Several hundred crystal bottles were lined up neatly on the stone platform, their bodies gleaming with a ghostly blue light. Their mouths were sealed with wax, stamped with exceedingly intricate patterns.
Old Ford picked up one bottle and held it up to the everburning lamp.
The liquid flowed beneath the light with extreme slowness, its color somewhere between amber and deep violet.
Magic potion.
Not the watered-down version supplied exclusively to the royal court.
This was the Iris Family's own formula.
Old Ford set the bottle back down and walked to the other end of the stone platform. There lay a stack of exceptionally thick parchment scrolls, along with several old books bound in iron.
He casually opened the one on top.
The pages were yellowed and brittle, their corners riddled with worm-eaten holes. Yet the handwriting upon them was exceptionally neat, written in some special ink that had not faded even after centuries.
Old Ford's finger stopped on one page.
It bore an enormous family tree.
At its very top were the three striking words: "Iris Flower."
Two thick lines branched downward.
One extended left, marked—"Orenda Branch."
The other extended right, marked—"Baris Branch."
Old Ford turned to the next page.
Dense text recorded the war from four hundred years ago.
The Iris Family had once been one of the most powerful military noble houses on the continent.
At the time, the Orenda Kingdom had been a fledgling regime for less than fifty years. The royal family's foundations were unsteady, and they relied entirely on the Iris Family's knights to hold up the facade.
Later, once the royal family had secured its throne, it began to cast aside the millstone after the donkey had done its work.
The Iris Family refused to submit and raised a rebellion.
They lost.
And