I followed Kael, who walked in front with confident strides. Behind me, Ilya followed silently, her presence a constant reminder that I was still very much under watch.

I looked around as we entered the large corridor of the castle. Unlike the buildings back on Earth where everything started from the first floor, this world called the first floor the "ground floor" and the one above it the "first floor."

The floor’s pavement was stone, solid and built to last. To the left of the path were storage rooms and a huge cellar for provisions. These could serve as supplies during a siege, stocked with enough food and water to last months if needed.

To the right, the compartment was divided into two parts. One was the castle’s kitchen, massive, with multiple hearths and preparation areas.

The food prepared here was served to the staff and soldiers. Adjacent to that huge kitchen were the guard rooms, shared by the castle’s staff and the castle guards.

Then we reached the stairs leading to the first floor, or what they called the "main floor".

The stairs spiraled upward in a clockwise direction. During a crisis, right-handed defenders would have an advantage descending since their sword arms would be on the open side while attackers coming up would have theirs blocked by the central column.

Smart design.

All in all, this castle was the most crisis-ready one a duke could ask for. Understandable, considering how the Sinclairs had their hands in all kinds of shit even before they got their nobility.

The previous patriarchs of this family were all cold-blooded killers, the ones who were rumored to have even tamed mythical creatures like dragons. They were the perfect war machines to face enemies from the Netherworld.

We climbed the stairs. The marble used here was high quality, polished smooth but not slippery, expensive but practical.

At the end of the stairs, a huge corridor opened up before us, laid with large flagstones and covered with rich tapestries depicting battles and historical moments.

The corridor was lit by deep-set windows and arrow slits, allowing the morning light to stream inside.

The light fell in square sections on the flagstones, with dark intervals between them, like stepping through patches of day and night.

Between the windows and above them on the walls hung portraits of the previous patriarchs of the Sinclair family.

The largest among them was the first patriarch’s portrait, standing tall right in front of us on the far end wall of the corridor.

The portrait filled the entire section of that wall, massive, and impossible to ignore.

This dude looked more like a dragon in human form than an actual human. Broad shoulders, sharp features, eyes that seemed to burn even through paint and canvas.

We walked a noticeable distance forward. I looked outside the windows while glancing at the portraits of the previous patriarchs, taking in their stern faces one by one.

The sun was bright now, fully risen. I figured Lydia, Sera, and Merin would probably be on their way here by now.

"Let’s enter the main hall."

Ilya’s voice came from behind me.

I stopped.

There was no one in front of me anymore.

Shit.

I’d been so focused on the portraits that I’d walked on autopilot and completely passed where we were supposed to stop.

I turned back. Kael was already looking at me with those judgemental eyes of hers, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

I’m sure she’s thinking, ’Is this guy an idiot?’

I walked back toward them, trying not to look too embarrassed. They stood facing a large door I’d somehow completely missed while admiring dead people’s portraits and the sunrise.

"Is Her Grace here?" Ilya asked the guards stationed at the huge door.

Did I seriously just miss this huge door and these shining armors?

The guards nodded and began pushing the heavy door open. The hinges creaked softly despite their obvious weight.

"Her Grace is waiting for you," one of the guards said as the door opened into a bright chamber. The great hall.

I didn’t know which guard had spoken since his helmet covered his whole face except for a thin slit that let him see and possibly breathe.

Will they stand there the whole day wearing that heavy iron armor?

The doors swung fully open, and light spilled out from inside.

I took a breath.

Here we go.

I stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the main hall.

Inside, a red carpet spread long down the center, running parallel to the length of the hall. The three of us walked on it toward the dais, Kael leading, me in the middle, Ilya trailing behind.

The great hall was easily twice as long as it was wide. Above the entrance and above the alcoves located on either side of the room were galleries.

I think I remember seeing musicians perform there during high gatherings... but I wasn’t sure. It had been eighty years since I’d stepped into this great hall, and even when I’d stayed here in my past life, I rarely attended any gatherings.

Anything these walls had ever witnessed were lies anyway.

The alcoves were empty. So were the galleries.

The ceiling was ornate, decorated in a swan-themed interiro design... if you could still call this architectural masterpiece just "interior design."

Multiple chandeliers hung from above, all looking identical and grand, their crystals catching and scattering light across the golden walls. They were the main source of light alongside the ventilation slits that opened to the corridor I’d just walked through on autopilot.

The color of the room was golden, making all the emeralds and colored stones embedded in the walls shine far beyond their pay grade.

But they barely attracted my attention.

Because before me was a dais, a raised platform connected to the ground by three steps. On it sat a high-backed, solid throne. Above the throne hung a canopy bearing a huge white swan with its wings spread wide, frozen mid-flutter.

And on that throne sat a red-haired woman.

She wore a deep crimson dress that flowed like liquid fire down to her ankles, the fabric rich and elegant. The sleeves were long and flowing, ending in delicate points that draped over her hands. The skirt pooled around the throne in carefully arranged folds, making her look like she was sitting in a sea of red silk.

Her legs were crossed elegantly, her dress flowing naturally with the position. Her arm rested on the armrest of her throne, her chin propped on the fist of that hand.

I stopped as Kael stopped a few feet from the dais.

Ilya walked past us and stood on the second of the three steps leading up to the throne.

Kael knelt on one knee, her fist pressed to her heart. "Your Grace, I have brought the person you requested."

I looked at Cass.

She was the same as I remembered. The same sharp features. The same confident posture. The same presence that commanded a room without saying a word.

The last time I’d seen her was maybe sixty to seventy years ago in my past life. I’d left on imperial decree to fight the forces from the Netherworld. Before I left, I’d promised I would return to see her again. She’d promised to wait.

But neither of us had followed through.

Both of us had died.

My chest tightened. Something ached deep inside, something I couldn’t quite name. Regret? Grief for a promise that would never be kept in that life? or Grief for having to start all over again?

Cass nodded at Kael. "Good job," she said, her voice smooth and controlled.

Then her emerald eyes, sharp and beautiful, locked onto my golden ones.

I was so lost in thought, so caught up in seeing her again, that I forgot I was staring directly into the Duchess’s eyes. A breach of protocol. A sign of disrespect.

Her expression shifted slightly as she watched me, something flickering across her face but she managed to cover it quickly, her mask of authority sliding back into place.

"Bow down, you insolent fool!" has snapped me back to reality like a whip crack.

It came from a man standing beside Cass. I hadn’t even noticed him until now because I’d been too busy staring at her like an idiot.

Kael swiftly tugged at my pants, downward, indicating me to bow down. I bowed down, imitating Kael’s posture.

He was in his late middle age, around sixty, with gray streaking through his dark hair. His face was stern, lined with years of service, his expression one of barely contained outrage at my lack of respect.

He is a marshal in administration. The one who is tasked to assist the duchess in deciding the kind of punishment suitable for the culprit’s crime, based on the duchy’s laws.

His name is Dorian.

But the Dreadfort version of me had called him "Son of a Bitch."