Warden of the Eastern Roads
Baron of Lethrain Gate
Kingdom of Pinta — Magiara Union
The Kingdom of Pinta was not large.
It did not possess the Empire’s legions.
Nor the Republic’s gold.
It survived because it was not alone.
Pinta stood within the Magiara Union — a coalition of small kingdoms bound not by conquest, but by necessity. Each state carried its own strengths, its own flaws, its own cultural fractures. Humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin — diversity was not ideology here. It was survival.
Lithanian—known more formally as Lethrain Gate—was the eastern hinge of that survival.
Beyond it stood the Margrave’s borderlands, a shield against the Republic.
If the Margrave was the sword-arm, then Lethrain Gate was the lock.
No delegation entered the Union without passing here.
And Baron Edrien Valmor held the key.
His title was modest.
His responsibility was not.
Baron Valmor waited at the front gate.
Not beneath banners.
Not within a carriage.
Not elevated above those he summoned.
He stood in the open courtyard, hands folded behind his back, as if welcoming travelers rather than receiving professionals who had subdued a wild orc within his jurisdiction.
Early forties, perhaps.
Ash-brown hair tied neatly at the nape. Silver just beginning to touch his temples.
A tailored travel coat of deep blue and slate gray. Minimal embroidery — only at the cuffs, bearing his house sigil:
A single key before an open road.
No visible weapon.
But his posture betrayed training — straight spine, grounded stance, weight balanced.
A former guardsman.
A man who had stood walls before inheriting them.
When he smiled, it required no performance.
“Four Bastion,” he greeted evenly.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation. And for arriving on time.”
His gaze passed across them carefully.
Veterans.
Measured.
Tempered.
Then—
It paused briefly on Ivaline.
Not appraising.
Not predatory.
Curious.
And respectful.
Then—
He noticed the seventh figure, still panting heavily at the courtyard’s edge.
“…And who might this be?”
Garrick bent forward, hands on knees.
“Ha—haa—Great Baron… humble adventurer… accompanied them from frontier town… seems my presence was too thin to merit invitation…”
His dignity struggled against oxygen deprivation.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Baron Valmor’s eyes shifted back to Four Bastion.
Aldric looked at the sky.
Bram inspected his fingernails.
Nyssa examined a distant pigeon with intense interest.
Seraphine offered a small apologetic smile while still holding Ivaline’s hand.
Then—
Ivaline stepped forward.
“Garrick helped train me when I was new. He followed because the inspector was suspicious. He stayed with us from halfway onward. I can vouch for him.”
Simple.
Direct.
Unadorned.
Garrick’s eyes shimmered instantly.
Baron Valmor nodded once.
“Very well. I shall have another place set.”
He turned to his retainer.
“Tea for seven.”
The retainer bowed and hurried inside.
And just like that—
Garrick had been admitted not by ambition—
But by endorsement.
They were not led to a grand audience hall.
Instead, a sunlit garden chamber overlooking the eastern wall.
Stone arches open to sky.
Vines woven carefully along the columns.
The city stretching beyond battlements like a living map.
Tea waited.
Six matching porcelain sets.
And one additional cup — different pattern, slightly simpler.
For Garrick.
Intentional.
Baron Valmor poured the tea himself.
“If I intended interrogation,” he said calmly,
“I would not begin with hospitality.”
Cups were placed carefully before each of them.
“So consider this a conversation.”
The tone settled.
They spoke first of roads washed out by spring floods.
Of caravan delays.
Of rising tension near the Margrave’s border.
Of supply chains and bandit patterns.
Matters adults discussed.
Matters professionals understood.
Ivaline blinked quietly and nibbled her cookie.
Chronicle observed without comment.
Only when the tea had warmed the air and eased the atmosphere did the Baron’s gaze return naturally to her.
“I was informed,” Baron Valmor began,
“that a wild orc was subdued within my domain. Without civilian casualties.”
A pause.
“Then informed that responsibility lay with you.”
He did not ask how.
He asked instead:
“Did you believe you would win?”
Ivaline considered.
“No. But I believed I would survive.”
“Because you are strong?”
She shook her head.
“Because someone would watch my back if I made a mistake.”
Seraphine’s grip tightened subtly.
Four Bastion’s expressions softened.
Garrick grinned faintly.
Baron Valmor leaned back slightly.
That answer mattered more than confidence.
“Then it was not luck,” he said.
“A person who survives through thought rather than pride will outlive those twice their strength.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Aldric.
A quiet understanding passed between them.
Men who had once been responsible for more than themselves.
He did not ask about lineage.
Did not probe for origin.
Did not request allegiance.
Instead:
“Do you intend to remain an adventurer?”
“I don’t know yet.”
His faint smile returned.
“Good. Certainty too early closes doors.”
Then, softer:
“If you ever find one closed unfairly…
Lethrain Gate keeps its keys.”
The sentence was light.
Almost casual.
It was not.
Chronicle noted it carefully.
Nyssa felt the political gravity.
Seraphine remembered every syllable.
He had offered protection—
Without claiming ownership.
That was influence.
At the gate, Baron Valmor inclined his head.
Not only to Four Bastion.
But to Ivaline.
“You are welcome in my domain,” he said.
“Not as a curiosity.
But as someone who has already protected it.”
After they departed, one aide approached quietly.
“My lord… was that wise?”
Baron Valmor watched the silver-haired child walking beside an elf wearing a vow-attire strong enough to unsettle nobles.
“Wisdom,” he replied,
“is recognizing weight before it becomes momentum.”
He would not bind her.
He would not alarm the Crown.
He would simply—
Place her name where it would not be lost.
In his study, under a single oil lamp, Baron Valmor wrote.
Measured.
Precise.
No embellishment.
He sealed it with the mark of Lethrain Gate.
And sent it by royal courier.
Not merchant post.
That distinction mattered.
I do not request intervention.
I recommend only observation.
The individual known as Ivaline Weaver demonstrates restraint and tactical awareness inconsistent with rank or age.
She should not be claimed.
She should be respected.
— Edrien Valmor
A clerk would pause longer than usual when reading it.
A margin note would be written:
Unusual. Monitor.
And her name would enter a ledger.
Ledgers are quiet places.
But futures often begin there.
None of this reached her.
She left the city as she had entered.
Pack worn.
Steps steady.
Seraphine walking closer than before.
Frontier dust returned.
Smaller skies.
Familiar roads.
The world above had noticed.
But it had not yet reached.
And that—
Was precisely how Baron Valmor preferred it.
Later, on the road—
Aldric glanced sideways.
“But seriously, Garrick? You chased a noble carriage just for recognition?”
Garrick huffed.
“Future matters! If someday I need help and he remembers me, that’s worth something!”
Nyssa appeared behind him like mischief given form.
“Ain’t you trying to gather fame and funds to ask Mireya for her hand in marriage, hmm?”
Garrick froze.
“…WHA—HOW DID YOU—”
Nyssa vanished again, leaving him burning red.
Ivaline tilted her head.
“Garrick and Mireya are adults. Why doesn’t he ask her directly? Like you asked me?”
Seraphine coughed softly.
“…Because normally it’s embarrassing to confess to someone you love.”
Ivaline pondered.
“Then you are very brave.”
Seraphine smiled faintly.
“I’d regret more if you never noticed.”
“Un. I know now. Seraphine loves me.”
She squeezed her hand.
“And I won’t make you wait too long. I’ll learn properly. And answer you.”
Seraphine’s smile softened into something steady and eternal.
“I will gladly wait forever.”
They walked ahead together.
The others followed behind.
And somewhere far above—
A ledger had begun recording.