me old," Gwayne glared at her. "I'm only 35! And weren't you supposed to be patrolling outside? What're you doing, sneaking back to laze around?"
"I did patrol," Amber said, shrugging. "Didn't see anyone suspicious. Now I'm thirsty. You can't expect a girl to freeze out there all night without a tea break."
She poured herself a cup, gulped it down, then headed for the window again. Before hopping out, she turned, snatched two muffins from the tea tray, and stuffed them into her pouch.
"It's cold out there. Gotta keep my strength up!"
Gwayne shook his head, lamenting that the Sword of the Founders wasn't currently within reach.
He turned to Rebecca.
"Go get some rest. Tomorrow's meeting with the High King—you'll need to be at your best."
Rebecca obediently nodded, then hesitated.
"What about you, Ancestor?"
"I'll stay up a while longer," Gwayne replied. "There's something I need to check in the study."
He watched her leave, then made his way up to the second floor.
The estate's study was exactly where he remembered it—a place of quiet thought amid the chaos of early Andraste. Gwayne sat behind the restored desk, tapping his fingers softly against the wood, letting memories (his and not-his) rise and swirl inside his mind.
The restoration was meticulous—painstakingly faithful to the smallest detail. The bookshelves, the paintings, the layout of the room... Even the placement of the inkwell and parchment felt right.
It was so faithful it was unsettling.
As if someone had been expecting him to return.
But those weren't truly his memories. The emotional bond was faint. Shaking off the odd feeling, Gwayne crouched beside the desk and began to search beneath it.
With a small click, a hidden panel slid open.
His fingers brushed cold metal.
Hooking a finger through a tiny ring, he pulled out a small chest—shining faintly with the cold luster of silver, untouched by the passage of centuries.
Relief washed over him.
It's still here.
Half the relics in this house were modern reconstructions, but this... This was real.
The chest was of mithril, engraved with delicate arcane sigils. Upon its surface were a sword-and-shield crest wrought in starsteel and orichalcum, alongside the royal seals of both Charles I and Gwayne Seawright.
By ancient decree, any who found the chest were commanded to reseal it and preserve it.
Had he come later—after the weight of history had faded further—perhaps even this small treasure would have been lost.
He placed the box reverently upon the desk.
If the permanent title of "Pioneer" was the primary prize of this journey to Solis Ardent,
then this was the second.
Working carefully, Gwayne channeled a whisper of magic into the chest's glyphs. Then he pricked his finger and pressed a droplet of blood against the crest.
With a soft click and a ripple of pale light, the chest unlocked.
Inside were only a few items.
A few dead mana crystals, no longer functional except as trinkets.
And one thing of true worth—a platinum disk, no larger than his palm, inscribed with swirling glyphs and faintly shimmering with active magic.
He placed the crystals aside and turned the disk over in his hand.
Elemental seals floated across its surface—keys to something greater.
Perfect.
Tucking the disk and the crystals safely into his coat, he rose to his feet.
And at that moment, a soft breeze brushed his ear.
Instinct screamed—Gwayne seized a short sword from beside the desk, muscles tensed for battle.
A woman's voice spoke from the window.
"So sharp. It seems you truly are the man from the legends."
Gwayne turned swiftly to see a veiled woman in a flowing purple gown, seemingly standing atop thin air, gliding gracefully through the open window.
"Relax," she said calmly. "With strength like ours, if we fought, half this city would be rubble."
Before Gwayne could respond, a dark blur dropped from the ceiling.
Amber, yelling all the while: "Got you now, you little sneak—AHHH!"
She was swatted aside effortlessly, tumbling to the floor.
The veiled woman blinked in surprise.
"...What was that?"
"My guard," Gwayne said, tightening his grip on the blade.
The woman offered a swift, almost sheepish bow.
"Apologies. Instinct. Don't worry—she's merely stunned, not harmed."
Gwayne did not lower his sword.
"Who are you?"
"My apologies," the woman said again, standing elegantly upon the windowsill. "Allow me to introduce myself properly: I am Melitta Ponya, envoy of the Mithril Vault. All your holdings within the Vault are under my stewardship."
Gwayne stared at her suspiciously.
And then, with a voice filled with suspicion, muttered under his breath:
"Did you just say... My Little Pony?"