The evening sky had covered the capital city. The air was very cold, and a sharp wind blew through the empty streets.

Damon rode his horse through the quiet upper city. He wore a thick coat to block the freezing wind. His mind was still very heavy with the events of the day. He felt a deep, uncomfortable burning feeling in the center of his chest.

Finally, Damon’s horse halted in front of a very large, well-respected establishment.

It was a private, expensive tavern where only wealthy noblemen, high-ranking military officers, and royal ministers went to drink and discuss important matters. Warm yellow light poured out from the large glass windows, and the smell of roasted meat and sweet wine filled the cold air outside.

Damon got down from his horse. His leather boots hit the stone pavement with a solid thud.

A worker quickly ran out from the side of the building. The worker bowed very deeply.

Damon handed the leather reins to the worker. He did not say a word. He turned around and pushed the front doors open, stepping inside the warm establishment.

The inside of the tavern was very quiet and elegant. There was no loud music, and no one was shouting. Wealthy men sat in comfortable velvet chairs around polished tables, speaking in low, serious voices.

As soon as Damon walked in, several noblemen turned their heads. They recognized the Tyrant General immediately. They quickly lowered their voices even more, showing their deep respect and slight fear of the military commander.

Damon ignored them. He scanned the large room with his dark brown eyes.

He immediately saw his friend.

Sitting at a private, secluded table in the far corner of the room was Syrus. Syrus saw Damon walking in. He raised his hand and waved gently.

Damon walked across the room, his long strides covering the distance quickly. He pulled out the chair opposite Syrus and sat down. He kept his posture straight and his broad shoulders tense.

"Damon," Syrus greeted him with a wide, friendly smile. "Early as always."

Damon did not smile back. He looked at his friend with a serious, flat expression. He wanted to make this meeting as fast as possible. He wanted to go back to the mansion and see if Camilla had returned.

Damon spoke. His deep voice was calm but firm.

"I hope the reason for your letter is urgent," Damon said, resting his large hands on the polished table. He decided to use a very specific excuse to hurry the meeting along.

"The lady doesn’t like me staying out late at night," Damon added smoothly.

He tried to make his voice sound like a normal, dutiful husband who had a caring wife waiting for him at home. He wanted Syrus to think that Camilla would be worried or angry if he did not return to the mansion quickly.

Syrus stopped smiling. He slowly raised a single eyebrow in deep surprise.

Syrus looked at Damon’s serious face. He knew exactly how the couple were.

"She told you herself?" Syrus asked. His voice was full of clear doubt.

Damon froze.

He stared at Syrus. He closed his mouth tightly. He could not answer the question.

Inside his mind, Damon felt a sharp sting of deep embarrassment. He knew he was telling a ridiculous lie. Camilla had never, ever said anything about him staying out late. In fact, she probably preferred it when he was not in the house. She did not care about his schedule at all.

Damon remained quiet. He looked down at the empty table. He could not lie and say yes, because Syrus was too smart.

Syrus watched Damon’s silent reaction. The nobleman easily read the truth on Damon’s face.

Syrus leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. A small, knowing smile returned to his lips.

"Or you assumed?" Syrus asked softly, hitting the exact truth.

Damon’s jaw tightened. He felt a wave of hot irritation. He hated being read so easily, especially when it involved his complicated, messy feelings for his wife. He did not want to talk about Camilla right now.

Damon looked back up. His eyes were strict and warning.

"Just say what you want to say," Damon spoke. His voice dropped into a low, commanding tone, ordering his friend to change the subject immediately.

Syrus let out a soft, amused chuckle.

Heh.

Syrus knew not to push Damon too far. He raised his hand and gently snapped his fingers.

A waiter dressed in a neat white uniform hurried over to their table immediately.

"Bring us a bottle of your best red wine," Syrus ordered politely. "And two clean glasses."

"Right away, My Lord," the waiter bowed and hurried off toward the back room.

Syrus turned his attention back to Damon. He dropped his playful, relaxed attitude. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look of deep seriousness. He leaned his body even closer to the table, making sure no one sitting nearby could hear his words.

Syrus spoke. His voice became a very low, careful whisper.

"My intel from the palace said the king gathered all his armorers concerning that weapon," Syrus reported quietly.

Damon instantly shifted his focus. His mind became alert. He remembered the strange, foul-smelling iron pipe the King had shown them in the council chamber. He remembered how it had punched a clean hole right through a thick steel breastplate and killed Captain Darius.

Damon leaned forward as well, listening closely to the secret information.

"The King is deeply terrified," Syrus continued whispering. "He ordered his best blacksmiths and iron workers to study the damage. He wanted them to manufacture something that can withstand the extreme pressure of that weapon and fully protect the wearer."

Damon frowned deeply. He thought about the physical mechanics of armor.

"That is a very difficult task," Damon thought to himself. "If they make the steel plates thicker, the armor will become far too heavy. The soldiers will not be able to run, and the horses will collapse from the immense weight. But if the armor is too light, that metal ball will easily pierce it again."

Syrus looked at Damon’s calculating eyes.

"We will get the results of their tests in the next council meeting," Syrus explained quietly. "They are working day and night in the royal forges."

Syrus paused for a brief second. He looked around the quiet tavern, ensuring no spies were listening to their conversation.

"The King senses an upcoming war," Syrus stated firmly, his eyes dark with worry. "He believes the enemy kingdom is preparing a massive invasion. And he knows that weapon will be used directly against us. If we do not find a way to stop those metal balls, our entire cavalry will be slaughtered on the battlefield."

Damon sat still. He slowly raised his right hand and scratched his strong, sharp chin. He felt the rough stubble on his skin.

He understood the danger. A war with a new, explosive weapon would completely change the rules of combat. He needed to prepare his soldiers. He needed to change their training routines to focus on speed and taking cover, rather than just standing in straight lines with heavy shields.

"I see," Damon replied softly. His deep voice carried the heavy weight of his military responsibilities.

Just then, the waiter returned to their table.