“Willem’s not here,” Hans van Brugh said, keeping his best patient smile on in the face of this guest. He stood in the grand hall, where visitors were received. Half a dozen knights stood all around him. “Sorry that you’ve wasted a trip. If you get scurrying back now, you might avoid a snowstorm.”

  A tall man in immaculate armor stood proud. He had hair that was so pale blonde it almost appeared gray or silver—rather distinct from the golden locks of the Brugh family. His eyes were gray to match, and resolute like stone. He was a young, hard man, built like a wall. He didn’t at all lack in stature even to the Brugh family.

  “It seems that most of the family is out. But I can wait,” said the knight. “I’ve been doing it for eight years, after all.”

  “I wouldn’t call training waiting, per se.” Hans held his arms out and paced around the hall. “But I don’t think you understand. Willem’s not here, and he won’t be here anytime soon. He’s away.”

  “Then where is he?” pressed the gray-haired knight.

  “Ask him,” Hans said with a cheeky smile. He pulled his hair tie out, and his blonde hair fell to his shoulders. “He’d know. But I don’t.”

  “Don’t make this difficult,” continued the knight. “You can’t stop me.”

  “You think that just because you’ve been appointed a royal knight that you can go to anywhere in the world, and the people will joyfully lap up your nonsense?” Hans leaned in. “You’re unwelcome.”

  The knight rubbed the pommel of his sheathed sword with his hand, staring Hans down without fear. Before he could open his mouth to speak again, one of the thick wooden doors in the grand hall swung open. Godfried strode out.

  “Arend,” Godfried called out in some surprise. “They told me you were here, but I didn’t believe it.”

  Arend smiled, and the two walked forward to share a friendly hug. Godfried pushed him away, looking him up and down.

  “You’ve gotten bigger,” Godfried said cheerfully. “Heard you joined the royal knights. I thought I’d see you wearing the Ravenveld sigil, but you have your family’s armor.”

  “Because this is a Rook family matter,” Arend said seriously.

  Godfried gave a knowing nod. “Hans… father made us both regents until he returned. We can’t kick a noble guest out without good reason.”

  Hans rolled his eyes. “I can’t be bothered with this. Whatever, then. Fine. You take care of him. And you’ll take the blame for anything that comes of it.”

  Hans walked away, and Godfried led Arend outside of the castle without another word. They entered the courtyard of the Brugh castle, which was as solemn, gray, and stony as its interior. Precious few greeneries bloomed within: only hardy plants that grew in the harsh northern reaches of the kingdom.

  “So… where’s Willem?” Arend asked. “What’s going on? Baron Tielman seldom leaves the barony. Something’s up.”

  Godfried stopped on the path, looking around. “It’s good that you came by. I was honestly thinking of writing you, but the baron’s put everyone on high alert since…” Godfried paused. “…since some turmoil in the house. I couldn’t get a letter out without it being intercepted.”

  “Turmoil?” Arend raised a brow.

  “The matter’s settled now, I just shouldn’t talk about it,” Godfried clarified. “I can tell that Willem’s been disinherited.”

  Arend inhaled deeply. “What? That’s…” the knight began to laugh. “…long overdue, I should think. How did it happen?”

  “I’ll get in trouble for saying this, but…” Godfried shook his head. “I don’t care. It’s not right, what’s happened. Willem wasn’t punished. He pursued disinheritance himself in exchange for a massive payout of gold. I… can’t tell you the details, but all I know is this—my father doesn’t want the royal court to know, and Willem’s living large under the patronage of the Dowager Countess Anne Claire in Gent.”

  Arend put a thoughtful hand to his chin. “King Arnoud loathes instability in border regions. I can see why your father would want to keep this quiet.”

  “So you can tell him, then?” Godfried said hopefully. “King Arnoud. Bring the king’s eye upon this matter, so that justice can come down.”

  “The trouble might extend to your family,” Arend said. “To your father. To you.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “You and your sister were far closer than my family,” Godfried said. “Willem ruined that.”

  “I’ll restore Dorothea’s honor,” Arend promised. “And if possible, renew your engagement with her. But bringing this to the king’s attention… that isn’t the way I want to handle things. Things should end as they began.”

  Godfried sighed. “Willem is a monster, Arend. I’m sorry, but no matter how much better you’ve gotten… he’s improved twice, thrice as much. I think a duel would end the same way.”

  “Nevertheless, I have to try and restore the honor of the Rook family.” Arend shook his head. “I can’t put into words how Willem’s actions damaged our family. I won’t abuse the king’s authority or my station, but I will prove that we are not yet in a benighted age. And even if I don’t achieve a victory in battle, I’ll achieve one in the eye of the people.”

