After carefully placing a unique seal on the secret letter, Viscount Andrew rolled it up, meticulously secured it with wax, and took a deep breath, mentally checking for any omissions or mistakes in its contents.
There shouldn't be any—everything they had discussed was detailed within, each part written with reliable accuracy. Andrew was confident in his storytelling skills, convinced that anyone reading the letter would believe he had been a personal witness to "that incident."
Now, it was only a matter of waiting to see if the elderly king, far off in the capital, would be willing to accept the story's truth.
Or rather, if he would want to acknowledge it.
It was a risky move, but Viscount Andrew wasn't one to shy away from risk. If he hadn't taken risks, he never would have risen above his seven siblings to become the heir of House Leslie.
He just hadn't expected this new gamble to involve the Cecil family.
The once-powerful Cecil line had faded into near-oblivion a century ago, becoming so thinly populated in recent generations that it was on the verge of vanishing completely.
Andrew had always kept a close eye on his "neighbors," not only due to their proximity and trade relations but also because he'd anticipated the gradual decline of the Cecil family. At the pace of their downfall, it wouldn't be long before he could look forward to expanding Leslie territory twofold. The young girl who had hastily inherited the title was hardly a capable leader; despite her efforts, she was undoubtedly unfit to preserve her family's legacy.
But fate had thrown everyone a curveball—and in a way no one could have anticipated. When Andrew first heard that the Cecil domain had been destroyed by monstrous creatures, he'd been stunned. Hearing that the creatures were reminiscent of the monstrous tides from historical records left him equally baffled. When merchants spoke of a dragon appearing there, he was dumbfounded. And when Rebecca Cecil and Heidi Cecil arrived at his castle with a man claiming to be their ancestor… Andrew had maintained remarkable composure.
After all, by then he was thoroughly numb to the shock.
Yet after his discussion with this "ancestor" and a return to his chambers, Viscount Andrew felt he'd made the right decision.
An extinguished noble line and a burned-out domain had no value; there was no benefit to be squeezed out of them. If he truly wanted to recoup his investment, it would be wiser to shift from a ruthless opportunist to a generous neighbor. And now, with that "ancestor" involved, Andrew was almost entirely convinced that this strange occurrence was real. The Cecil family with or without its founder was an entirely different matter.
He sealed the letter in a silver tube, wrapping it with enchanted wire, and handed it to his elderly steward. "Send this with our best courier—have him leave immediately on a griffin. Make sure it arrives at Silver Fort after the first messenger arrives but before anyone from the Cecil family."
The steward took the silver tube and was about to leave when Andrew added, "Wait—head to the treasury and return the gold and silver we took from the Cecils. Return it as it was given."
"Understood, my lord. Should we return it as-is?"
"That's enough. I'll add a 'travel fund' when they set out," he replied.
Circumstances had changed, and the "fee" taken out of a petty impulse for greed had become a hot potato. Returning it intact was only the first step, but it had to be done with restraint.
Andrew mentally weighed his options, hoping that the ancient figure from seven centuries ago would understand his sincerity.
Night had fallen.
In a loose robe, Gawain opened the doors to his balcony, stepping out to the second-floor terrace of the castle.
This world's night sky lacked a moon, leaving only a canopy of stars thicker and more numerous than anything on Earth. The shimmering stars cast a soft, cold glow across the land, each beam unfamiliar to Gawain.
Since his arrival in this world, he'd often found himself gazing skyward—whether by day or by night. During the day, he'd observe the large, gentle "sun," and at night, the moonless expanse.
As his eyes moved among the stars, he was searching for a single, stationary point in the heavens.
But it was a futile endeavor. There were far too many stars, and he had neither the data nor the means to calculate which one might be the right one. Even if he somehow found it, he wouldn't have been able to distinguish it among the infinite celestial bodies.
Yet he couldn't resist trying, knowing that something was hidden in this sky. Perhaps it was a surveillance device, a satellite, a space station, or even a ship. While it was likely inactive, there could still be other functioning entities hanging in orbit.
He'd once been part of such a surveillance network—or so his speculations, after many days of contemplation, suggested.
If he hadn't experienced the view from above, hadn't seen the world from that perspective, he'd never have considered it, nor would he have felt any pressure from it. But he knew things others didn't, and as a modern mind, he couldn't help but feel both curiosity and concern about what lingered overhead.
What was it up there? What influence could it—or they—have on the land below? Would it—or they—always remain dormant? What about its creators—if they existed—what had they intended?
All these questions filled Gawain with an indescribable sense of urgency. It was like knowing that an alien spaceship was hovering overhead; even if it had stayed inactive for millennia, how could anyone feel at ease?
He would only find peace after understanding its origins.
Besides, curiosity alone drove him to keep his eyes on the heavens.
"You really do spend a lot of time looking up at the sky—either the sun during the day or the stars at night."
A voice interrupted his thoughts. Turning around, Gawain saw Amber perched casually on the balcony railing, her legs dangling off the edge, grinning at him without a hint of fear about falling.
Gawain raised an eyebrow. "Sneaking up on people in the middle of the night isn't exactly polite."
"The night's my domain," she replied, swinging her legs with a smirk. "Shadow is everywhere; I go where I please. Besides, what are you worried about, o' great hero of seven hundred years?"
Gawain didn't want to admit that she'd actually startled him.
"So, what are you always looking at?" Amber changed the topic when she noticed Gawain's silence. "Looking at the sun during the day is for finding your direction, but at night, are you stargazing? You know astrology?"
"What do you think is up there?" Gawain asked her instead.
"Up there?" Amber blinked. "Just stars and the sun, right? Oh, wait—don't tell me you're going to preach about the gods' palace being up there?"
"You're really a follower of the Night Goddess?" Gawain looked at Amber in mild surprise. He wasn't particularly religious, but from Gawain Cecil's memories, he knew this world's vast pantheon and its myriad beliefs. He hadn't expected the carefree thief before him to actually have a faith.
"Kind of, yeah. I mean, Lady Night doesn't demand offerings or give out oracles, no fancy worship rituals either—it doesn't cost a penny. Why not?" she replied, her tone light, saying things that would be considered sacrilege by true believers. "Plus, being a thief sort of fits with her sphere of shadows. Sometimes when I pray, I even feel stronger—though it turns out to be a drunken delusion every time."
Gawain rolled his eyes, choosing not to dignify her heresy with a response.
"Hey, hey, why'd you go silent again?" Amber continued, undeterred. "You haven't told me what you're looking at."
Gawain glanced at her and decided to humor her with a story. "Ever heard that when people die, their souls go up to the stars, drifting among them—and each star is a soul of the departed?"
"I've never heard that one. What I know is that the souls of believers are collected by the gods and taken to their realms, where they party forever, while the souls of the faithless get reaped by the God of Death. His wife combs through their memories with a magic iron comb before tossing them back to the mortal world. So some say everyone is technically a follower of the Death God by default." Amber rambled on. "But your idea's pretty interesting. Is that an ancient belief from seven hundred years ago?"
Gawain felt a bit awkward. "Not exactly, it's just…"
"Oh, right! You actually died once, didn't you?" she interrupted, eyes wide in excitement. She leaned close, eyes alight with curiosity. "So did you float up there when you died? What was it like? Tell me!"
"Go away!" Gawain pushed her face back, exasperated. "When people die, they know nothing, alright? I was just spouting nonsense!"
"Geez, old folks are so boring," Amber huffed and turned away.
Gawain gave her a sharp look. "What was that?!"
And with a quick shadowy blur, Amber vanished into the night.