Tucked inside Bob's cloak like a loaf with ears, Dusty the cat had, of course, come with them. No one had agreed to bring him. No one had packed for him. And yet, there he was—snoring through the entire wagon ride, occasionally waking only to swipe bread from Bob's hand or yawn at passing scenery like a disinterested noble.
The roads widened, and the air shifted.
Emberflake City rose before them like a fortress carved from steel and stone—a sprawling marvel wrapped in high white walls etched with silver veins and the Drago crest: two crossed swords behind the roaring lion.
This was not a border town or a remote outpost.
This was a capital city—the heart of the Drago Dukedom, one of the largest pillars supporting the Kingdom of Utopia.
Even from the distance, they saw the signs of authority: patrols of armored knights in disciplined formation, ballista towers perched on the walls, and gatehouses wide enough to let armies march through.
Within those gates, life thrived.
Merchants barked from elegant stalls built of hardwood and stone, hawking enchanted goods, rare ores, and silks from distant regions.
Commoners bustled along cobbled paths, weaving between towering guild halls and noble manors, while cloaked officials and scholars haggled in the shadow of spires.
The group walked through it all—out of place and yet unnoticed in the city's swirl of wealth, pride, and quiet intimidation.
And then, they reached it.
The Drago Estate.
A colossal mansion near the inner wall, flanked by fountains carved with lions and towering stone knights. The front gate was cast iron, polished to shine, guarded by soldiers in red and silver armor.
They approached.
One of the gate guards stepped forward.
"Halt," he said, voice calm but firm. "State your names and business."
Derek stepped ahead of the group.
"I am Derek Drago, son of Duke Aemon Drago. I've come by summons."
The guard's eyes widened, and within seconds, he stood straighter and brought his fist to his chest in salute.
"Apologies, Young Lord. We did not expect you so quickly. Please—this way."
The gates opened without delay.
The Drago mansion was everything its name suggested.
Clean stone walls ran along garden courtyards and columned halls. Windows were tall and framed in gold-trim. The air smelled of iron and roses—discipline and legacy wrapped in one.
Painted banners of the Drago crest hung from towers. Armored statues flanked every corridor. This was a place built to impress... and remind.
"Fancy," Bam muttered under his breath.
"Big," Bob said, eyeing the chandelier.
"Quiet," Marcus warned, tugging his collar.
They were led to a receiving chamber. The chairs were too expensive to sit comfortably on, the silence too tight to fill with jokes. Even Dusty—tucked in Bob's cloak—seemed to sense the tension and actually stayed awake.
And then—
The great doors opened.
Duke Aemon Drago stepped in.
A tall man, broad-shouldered even in his sixties. His hair and mustache were a uniform silver-white, groomed sharp. He wore a decorated officer's coat of deep blue and crimson, edged in medals of war and honor.
At his side stood a man in knight's armor—no helmet, revealing a strong jaw, storm-gray eyes, and a look that could break stone.
His sword remained sheathed, but his presence was like drawn steel.
The group stood.
And suddenly, even Bob wasn't joking.
Duke Aemon walked forward slowly, every step measured, every glance piercing.
He stopped before Derek, studying him.
"…You returned," he said. His voice was deep. Commanding. Not loud—just final.
"Yes," Derek said, standing tall. "I came to talk."
The Duke's gaze shifted briefly to the others.
Bob gave a stiff nod.
Bam waved awkwardly.
Marcus straightened his jacket.
Kain just breathed steadily.
Even the doll blinked quietly.
And Dusty sneezed.
The air was thick with tension and something long unspoken between father and son.
The meeting had begun.