Chapter 334: Riftstone Keep

The ancient castle that had housed the Grant family for generations stood silently before Gawain’s eyes.

Perched atop a mountain, it clung to the edge of a sheer cliff. Years of relentless wind, rain, and erosion had worn the cliff so deeply that it seemed to cave inward, lending the fortress above an unsettling, precarious air. The castle itself was weathered and aged, amplifying the unease any visitor might feel. Yet, despite its fragile appearance, there was an undeniable, breathtaking majesty in a stronghold standing defiantly on a mountaintop, right beside a treacherous precipice.

Gawain had been eyeing the old fortress from the foot of the mountain, and only when the carriage finally climbed the broad slope and reached the summit did he quietly murmur, “The Grants really have big hearts…”

Amber, sitting beside him, stared in disbelief. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about the whole way?”

Gawain gave the half-elf a puzzled look. “What else do you think?”

Amber opened her mouth, searching for another comment, but found none. So she simply echoed, gazing upward, “The Grants really have big hearts…”

“Enough with the sentimentality. Go knock on the door.”

The heavy black oak doors of the Grant castle creaked open slowly before Gawain. Inlaid with purple steel and copper runes, the doors bore faded scars and faint burn marks—evidence of past damage, now carefully repaired but still visible to the discerning eye.

Beyond the doors lay a grand hall bathed in warm light. A red carpet stretched from the entrance all the way to the steps at the far end. Maids and attendants lined the carpet’s edges, while a tall, middle-aged butler stood at the forefront. He bowed slightly, extending his left arm like a swan’s wing, inviting the honored guest inside.

At the center of the hall stood the lady of the Grant family.

She was tall but too slender, likely in her early thirties, with softly curled black hair framing deep-set eyes and a pale complexion. Time had yet to leave its harsh marks on her face; she was still a striking woman, one who could easily draw attention at any gathering.

As Gawain stepped forward, the noblewoman moved gracefully to meet him.

Everything was impeccably formal and proper, reminding Gawain of his last visit to Kant Keep—except that Kant was nothing but a chaotic, illusory dream. What, then, awaited here?

Gawain smiled faintly. “I hope my sudden visit doesn’t trouble my neighbors.”

“Your arrival brings unprecedented honor to this land,” Lady Ropeni Grant replied, bowing in accordance with her rank. Gawain noticed she performed the male noble’s formal greeting—a subtle but telling detail. Since the death of the male head of the Grant family, this widow had assumed his role. She was the lord of these lands, and no word of remarriage had surfaced, signaling her firm stance. Her use of the male noble’s greeting toward a duke was a language only aristocrats truly understood.

Gawain’s gaze drifted to the far end of the hall. Between two sweeping staircases hung a massive portrait: a handsome young man with black hair, dressed in a black coat and pristine white shirt, wearing a faint, serene smile. Below the portrait stood white candlesticks and a cluster of white “death daisies.”

That had to be the late Viscount Grant. His portrait here was expected, but the white candles and death daisies were unusual. Among many contemporary nobles, marital fidelity was understood only as long as both spouses lived and their families remained stable. Once one passed, the survivor would, after a brief mourning, seek a new marriage. This was not seen as disloyalty but as a necessary strategy to maintain family power and support the domain’s prosperity. Widows and widowers who remarried multiple times could even be considered highly desirable.

The sprawling, tangled, and often sordid noble lineages and land transfers of Ansubria had been forged through such “marriage wars.”

Gawain tore his eyes away from the viscount’s portrait and recalled the intelligence Amber had gathered. Then he turned to Lady Ropeni with a slight smile. “Madam, I imagine you’ve heard the news about Kant’s lands being absorbed into the Cecil family, along with His Majesty’s new enfeoffments. The Cecil domain now borders Grant lands. I’ve come simply to visit my new neighbors.”

