Chapter 263: The Heir Arrives at Night
---
That same night, on the other side of Slik City, the Iron House forgot how to breathe properly. The first sign was not sound.
It was pressure. Not the pressure of a god. Not even close.
But the pressure of importance announced correctly and obeyed quickly enough that everyone beneath it felt smaller before they fully understood why. The outer guards along the Iron House estate walls straightened one after another as the black-lined carriage rolled through the avenue approach with two escort beasts pacing alongside it like silent, armored threats.
The carriage itself did not look extravagant at first glance.
It looked expensive in the way truly old wealth preferred to look expensive. Dark lacquered wood. Silver fittings are too fine to be local. Wheels reinforced with soft-run metal that made almost no sound over stone. Curtains black on the outside, lined in muted gray within. No crest displayed openly. That was the point. Only people trained to notice would see the tiny marks hidden near the wheel frame and rear latch.
The Dawn family had arrived.
Not publicly.
That made it worse.
Behind the first carriage came two smaller ones. Behind them, mounted guards in travel armor moved like a mobile wall. Not a full war escort. Just enough disciplined force to remind anyone with eyes that whatever young noble sat behind those dark curtains considered his own survival too valuable to trust to local arrangements.
The gates of Iron House had already been opened before the lead carriage stopped.
Dickoff Iron himself came halfway down the front steps in such a hurry that his robes nearly caught under his own heels.
The man looked smaller than he should have in his own courtyard.
Not physically. But Spiritually.
His face had been carefully composed into humility, but fear had a smell that no amount of noble perfume could hide. His smile was too quick, too wide, too careful at the edges. His eyes carried the red weariness of a man who had not slept enough since writing a letter he had desperately hoped would remove responsibility from his own shoulders and place it onto someone else’s.
That someone else had arrived in person.
And Dickoff knew enough of hierarchy to understand that this was not mercy.
The carriage door opened.
Mihos Dawn stepped out with the smooth confidence of someone who had never once believed the ground had the right to inconvenience him. He wore dark robes suitable for private movement in the city, but there was nothing humble in the cut. The fabric fell perfectly. The silver threading at the edges of his sleeves only showed when the lantern light caught it. A signet flashed once at his hand. His expression was calm enough to be insulting.
He looked around the courtyard once.
Just once.
And in that one sweep of his eyes, Dickoff Iron felt his own estate reduced from a family seat into a temporary convenience.
Mihos’s butler followed him out more quietly, every inch of him immaculate and unreadable. Two chosen guards remained near the carriage. Not close enough to crowd. Near enough to kill.
Dickoff bowed... Deeply. Too deeply.
"Young Master Dawn," he said. "This humble one welcomes—"
"Spare me," Mihos said.
The words were not loud.
They still cut the whole courtyard flat.
Dickoff straightened by a fraction, smile trembling but not daring to fall. "Of course. Of course. Please, enter. Everything has been prepared."
Mihos looked at him for one heartbeat too long.
Then said, "Lead."
That was all.
He did not ask about Dickoff’s mental health. About his son missing. He did not mention the letter yet. He did not offer the false softness great houses sometimes used before humiliation. He simply accepted the estate as if it were already beneath him and moved forward.
Dickoff turned at once and guided him inside with the eagerness of a dog trying to prove it still deserved to be fed.
The interior hall of Iron House had been dressed for the visit as quickly as servants could manage on short notice. Lamps burned brighter than usual. Carpets had been changed. Tea had been prepared. A side dining room had been set in case the young master wished to eat. Fresh flowers had even been placed in one alcove, likely because someone in the household had panicked and decided nobility enjoyed flowers during private disasters.
Mihos ignored all of it.
He walked through the entry hall with one hand behind his back, the other relaxed at his side, and took the seat in the receiving room without asking whether it had been meant for him. Naturally, it had been.
Dickoff remained standing until Mihos gave the smallest tilt of two fingers.
Only then did he sit.
Only on the edge of the chair.
Only like a man ready to stand and apologize at a moment’s notice.
The butler positioned himself at Mihos’s left, just behind the line of the chair, where he could be present without becoming part of the room unless needed.
Mihos finally looked directly at Dickoff. It was not a warm gaze. It was the gaze of a man inspecting failed equipment.
"You look worse than your letter," Mihos said.
Dickoff let out a small, strained laugh. "These have been unfortunate days."
"Yes," Mihos said. "For you."
The answer landed like a slap.
Dickoff bowed his head slightly. "I regret that my earlier efforts were insufficient."
"That is one way to describe them."
Tea was placed.
Mihos did not touch it.
Dickoff did not touch it because Mihos had not touched it.
For a moment the room held that terrible stillness only young nobles of powerful houses could create. The kind where no one dared mistake silence for safety.
Then Mihos said, "Tell me in your own words."
Dickoff swallowed once.
He had hoped the letter would be enough.
Of course it was not.
So he told it again. The pressure campaign. The auction. Elena’s interference. Sekhmet’s rising support. The unexpected resistance. The rumors around the lower Dawn House.