CHAPTER 76: NORTH

Jett rolled his shoulders and tugged his shirt over muscles still buzzing from Eleonora’s touch.

"Front and center, ladies," he drawled, patting the mattress.

Mia arrived first, back straight, every movement precise. "Your itinerary awaits, Master Jett," she said, voice soft yet edged as her gaze flicked to Eleonora’s flushed cheeks.

Noctlisa swaggered in next, eyeing Eleonora from head to toe. "Damn, Ellie, he wrung you out like a tavern mop," she laughed, crude grin stretching wide. "Hope he’s still got juice for the rest of us."

Eleonora flushed a deeper crimson but refused to look away. A trembling exhale escaped her lips.

Mia’s fingers tightened around the clipboard she carried. "Mind your tongue, Noctlisa," she chided, tone genteel but steel-lined. "Master Jett’s satisfaction is not fodder for the gutter."

Noctlisa winked at Master Jett. "Gutter’s where the fun starts, head maid."

Jealous sparks everywhere, Jett mused, amused.Can’t blame them—Ellie hit a nerve.

He clapped once. "Eyes up. Skia—the capital of Dukedom Stormcloud—is rebuilding, and the duke’s waiting."

Morning light spilled across scaffolds and fresh-cut marble while cranes creaked and masons hollered, a symphony of rebirth echoing across the square.

An escort bearing Stormcloud colors advanced below, Duke Stormcloud at its head, armor gleaming beneath fresh polish. The man’s smile was thin but genuine.

Jett met him halfway down the grand stairs. Stormcloud clasped his forearm. "Spare me the speeches, Warden. You’ll be back before the new spires cure, and we both know it."

"Wouldn’t miss the grand opening," Jett replied. "Keep her standing till then."

They shared the briefest nod—two soldiers trading promises instead of flowery farewells—then parted.

Jett vaulted into his mansion carriage: a six-wheeled mobile manor paneled in ebony and enchanted steel, ride-runes humming beneath cushioned floors. Mia, Eleonora, and Noctlisa settled inside, silk curtains spilling warm light over them.

The convoy rolled north along the main trade road. Summer winds carried the scent of pine and distant sea, mingling with the faint sweetness of blooming heather at the roadside. Inside, conversation ebbed, the wheels’ soft thrumming lulling Eleonora into a light doze.

By late afternoon, distant watchtowers marked the border with the Northern Dominion. Jett whistled two sharp notes—an old cavalry signal. The rune-bridled stallions tossed their heads, snorted approval, and swung right onto an overgrown hunting track that vanished into cedars.

Mia braced herself against the seat. "Master Jett, why abandon the official crossing? The guards are mere minutes away."

Jett leaned back, boots on a lacquered footstool. "Because those uniformed chatterboxes will bury me in tea, forms, and formal welcomes. I’d rather stroll into Northgate as the Warden, not as some politely processed guest."

Noctlisa chuckled, resting a boot on Eleonora’s thigh. "Kicking the front door instead of knocking—my kind of diplomacy."

Mia sighed but dipped her head. "Very well. I shall adjust our stores for rougher terrain."

The carriage jostled over roots, runes absorbing each impact while twilight deepened. Birds quieted, and the scent of loam replaced the sweet road dust. Jett smiled at the growing hush—uncharted paths always tasted like the start of an adventure.

The track soon shrank to a root‑snared ribbon of earth, moss‑slick boulders jutting like a giant’s broken teeth, beneath interlaced branches that filtered twilight into violet shards. Yet the rune-shod wheels lifted on cushions of pale blue light, skimming past hazards that would snap a common axle.

Noctlisa whooped, gripping the window frame. "Ha! Even the gods’ own potholes can’t slow this beast." She shot Eleonora a grin. "Stick with us, Ellie—luxury with a side of whiplash."

Eleonora braced herself but managed a breathless laugh. So this is the pace he lives at, she thought, nerves tingling.

A churning creek blocked the way—water frothing around jagged stones—but Jett whistled a rolling trill. The stallions surged, carriage tilting skyward before the runes flared and the whole contraption sailed clear, thudding onto the opposite bank in a burst of spray.

Mia adjusted her spectacles, unruffled. "Stores remain intact, Master Jett. At this rate we’ll reach Northgate by dawn." Her voice carried quiet pride, as if she’d personally laid every rune.

Jett flashed her a thumbs-up. "Good. And once we’re in, no stopping till we stroll straight into the Grand Citadel. No paperwork, no permission—just the Warden coming home."

The forest pressed tighter, night air cool and damp, but the carriage rolled on unstoppable, carving its own corridor toward the waiting North.