“It would be proper for me to visit you first,” Ropeni said with a faint, somewhat stiff smile, as if she hadn’t smiled in ages and now found the muscles reluctant to cooperate. “But I was away from the domain until just a few days ago…”

“Protocol,” Gawain waved a hand dismissively, “we set the rules back then. So as long as I don’t mind, you don’t have to.”

After brief, perfunctory pleasantries, Lady Ropeni invited Gawain and his personal attendant Amber to the castle’s reception room. She had arranged the finest pastries and wines, and the domain’s best harpist and minstrel were on hand to entertain.

Later that afternoon, a grand ball would be held, with dinner served midway through.

Truth be told, Gawain had no interest in the ball or any of the formalities. But these were necessary rituals. Though the ball was ostensibly held in his honor, a duke had little to do at such a “small castle” event. No one would dare invite him to dance. The real purpose was to provide a social platform for the local nobility, big and small, who came to see and be seen.

Using the duke’s visit as a pretext, Ropeni could invite neighboring lords and even nobles of higher rank. Successfully hosting such an event would greatly enhance the Grant family’s prestige. Even if southern nobles were indifferent to the Cecil name, they would have to acknowledge Lady Grant’s skill in organizing affairs. When swords were not the answer, hosting grand feasts and balls was the usual way nobles displayed their power.

Neither Gawain nor Amber cared much for these subtleties, though Amber was at least pleased by the idea of “a whole bunch of people standing around waiting on me.” As she nibbled on a pastry brought by a maid, she whispered to Gawain, “Look at them, then look at you. Your duke’s estate probably doesn’t have as many servants as this place.”

“Why would I want so many people watching me eat? It just makes me nervous,” Gawain replied, chatting idly with Amber while Lady Ropeni went to check on the ballroom. “By the way, eat slowly—there’s another meal tonight.”

“Who knows what ‘real food’ is? Feather-decorated radishes or raw meat ringed with colorful stones? I’ve seen ‘formal dinners’ at noble banquets that were less satisfying than Betty’s pies,” Amber said, stuffing a small cake into her mouth and winking at Gawain. “Hey, have you noticed anything strange? Any… dreamlike dissonance?”

“No,” Gawain shook his head, surprised that Amber hadn’t lost focus despite her gluttony. “But I think this place is different from Kant Keep. It probably isn’t affected by any real dream magic.”

“How do you know?” Amber asked curiously.

“Remember what happened at Kant?” Gawain explained patiently. “The Viscount Kant was reclusive. The castle never held any feasts or invited guests. Even when I visited, there were no events. That’s because the more outsiders enter a true dream, the greater the chance it collapses. The waking interfere heavily with the eternal sleeper’s ritual magic. But Lady Grant here clearly has no such concerns.”

Amber nodded. “She invited a lot of people to see you…”

Gawain lightly tapped the half-elf’s head. “This castle doesn’t have that strange atmosphere Kant did. It’s open to outsiders, which basically rules out large-scale dream illusions. Of course… we’ll have to observe more to be sure.”

Just then, Lady Ropeni returned from inspecting the ballroom and took a seat. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“No trouble at all. I was admiring the collection,” Gawain said casually, his eyes drifting over the paintings and wooden carvings displayed for guests. “Quite impressive.”

“These were left by my late husband,” Ropeni said softly. “He loved art, especially painting. Some of these are even his own work.”

Gawain rose and strolled over to a painting depicting vast fields and humble cottages. “It’s rare to see farmland painted on canvas.”

In this era, painting was a luxury art form, affordable only to nobles, the church, and the wealthy. Its audience was limited to the “upper class,” and the subjects were often dull: portraits, religious scenes, or depictions of castle and court life.

“This is my husband’s work,” Ropeni explained. “He liked to paint what he saw with his own eyes, even if it was dirty cow sheds or rundown barns.”

“I see,” Gawain smiled. “Quite good.”

Suddenly, a servant burst into the reception room, hurrying toward Lady Ropeni with a tense expression.

“Madam,” the servant said quickly, “Miss Patty is feeling unwell…”

Ropeni’s face changed instantly.

(End of chapter)