  “And what if things don’t go your way?” Godfried asked. “Let’s be realistic.”

  Arend narrowed his eyes. “Let me recount, so we’re clear. Willem had his way with my sister under the influence of alcohol. Thereafter, he publicly brought her virtue to question, achieving an annulment of her betrothal. My family was forced to pay restitution to the crown at a time when we were insolvent, nearly bankrupting us. My father was stripped of his title of chancellor as a result of this, and we suffered a rebellion from one of our sworn vassals.” The knight’s hand hovered near his sword. “My grudge will persist even if the honorable route should be proven a lackluster solution. I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  ***

  “Why don’t you train anymore, Willem?” Viviene asked him one day as they sat in his office. “I still train, and I’m… in my late forties,” she said vaguely.

  “People always assume you’re forty-nine when you say ‘late forties,’” Willem said idly as he scanned through documents. “Just embrace your age. Own it. You’ll feel better.”

  Viviene pouted. “What would you know about age?”

  “I know that whatever herbal mixture you’re using to dye your hair reeks.” Willem looked up. “It’s a waste of money. You have nice hair; don’t thin it poisoning yourself. Silver strands, golden wisdom, all that tripe.”

  “In Valdérie, gray hair is a sign of weakness,” Viviene said. “Even if one needs to shave themselves bald and glue a wig on, it would be better than letting a single strand of gray show.” She shook her head. “But you can’t change the subject. Why aren’t you training?”

  “Because I don’t want to,” Willem said.

  “No one wants to,” Viviene said in annoyance. “But prowess is important.”

  “You can buy prowess,” Willem disagreed. “People with your mindset abound. I focus on what I’m good at.”

  “That isn’t how things work,” Viviene insisted, leaning into Willem’s desk. “There are times when your sword must be drawn in this world. Even when I lost my eye, I didn’t cease my training. I’m only now returning to the level of skill that I once possessed as a teenager. If you dither for years, you may never be as good as you once were.”

  “There’s always a way out.” Willem looked up, setting his papers down. “Is that all that you came here to talk to me about?”

  Viviene tsked. “Not quite. I brought a list for you of businesses that I believe could fail in the future,” she said, handing him a document. “I know that you have your mind set on a few other options, but I believe these could offer higher margins. I thought it might interest you.”

  Willem took the paper with some interest, reading it over. “Very fascinating, but not of much use to me yet. I’m not looking for businesses that could fail. I’m looking for businesses that are failing.” He read for a few more moments. “Tanneries, textiles… very solid analysis. I agree. Maybe in a year or two, it’ll be worth revisiting.”

  “The revenue declines are fact,” Viviene argued. “I’ve verified it for myself. Became acquainted with a livestock merchant, German. Leather has less demand than ever—cheaper, mass-produced textiles are becoming more and more abundant, shipped in from the manufactories in the capital. People are willing to accept slightly lesser quality in return for cheap price.”

  “Being too far ahead of your time is indistinguishable from being wrong,” Willem pointed out. “…as a friend of mine often said. I love your initiative. I’m not saying that you’re wrong. You’re just early.”

  ***

  “I’m sorry, Gustav, but I think you’re wrong,” said a fat man at a crowded dinner table. “This man, Willem van Brugh… his household’s a martial household. And from what I hear, this business he’s opened up—it’s a charity. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “No, it’s a business disguised as a charity,” Gustav insisted, not touching the food in front of him. “Fundamentally, he’s undercutting the guilds’ role in managing inheritances.”

  “Honestly, that’s more relieving than anything,” said the guildmaster of the Merchant’s Guild. “It was always a tremendous pain, settling estates. Resulted in a great deal of unrest, even bloodshed. If Willem is willing to take that off our hands, so be it. Not worth the commission that we get.”

  “But he bought up Robert’s Chandlery,” Gustav insisted. “Not only that, he had it sold for scraps within the month. And I hear he’s been asking around a few other places. Things related to my business.”

  “If he becomes a problem, then the guilds can unite,” another guildmaster argued. “We can shut him out. Until then… why in the world would we want to anger a noble than can use aura, and clearly has the good graces of the Dowager Countess? You’re being absurd, Gustav, because you lost out on a deal. Admit it.”

  Gustav leaned back into his chair, looking bitter.

  “Frankly, it was overdue,” the man continued. “Our role isn’t to revolutionize the business, as you’ve been trying to. Our role is to ensure stability, so that our sons, and our sons’ sons, can carry on the craft and the family trade until the end of time. You’re a soaper. Why does the fate of a chandlery even concern you?”

  Gustav shook his head, but didn’t respond. He could see it—see it as clear as day. He wasn’t wrong, he was just early. And if these people wouldn’t take measures, he’d just have to prepare alone.