[Late Night — Deep Forest]

Night smothered the forest in ink. No moon, no stars—only leaves whispering after a forgotten rain, and the earthy perfume of damp bark curling upward with every breath.

Ahead, a lone plume of smoke threaded upward, tipped by an orange pulse that throbbed like a distant heartbeat.

Jett whistled a rising–falling note; the rune-bridled stallions halted, breath misting in the chill.

"Master Jett?" Mia asked, voice hushed.

"Campfire," he said. "Let’s see who’s bold enough to spark one out here."

He slipped through slick ferns, maids at his flanks. The glow soon revealed a battered road-coach canted on one shattered wheel. Gilded trim still clung to its panels, though arrow furrows gouged the lacquer. A crest—too torn to read—hung in ribbons.

Exhausted guards ringed a stingy bonfire. Their tabards were shredded, helms dented, bandages seeping at every buckle. A stooped butler, tailcoat streaked with soot, coaxed a kettle above the flames with trembling hands.

Closest to the fire stood a young woman in tight mercenary leathers: fitted jerkin, supple breeches, high cavalry boots. A single sapphire brooch at her throat, glinting in the firelight, hinted at pedigree. One palm rested on the pommel of a saber; hawk eyes tracked every shadow.

A guard lurched upright, blade half-drawn. "Name yourself."

Jett stepped into the light, palms open. "Jett. Passing through."

The leather-clad noble’s gaze narrowed. "From which dukedom, traveler? Heading north as an envoy?"

"Neither," he replied, voice calm. "Just taking the quickest road."

Mia, Noctlisa, and Eleonora stood silent but ready behind him, the fire casting their faces in shifting gold.

Tension swirled like smoke between the two groups.

The noblewoman’s shoulders sagged for a heartbeat—worry carved beneath the soot streaks on her cheeks. She cast a glance at the broken wheel, then at the forest’s unmoving darkness as if racing an invisible clock.

She shifted back to Jett. "I head south at first light—toward Dukedom Stormcloud. I seek audience with the Warden himself." A quick breath. "He’s the only one who might keep war from chewing this continent in half."

Jett’s eyes flicked to Mia, then back. "Bold errand for these roads."

"And behind schedule," she muttered, stress sharpening her words. "But I don’t have the luxury of fear."

Jett considered the ragged guards, the shattered coach. "Stormcloud’s capital is two days off the main trade road. My route skirts the checkpoints. If you can keep pace, you’ll shave a day—and avoid the patrols spoiling for blood."

She exhaled, relief and caution wrestling in her eyes. "Very well. Until dawn, then."

"Until dawn," Jett echoed. The fire crackled between them, tension flickering in its embers.

When the maids and Jett slipped back through the ferns, Eleonora whispered, So she seeks Master Jett’s own shadow, not knowing he stands before her.

Jett allowed a private grin. Life loves its ironies.

He whistled, and the mansion carriage rolled forward, runes glowing under its chassis.

Inside, plush seats hugged Jett and his maids as the door thudded shut. Candle-sconces bloomed, filling the cabin with warm amber.

Noctlisa flopped onto a velvet bench. "So the mystery lady wants an audience with Master—doesn’t know she’s two steps away."

Mia smoothed her skirt. "Master Jett, revealing your title now may alarm her escort."

"Exactly," he said, fingers drumming on the armrest. "Better to taste her intent first."

Eleonora bit her lip. "Do you trust her?"

"Trust is earned. But courage is obvious—and she’s got plenty. I’ll talk to her. Alone."

He opened the carriage door and stepped onto the wet grass. "Your Ladyship," he called toward the camp, "join me for a private word."

Murmurs rippled through the guards. The butler’s jaw tightened. "My lady, it’s unsafe—" he began.

She raised a gloved hand. "Enough. If this traveler wished me harm, he’d have taken it." She met Jett’s gaze, measured, then strode forward. Boots squelched in the mud as she climbed the steps.

The butler reached after her but froze at her sharp look. The guards traded uneasy glances.

Inside, she paused, eyes widening at the opulent cabin before settling into a seat across from Jett. The door clicked shut, sealing them in amber hush.

Noctlisa smirked, lounging by the curtained window. Mia stood sentinel by a sideboard, while Eleonora poured tea, hands steady.

The noblewoman studied each face before speaking. "Your courtesy is appreciated, Master Jett. Time presses, so ask your questions."

Jett leaned back, one boot crossing over his knee, arm draped along the seat’s plush crest. Candlelight carved a confident half‑smile across his face.

"I’m the Warden," he said, voice smooth as oiled steel. "What do you need?"