Robert O’Donnell was tired. These last six months had been an exercise in agony. It wasn’t so much that there was anything particularly painful about his stay in Goldstern, in fact, he had quite enjoyed being able to see his mother and younger sister and brothers in his time here. They had started quite the effective carpentry and furniture business, choosing to continue the family business in favor of the less traditional route that Robert had taken. Ser Robert O’Donnell. He was one year of service away from being knighted in the King’s service, from becoming one of the true Knights of the realm. A Lord or Duke could Knight a man in their service, that was true enough, but to be a Knight of the realm required more than that. One had to graduate with honors from the Knightyard, and then spend at least five years of service to the realm. Normally it would take seven to ten years of service, but one could be recognized for achievements and shorten that time period. Like he had. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. The source of what was sure to be his early promotion was the glowing reports that both Duke MacNeil and Dean Rankin had written regarding him. He wished he could wash his hands of the whole affair, that he could be free of the burden on his conscience. All he wanted was to do his job, be recognized for his service, and make a better world for himself and his family. He was not married yet, despite being 26 years of age, but he fully intended to marry at some point, and have children. He would like to ensure that those children had a comfortable childhood. He wanted none of this eating guilt. He was a good man. He was. But would a good man have to remind himself of that on a nightly basis? Would a good man be haunted by crimes against humanity that he allowed to happen? Would a good man be scared to drink for fear that he would say something damning? Would a good man follow any order no matter what? Robert couldn’t lie to himself, if a superior officer appeared before him today, and ordered him to kill a random individual, declaring them a threat to the realm, he likely would. His time in the Dragoons and the Crimson Keepers had drilled discipline so deeply into him that he didn’t know if he could change it. Would a good man disobey orders?

These were the thoughts that occupied Lieutenant O’Donnell’s mind on the midsummer day that he was to visit the estates of Bietre Noblis. On the outside, his cropped red hair was well-trimmed and combed, and his goatee was recently cut and shaped by the best barber he could find. On the inside, he was the same mess he had been for the last four months. Sergeant Major Braxton Bolindear wasn’t fooled in the least, however. The grizzled old warrior looked out at him from under his dragoon Beret with a raised brow. The long, ugly scar that ran down the side of his face made the expression somewhat grotesque. Bolindear had gotten that scar when he was nothing more than a man-at-arms in the unit that the Crimson Keepers had maintained in the Dragoons. He had come up on the wrong end of a falchion, as he told the story.

“You doing right fine now Boyo?” he asked with concern. “We’re visiting an important man today. It’s best to step easy around Lord Noblis, he’s not known for his kindness of heart.” Robert sighed at the older man’s warning. It had to be at least the fiftieth time the man had said it this morning.

“So you’ve said Sergeant Major Bolindear.” He gritted. He liked Braxton well enough most of the time, but the man was terrible about just letting people be. Braxton didn’t understand that just because someone was miserable, didn’t mean that they needed him to enter into their lives and try incessantly to distract them from whatever was bothering them. Some people just wanted to be left alone. Like Robert. Braxton let out a huff of air, obviously not impressed with Robert’s lack of worry about the situation. He mumbled something under his breath about trumped up young officers. Robert chose to ignore it. He was too focused on the day ahead of him for it. He would be gauging the suitability of three men for the Knightyard. Well, he would be testing two. The young Lord Maxim would be gaining access regardless, so his testing would just be a formality. The two other men though might be interesting. He had no idea who they were, as he was informed of their presence yesterday. He was interested to actually test someone, as he hadn’t been able to actually do so in very nearly a year. It was an hour or two before lunch when they finally arrived at the Noblis Estates.

The street leading up to the Noblis estate was well cobbled, and obviously saw relatively frequent traffic. The two Crimson Keepers clip-clopped their way up the drive, sitting their saddles with ease that comes from long practice. The gate to the estate was open, and they had no trouble entering. What was obviously a serving man, dressed in the proper tan colors of the house bustled up to the two red-cloaked men and led them to an inner courtyard. Upon entering, Robert was witness to quite possible the oddest line-up of individuals he had ever seen.

