The clamor of the hunting festival had not yet fully faded when Elara was ruthlessly snatched from the muddy mire of her temporary existence by the iron fist of fate.
There were no farewells, no explanations, not even a moment's reprieve.
When the granite-hard face of Kaelen, the knight, appeared at the entrance of her tattered tent, Elara's heart seized as if caught in an invisible vise, nearly stopping. His grey-blue eyes held no emotion as he delivered the order like stating an irrelevant fact: "The Duke wishes to see you. Come with me."
Elara didn't even have time to think, her body stiffening with bone-deep fear. She saw Steward Gregor nearby, his fat face a mask of terror mixed with an indescribable complexity (jealousy, perhaps?), yet utterly silent, cowering. Resist? In this hunting ground where even the Baron bowed to the Duke's whim, before this knight who silenced even the steward, she, a lowly serf, didn't even have the right to speak.
Like a soulless puppet, head bowed, not daring to meet the curious or malicious gazes around her, she mechanically followed Kaelen. The cold wind whipped at her ragged skirt, mocking the deeper abyss she was about to fall into.
A sturdy, black carriage, devoid of any family crest (perhaps disdaining such displays), waited nearby. Kaelen gestured for her to get in. The interior was plainer than expected, with only two hard benches, no cushions, no curtains, just a small, barred window letting in a sliver of dim light. Elara huddled in a corner, feeling like cargo being shipped to an unknown destination.
The carriage started, wheels churning through the mud, leaving the noisy camp behind. Inside, silence reigned, broken only by the monotonous rumble of the wheels and the rhythmic hoofbeats of the three guards outside. Elara peered through the narrow, barred window. The tents and crowds of the hunting ground quickly receded, replaced by a starkly different landscape.
The roads became flat and wide, flanked by fields laid out with chessboard precision, crisscrossed by paths and ditches, showcasing high administrative efficiency. Tall watchtowers and heavily guarded checkpoints appeared frequently, manned by soldiers in uniform black armor, their gazes sharp, their builds formidable. The occasional villages they passed had sturdier, neater houses than those in the Baron's lands, but the villagers' faces held an almost numb, absolute submission to authority, mixed with a wary toughness hidden beneath.
Everything silently bespoke the wealth, order, and iron-fisted rule of Duke Reinhardt's domain. Elara's heart sank lower and lower. She knew she was being taken somewhere a hundred times more terrifying than the Baron's manor—the true heart of power, the domain of that cold demon.
After an unknown duration, perhaps a day, perhaps longer, the carriage finally jolted to a halt. Peering through the window again, Elara saw a castle that stole her breath away.
Blackstone Keep.
It seemed to grow directly out of a near-vertical black cliff face, immense, grim, like a colossal ancient beast slumbering between heaven and earth. The entire structure was built from massive blocks of black rock that glinted coldly, exuding a heart-stopping oppressiveness under the leaden sky. Countless tall towers pierced the heavens like black swords, the walls studded with narrow arrow slits and menacing gargoyles. The Reinhardt family crest—a black eagle clutching lightning bolts, symbolizing power and conquest—fluttered from the highest point, proclaiming its inviolable sovereignty.
The carriage rumbled across the drawbridge over a seemingly bottomless moat, passing through the thick, iron-studded gate that felt capable of swallowing all light. Inside the castle walls, an even colder, more肃杀 (sùshā - grim/austere) atmosphere assaulted her.
The vast courtyard, large enough for army drills, was paved with massive blue-black flagstones, impeccably clean. Servants and guards in uniform dark grey livery moved like ghosts, silent and swift, their faces expressionless, their movements precise and mechanical. The air was filled with an indescribable mix of stony coldness, metallic rust, and perhaps... the faint, lingering scent of old blood.
Luxury here was replaced by a cold, utilitarian aesthetic. The walls weren't adorned with pastoral paintings, but with huge, dark tapestries depicting brutal battles and bloody hunts. Polished suits of full plate armor stood sentinel in corridors, while various gleaming weapons—longswords, battle-axes, maces—lined the walls. There was no sense of 'home' here, only power, order, and icy authority. This was a fortress, a vast and precise war machine, an extension of Duke Reinhardt's will.
The carriage stopped before the main keep's entrance, which gaped like the maw of a great beast. Kaelen practically hauled Elara out. No announcements, no pleasantries. Like an insignificant piece of luggage, she was taken directly into the castle's depths.
Through countless dimly lit, oppressive corridors, past silent, standing guards, Elara felt lost in a vast, cold labyrinth. Finally, she was brought before a tall tower. Kaelen led her up a narrow, steep, winding stone staircase to the middle-upper level.
A figure waited at the landing. A middle-aged woman, perhaps around fifty, tall but rather gaunt, her face as severe as if carved from stone, devoid of wrinkles or expression. She wore an impeccably tailored, dark grey gown that was almost black, devoid of any lace or frills. Her grey-gold hair was pinned back severely in a bun, secured by a plain bone pin. Her eyes were sharp and cold, like a circling hawk's, possessing an unnerving, all-seeing quality.
Kaelen approached her, nodded slightly, then stepped aside, pushing Elara forward. The woman's hawk-like eyes swept over Elara from head to toe, filled with undisguised assessment and... a barely perceptible disdain. She gave Kaelen an almost invisible nod. Like a tool whose task was complete, Kaelen turned and vanished silently into the stairwell's shadows.
This woman was undoubtedly the castle's chatelaine—Frau Helga.
Frau Helga offered no words of welcome or introduction, merely gesturing with her eyes for Elara to follow. She turned, leading Elara up a few more steps to a heavy, dark oak door. Using an old brass key, she unlocked it and pushed the door open.
A gust of cold air, smelling of dust and damp stone, hit Elara. The room was small, cramped even. The stone walls were cold and hard. The only light source was an extremely narrow window, barred with thick black iron, offering only a fragmented view of a perpetually grey sky. The room was bare, containing only a simple wooden plank bed with a thin straw mattress against one wall, a small, equally plain wooden table and hard chair, and a rough earthenware basin and chamber pot in the corner.
This was her future "home"? No, this was clearly a cell! A cell more refined, more secure, and more despairing than the muddy tent in the hunting camp!
Frau Helga handed the key (presumably to this room) to another silent, expressionless maidservant who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Then she turned, her cold eyes fixing on Elara, and uttered two chilling words:
"Get in."
Elara's heart plummeted into the abyss. She knew, from the moment she stepped into this room, her life would descend into endless darkness. The mire of the hunting ground was filthy, but at least she could see the sky. Here, in this iron cage called Blackstone Keep, even that last sliver of light was grudgingly withheld.