News traveled fast. As expected, it reached both the Duke and the diplomatic envoy. The Duke, hearing of the incident, didn’t so much as furrow his brow—he ughed, loud and long. His own kin had taken care of trouble with sharp steel and cleaner results than most seasoned knights could manage. There would be no need to summon retainers or demand expnations. That, in itself, was a joy worth celebrating.

  Finally, the children had grown up. Finally, they could be unleashed to crack skulls without watching over their shoulders. The Duke's pride beamed across the entire hall. A message was sent from the keep—“Good fight, didn’t shame us.” A few others were not so lucky—those who had stood with arms folded and merely watched were given a firm scolding. “Next time such a fine show comes around, don’t stand gawking. Jump in. Don’t let the dies take all the credit.”

  But what the Duke treated as a delightful coming-of-age tale, the envoy saw as a crisis.

  Trade with the North had always been a strange game. Northern folk had no real merchants of their own, no infrastructure, and even less interest in shiny coins. When caravans came—every three years—they traded goods, bartered like it was the Stone Age, and left. The real prize for the merchants wasn’t the trade itself, but the access. Being part of a diplomatic envoy meant your goods crossed borders without tax, inspection, or dey. It was a sweet deal, and over the years, many had come to treat it as their birthright.

  So when a child at a roadside table with a sunbathing cat and a fg reading “TOLL COLLECTION” cleaved a path through their guards, the merchants panicked. Not just because of the violence, but because of what it meant: the North had rules now.

  A formal delegation of knights was dispatched, cloaks still creased from travel, expressions taut. These weren’t random sword-wavers—they were the kind of knights who didn’t need to speak loudly to be heard. Most had some education, a little poetry, enough court etiquette to keep from disgracing their house. But none of that helped when they arrived at the scene and saw the Dragon Knights already combing the site, faces grim.

  “That’s our inspection,” muttered one envoy knight to another.

  The Dragon Knights ignored them, flipping corpses, measuring angles, murmuring among themselves. Swords still glinted faintly with blood.

  Trying to match pace, the envoy knights split up and began their own survey. But the deeper they examined, the colder they felt. The injuries were surgical. Every ssh, every fatal blow—clean, efficient, deadly. All from a single bde. Or worse… from a pair, moving as one.

  One knight knelt by a corpse, whispering to himself, “So fast… so fast…”

  Elsewhere, a knight had found the merchant overseer, still lying face down in the dirt. When the knight gestured for him to rise, a voice—young, light—called out across the field.

  “No need to stand. Staying down a bit longer won’t kill anyone.”

  The overseer froze.

  Of course, someone had to take responsibility. So two small companies of knights were assigned to "guard" the caravans for the night. Not because they feared another attack—but because it was clear the northern warriors considered lingering foreigners little more than stray animals.

  Morning came bright and crisp. Brann, fresh from his daily drills, strolled back to the checkpoint with the same gang of Northern ds and sses, chatting like yesterday had been a particurly entertaining tavern brawl.

  He’d nearly forgotten the merchants were still lying on their faces.

  A man was waiting near the table this time. Not from the merchant group, but from the envoy—a proper diplomatic officer. His posture was formal, his expression mild, and he spoke in a calm, deliberate voice.

  “Collecting tolls is the right of any nded noble. Yesterday’s attempt to breach your checkpoint was a direct challenge to that authority.”

  Brann, lounging in his chair with one leg swinging zily, gnced up and smiled. It was not a friendly smile. The kind of smile that made diplomats regret they didn’t wear armor.

  The officer hesitated, but continued, stepping closer. “However, those who attempted the breach have been dealt with. The others—traders, borers, cooks—had no part in the aggression. They should not suffer unduly. I ask, on behalf of the envoy, that you collect the toll, then allow them to pass.”

  Brann’s smile widened. He turned to Dani, who stood beside him like a gcier carved into the shape of a woman. He reached up and gently touched her hand.

  The officer visibly paled.

  That detail had been mentioned in every report: the child reaching for the woman’s hand. And then the screaming began.

  “I mean, of course,” the officer sputtered, “those responsible will be punished. Their goods will be confiscated—consider them yours, by right.”

  Dani’s fingers closed around Brann’s palm, and the officer flinched.

  Then she scooped Brann up in a single, effortless motion, cradling him like a bundle of twigs, turned on her heel, and walked away.

  From behind, her voice drifted back, calm and melodic:

  “Do as he said. And collect the merchant tax. Deliver it to the mountain estate.”

  “Of course! At once!” the officer gasped, trying not to colpse into the dirt himself.

  One of the Northern youths spped a map into his hand with the force of a hammer.

  “Put them here,” the youth grunted, jabbing at a square on the parchment. “Follow the yout. It’s got words and everything. You do read, right?”

  The official nodded frantically.

  The youth grinned and thumped him on the shoulder hard enough to knock him half a step sideways, then jogged after the others.

  Brann watched him go, squinting against the sunlight.

  “You,” he called, pointing. “What’s your name?”

  The boy turned mid-step, beaming. “Gazi!”

  “Good name,” Brann said, offering a solemn thumbs-up.

  “Hell yeah, it is!”

  “You’re in charge of the commercial district patrol from now on. Keep things tight. Anyone gets out of line…”

  “Chop ‘em.” Gazi grinned, smming a fist into his palm.