On the right was a very obviously hung-over Valerna Noblis, whom he knew by reputation. She was, as always, dressed like a man, with a short sword and dagger balancing on either side of her hips. Her blonde hair was impeccable, as always. She was currently lounging across a wooden bench with a hand draped over her eyes. Next to her was her younger sister, Lady Natalia, an exasperated expression written on her features, her brows pinched together in frustration. Directly after the two sisters, and seated on a second bench, was a young girl who was holding a book, and studiously ignoring her surroundings in favor of running one of her small fingers down the page to keep her place. Standing just behind her was a boy with scars to put even Braxton to shame. A burn arced across his forehead and down his left side, making the skin around his left eye droop, and the corner of his lips twist disturbingly, turning his expression into a sort of permanently twisted smirk. He obviously had received his wounds at a very young age, as his scars had been further stretched by physical growth. There were some scars that lent a man respect, or honor: this was not one of those scars. It rendered the boy grotesque and disturbing. Where his left hand ought to be was a fine steel hook, with blunted point. He was currently having a laugh with the man next to him, a tall, brown-haired man with a battle-axe slung across his back. The boys companion moved with the measured movements one would expect of a fighter, but also with the bandy-legged gait of a man who has spent more time at sea then on land. These two were obviously making some elaborate joke, making strange movements and poses, as though animatedly acting out a story. At once the teenage boy and the sailor/warrior started to laugh. The man behind them shook his head and grinned. Robert’s blood turned to water as he saw that smile. One word entered his mind: Killer. Caj Donovan was tall and well built. He was on the thinner side, but had enough muscle that he didn’t necessarily look like it. There was a longsword slung across his back, and a short sword at his hip. He wore them both with such easy familiarity that he obviously knew how to use them both. Donovan moved with more grace than any man Robert had ever seen. Braxton’s curses pulled him from his study.

“Seven Hells…” Braxton said, using a swear that came from the religion of the Heptad, the group of seven divine beings that the Anacsotan’s worshiped.

“What?” Robert asked sharply.

“I’m seeing a ghost.” The old man whispered, “Maybe two.”

“Excuse me?” Robert asked, even more sharply. Braxton jerked up sharply, as Robert waved away the servant that was about to announce their presence, they both needed a moment.

“Nothing, Lieutenant,” Braxton said firmly, “That boyo just looks very much like a man I once knew, and carries himself very much like another… It distracted me for a moment.” Robert nodded once.

“Very good.”

Robert’s eyes alighted on the last two people in the courtyard: Bietre and Maxim. Bietre was an insanely tall man, with a long, pointed beard and relatively short hair. Maxim was the spitting image of his father, down to the mismatched eyes, except 30 years younger. Bietre also didn’t have a freshly broken nose and dented cheekbone, Robert whistled.

“Wonder who gave him that.” He whispered, half to himself.

“The scary bastard I reckon.” Braxton said. “Look at his knuckles.” Robert immediately turned his eyes back to the red-brown haired man from before. Sure enough, the knuckles on his left hand were bruised, and one of them was split. “I wonder just who he is.” Braxton wondered aloud. Robert looked at him incredulously.

“You mean you don’t know?” he asked. At Braxton’s confused look, he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You really need to get out more Braxton. That’s Caj Donovan. Bietre’s bodyguard of two years.” Braxton’s face paled.

“Caj Donovan…” he said. Robert sighed again.

“Not that Caj Donovan.” He said, exasperated. “He is the nephew of the Count and Countess Murphy, who run The Boneyard. My best guess is that his father’s name was Donovan and he took it when ascending to Knighthood.” Braxton looked at him dubiously.

“All due respect Lieutenant, that’s horse shite.” Robert looked at him frustratedly, but the old warrior continued, oblivious to his anger, “That boyo looks exactly like Dougal Donovan. I should know, I served under Dougal in the Dragoons for a bit…” Robert rolled his eyes.

“So he bears a passing resemblance to a dead duke from twenty years ago, that doesn’t really mean anything.” Before Braxton could interject further, they were spotted. A powerful voice emanated from Caj, surprisingly deep and resonant.

“Bietre. Our guests are here.” Bietre looked up and smiled widely before standing.

“Please,” he said, his accent touched by Edral, “Come in, join us, and allow me to make introductions.”