Towleigh, 2nd Moon, 29th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  Timel Lone had barely surrendered to sleep when a thunderous knocking shattered the fragile peace of his chamber. He jolted upright, the lingering fog of dreams dissipating into irritation. "Who dares disturb me at this hour?" he growled, his voice low and rough with sleep.

  "'Tis I, my lord! Tavish!" came the breathless reply of his steward. "Forgive the intrusion, but urgent tidings demand your attention!"

  Timel sighed heavily, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His joints ached with the chill of the night, and the air in the room was sharp against his skin as he reached for his robe. Beside him, his wife stirred beneath the covers, muttering her displeasure at the commotion.

  "Quiet yourself," Timel muttered as he rose. Crossing the room, he pulled open the door to reveal Tavish, his face pale and drawn in the flickering light of the torch he carried.

  "What is it, Tavish?" Timel asked, his brows knitting together. "This had best be worth the interruption."

  "My lord, trouble stirs beyond our walls," Tavish said, his voice trembling. "An armed host encroaches upon your lands, bearing the standard of House von Grifenburg."

  Timel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. "Lord Aden?" he asked, his voice tight.

  "Nay, my lord," Tavish replied. "It is his son."

  Timel's blood ran cold at the revelation. "Summon the captain of the guard," he barked, already turning to retrieve his clothes. "I will meet him in the courtyard. And Tavish—wake the men. I want every able body ready to defend these walls."

  "As you command, my lord," Tavish said, bowing before hurrying off.

  Behind him, the countess stirred again, this time with a note of alarm. "Timel? What is amiss?" she asked, sitting up and drawing the covers around her.

  "Nothing for you to worry over," Timel lied, pulling on his boots. "Our Liege-Lord’s son approaches with an army. I mean to learn why."

  "An army?" she exclaimed, her voice rising in panic. "And what reason would he have to march against us?"

  Timel gritted his teeth. "I do not know. Rest, Annice. I will see to it." He left before she could protest further, striding into the cold halls of his keep.

  The corridors echoed with the hurried footsteps of guards and the hushed murmurs of servants, their voices carrying the weight of fear. By the time Timel reached the courtyard, his captain of the guard stood waiting, his expression as grim as the night sky above them.

  "My lord," the captain said, saluting sharply.

  "Speak," Timel commanded, his tone brooking no delay. "What news have you?"

  "The Levi von Grifenburg has sent an emissary," the captain replied. "He requests a parley."

  "A parley?" Timel repeated, his confusion evident. "And what grievance brings him to my lands with sword and shield? Should he not be ensconced at Faywyn attending his lordly duties?"

  "The young lord accuses you of conspiring with Lord Josh of House Hera, my lord," the captain said carefully. "He claims you plotted together to usurp his father’s holdings. He also alleges to have captured the treasonous lord and his kin, who, under interrogation, confessed to your involvement."

  Timel’s face darkened, his temper flaring. "What nonsense is this? Hera, a conspirator? That craven fool! Why are his failures being laid at my feet?"

  The captain said nothing, though his expression betrayed his unease.

  "Summon my steed," Timel snapped, his voice like a whipcrack. "If the young lord seeks words, then I will give them to him myself."

  "Aye, my lord," the captain replied, bowing before retreating into the shadows.

  Timel stood in the courtyard, his breath misting in the chill air. Above, the stars glittered cold and indifferent, as though mocking the chaos that brewed below. He clenched his fists, his thoughts racing. A boy—barely more than a pup—dared march against him, accusing him of treason? He would see the lad cowed before this night was through.

  Yet, beneath his fury, a seed of doubt took root. If Josh had indeed fallen into Levi’s grasp, and if the boy truly held proof of his supposed treachery... No. Timel pushed the thought aside, his jaw tightening. He would face this pup and put an end to the foolishness. One way or another.

  As Lord Timel rode toward the gathering at the forest’s edge, his eyes were drawn to the disciplined ranks of soldiers assembled under the von Grifenburg banner. The rampant gryphon fluttered on standards held high, catching the morning sun as if daring the world to defy it. Rows of armored men stretched out in formidable order—on the left, mounted knights sat astride their destriers, steel-clad and motionless as statues; to the right, a line of crossbowmen stood behind pavises painted with the gryphon crest; and at the center, infantry bearing pikes bristled like a hedge of iron thorns. The sheer precision of the formation sent an involuntary shiver down Timel's spine. It seems he was mistaken. This was no mere show of force—it was a quiet promise of annihilation.

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  Timel exhaled deeply, his retinue of knights flanking him as he approached. He felt the weight of the moment pressing down upon him, heavier than his armor. This confrontation, forced upon him by the young lord of Faywyn, was an indignity he could not stomach. Yet here he was, compelled to dance to the tune of a boy barely past his twentieth year.

  The pup himself waited at the forefront of the army, mounted upon a sleek black charger. Dressed in unadorned armor, Levi von Grifenburg carried himself with a calm that belied his youth, his pale gaze as steady as the gryphon standard above him.

