Horace did not receive the Nomadic Tribe's great caravan in Leyndell.
He chose an abandoned manor, where the surroundings offered clear views, making it difficult to conduct surveillance without putting undue pressure on the sensitive outsiders.
Inquisitor Knights established defenses around the manor. They stood in silence, their heavy armor gleaming with a cold, hard metallic sheen.
When Hassan, the leader of the great caravan, entered the manor's hall, the weathered man grew visibly nervous.
He had seen the heavily armored knights outside the manor: they were no ordinary guards. The quality of their armor and the faint pressure emanating from them both indicated that they were the elite of the elite.
And the silver-haired man seated at the head of the hall...
Hassan quickly lowered his head and placed a hand over his chest in salute.
"Honored lord, Hassan, leader of the caravan, offers his greetings."
Horace raised a hand to signal for them to rise, his calm gaze sweeping over him.
Hassan was around fifty, with dark skin and a face marked by years of exposure to the elements. He wore a traveling robe sewn from multiple layers of linen. His eyes...
Horace's gaze lingered on Hassan's eyes.
Deep within his pupils, a faint yellow swirled, like suppressed flames slowly writhing beneath the vitreous of his eyeballs.
It was subtle, but it was there.
"Sit," Horace said.
A servant brought over a chair. Hassan sat down cautiously, hands on his knees, his posture stiff.
"I've read your application for entry," Horace said, getting straight to the point.
"Your inventory is extensive, and your customs duties have been paid in full. Under the Law, you may trade in Leyndell."
Hassan breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, my lord..."
"However," Horace interrupted.
Hassan's heart leaped into his throat again.