The shadows reached long fingers from the treelines, stretching toward the elaborate trenches that lay before me. Orange evening light filled the spaces, baking the scene in a peaceful, comfortable glow. It felt like it should be warm. The light was warm. The place was so insulated, so still—it felt like it had earned the right to be peaceful.

I knew nothing of construction. I had imagined I would find walls partly erected, something easier to comprehend—something I could look at and begin to picture as a castle. Instead, my future fortress was nothing but cleared earth and excavation. Piles of crushed stone lay nearby, and many of the trenches were filled or partly filled with that same stone. I supposed I could guess that this would become the foundation. That these broken stones would hold the mighty walls to come. But the vision of those future walls—standing proud, spearing skyward—was still beyond me.

Still, Harold had found something here. I felt peaceful, sitting beside him, our legs hanging over one of the trenches. The place he had chosen—on his own, with no input from me—was like a miracle. The rise fell away on three sides in sheer stone, a natural fortification that gave the site a defensible, almost dramatic prominence. It stood mostly above the treeline, letting me imagine a breathtaking future: towers rising from the rock like stone trees, lording over the woods.

The workers were distant, gathered around their camp. Their numbers had stunned me. It was like a small army had made camp here. I supposed it made sense. The project was massive, and this far from the city, there was no chance of invoking the powers of an Order field. The castle would be built by sweat and sinew alone. I cast my eyes toward the camp, at the endless rows of tents, and listened to the murmur of voices—men eating, drinking, gambling. It would take a lot of manpower to raise a home worthy of House Bloodsword.

I tipped the bottle to my lips again, letting the fiery spirit sear its way down my throat to my belly, where it warmed my soul. I'd had so little time to breathe in months. Now I was learning that liquor held a kind of magic—like time, condensed. It offered more rest than it should have, all in a single swallow.

I passed the bottle to Harold. My servant. My friend. My parental figure. He sat beside me, his eyes ever so slightly glazed from the work we'd done to diminish the bottle. He took it from me and drank.

I said, "This is some place… I can't put my finger on it exactly, but I feel peaceful here. I can imagine wanting to come back. Like this could be a sanctuary. You picked well, Harold."

The older man smiled. "I thought site selection would take longer. Your holdings are vast—mostly wilderness, which didn't make the task easier. I thought we'd spend the first months just scouting. But it was Dirk who found the rise. Brought me here like he'd sensed it. Like he knew the land wanted this place. And the moment I saw it, I felt what you're feeling now. Peace. Rightness. I called for Zeb, and he agreed—the strategic value alone would've sealed the deal. So we set to work."

I nodded, thinking of Zeb. Once a constant, now almost forgotten. Was he still in my employ? Still loaned to Baltizar? I wanted to ask, but there were more pressing questions. There were things I had come here to uncover.

I watched Harold from the corner of my eye. He seemed relaxed, even happy. The drink had begun to untie the knots of formality that bound him so tightly. He had suffered upheaval, too—Father's death, a new master, a new set of duties. He had shifted roles, in truth. From servant to steward. From helper to executor. I could see it in how he greeted me, how he held himself.

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But I was mostly watching to judge how drunk he'd gotten. I could feel the warmth creeping into me and was trying to pace myself. Harold, with no such restraint, was drinking freely from the fine whiskey I'd brought. I let the silence stretch, giving our earlier conversation time to die off, so the next one could feel natural.

Below us, the line between clearing and trees was sharp—too sharp to be natural. The trees had been cleared to make way for mountains of stone. Cut blocks lay stacked in rows, forged far away in the cities where Order still held, and dragged here by horses, by grit. At the treeline, color flashed—a blue jay in flight. It flared vivid for a moment in the orange sun, then faded to gray as it passed through light and shade.

I said, "We're Western, Harold. Chowwick told me before he died. That we came from the West. It was strange, being told about my own past by someone outside the family. I realized then—I don't really know anything about where I come from."

Harold nodded slowly, his eyes distant. "Yes. You and your father came from the Empire."

I said, "Not you?"

He shook his head. "No, not I. I was born in these lands."

"And did you meet my father after he came here?"

"No. I met him before. I spent my youth in the Empire. I come from a long line of service, you see. Stewards stretching back generations. I was raised to believe there was no honor greater than serving a great house. But I had the wanderlust in my blood. I was trained in the ways of service, yes, but also in the arts of war. I wandered a while, and it was during that wandering that I came into your father's employ."

I said, "And what brought us all back here, then?"

Harold hesitated. I could see it—the way my question sparked more thought than a simple answer required. That pause wasn't uncertainty. It was calculation.

I had expected this. I was ready. I had begun to suspect that my ignorance of our past—of my past—was not mere accident. Even with my strange, sheltered childhood, marooned in bed with nothing but books for company, I had not been incurious. I must have asked these questions before. Somehow, I had arrived at manhood without answers. That didn't happen by chance.

Harold said, "Mostly it was just savvy. Your father sought a base where he could find markets to exploit. He settled on Boston. I thought it a strange choice myself, but looking at what he built... well, it seems his judgment, as always, was rare and exact."

I said, "But… he built Dodge in the West. He didn't build a trading city out here. I know we own warehouses in Boston and other places along the coast, but if Boston was so ideal, why not build Dodge here? Wouldn't a central location make more sense for trade? This is the periphery."

Harold's body changed—just slightly. A stiffness crept into his spine, barely visible but deeply familiar. I recognized it as the posture of someone who saw the road ahead and didn't want to walk it.

I hoped he couldn't guess where I was steering us. I hoped he wouldn't get there before I brought him gently to it.

I extended a hand for the bottle. He passed it without comment. I sipped and waited, giving him time.

He said, "I've learned a great deal about trade and management in your father's service. I'd wager there are few in all the lands with a deeper understanding of logistics and markets, or of the complexities of running such a vast web of merchants and convoys." He glanced sideways at me. "But I'll confess to having no genius."

There was a fondness in his voice, mixed with awe and weariness. "Your father could see things none of the rest of us could. It was why he was the greatest. There was only ever one Sempronius."

He chuckled a little then, accepting the bottle back from me. His fingers were steady, but his eyes had that same distant gleam they always took on when he spoke of my father. He sipped, swallowed, then grinned. "I don't think the world could have borne more than one Sempronius."

I licked my lips. I tried not to show how fast my heart was beating. I had to be subtle now. I had to land it cleanly.

"So…" I said, "Father met you out West while you were wandering. But what about my mother?"

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