  Timel dismounted with deliberate slowness, his jaw clenched as he approached. "What seeks you, lad?" he demanded, his voice a low growl. He hoped to provoke the boy, to find some chink in his composure, but the child merely smiled—a small, cold expression that did little to warm his youthful features.

  "Feigning ignorance, are we now?" Levi replied, his voice measured and unnervingly calm. "You surprise me, my lord. To conspire with the Heras against my house and then plead innocence... such audacity."

  Timel stiffened. "Your accusations are baseless lies," he retorted. "Empty words, conjured from the air."

  Levi tilted his head slightly, his smile lingering. "Do you mean to impugn my honour, my family's honour, to shield your guilt?" From within his cloak, the earl drew forth a bundle of parchments. "These letters, bearing your seal, say otherwise. They detail your correspondence with Count Hera, your shared schemes to divide von Grifenburg lands between you. Here," he continued, plucking a missive from the bundle, "is your agreement to wed your daughter Lizra to Josh Hera’s son Gilbert, with the promise of a dowry. What dowry, I wonder, save lands that were never yours to give?"

  Timel blanched, his stomach turning as he recognized his seal upon the letter Levi now held. He had sent that missive weeks ago, just before winter, under a vastly different context that what was presented. "You twist my words," he snarled. "The marriage pact was innocent—a gesture of goodwill between the Heras and Mine! These other letters are forgeries, plain as day!"

  Levi’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. "Do not insult me further, Lord Timel. I am not so easily deceived." He turned to one of his bannermen, a knight waiting silently at his side. "Bring them forth."

  The knight saluted and rode off without a word, leaving Timel to stew in silence. Minutes later, the knight returned, two figures in tow—Count Josh Hera and his son, Gilbert. Both were bound at the wrists, their clothes disheveled, their faces pale and drawn. The sight of them made Timel’s blood run cold.

  "Josh," Levi addressed the former lord, his voice calm but unyielding. "Did you confess to me your crimes? Do you stand by your testimony against Lord Timel now, in his presence?"

  A long, heavy pause followed, broken only by the rustling of the wind through the trees. Finally, Josh spoke, his voice weak and halting. "...Aye. Aye, my lord."

  "Lies!" Timel roared, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. His knights followed suit, their blades hissing from their scabbards, but von Grifenburg’s men moved just as swiftly, their pikes lowering in unison. Levi, however, did not flinch.

  "Will you slay a witness to bury the truth, Lord Timel?" Levi asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

  Timel’s grip tightened on his sword. "He is no witness, boy! I will not be coerced by your theatrics. I have committed no treason, and I will not suffer for crimes I did not commit!"

  The young lord’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, glacial wrath. "Do not be foolish, Lord Timel. I have offered you a chance to make amends, yet you persist in defiance. If I leave this field unsatisfied, you will come to regret it."

  A silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Finally, Timel spat, "What do you want, you wretch?"

  Levi’s composure returned, though his gaze remained hard. "Restitution," he said simply. "For the resources spent quelling the Heras’ rebellion. Grain, black powder, stolen goods, and the losses suffered by my house. Forty-seven thousand gold Royals, all tallied here." He tossed a scroll at Timel’s feet.

  "This is madness!" Timel barked. "I cannot pay such a sum!"

  "I do not demand immediate payment," Levi replied, his tone almost magnanimous. "You may repay your debt in installments. However, I will require collateral to ensure your cooperation. Your heir, Lars, shall serve as my squire until the debt is discharged."

  Timel’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing. "And what do you intend for my son?"

  "He will reside within my halls," Levi said. "He shall be well-fed, well-clothed, and treated with respect. A stipend will be provided for his personal use. Upon the fulfillment of your debt, he will return home, none the worse for wear."

  Timel said nothing for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, he turned sharply, his cloak billowing behind him. "I will not forget this," he growled as he stalked away.

  "You mustn’t," Levi called after him, his voice tinged with frost. "For I surely will not."

  ???

  Faywyn

  Reamus sat alone at a table near the shadows, his keen eyes scanning the bustling alehouse with a dispassionate air. The room was thick with life and laughter, the scent of roasting meat mingling with the tang of spilled ale. In the center, a massive stone hearth roared with fire, bathing the chamber in a flickering orange glow. Around it, patrons crowded close, mugs raised high, faces flushed with drink and merriment.

  The walls were adorned with trophies of simpler days—faded pelts from long-dead beasts, chipped antlers, and crude paintings that spoke of some artisan’s misplaced ambitions. The tables and benches were sturdy but unpolished, their surfaces scarred by years of tankards and elbows. At the far end of the room, the innkeeper loomed like a king over his domain, his hands ceaseless as he poured ale, sliced bread, and served steaming plates of roasted venison and hearty stew. Beyond him, the kitchen bustled with the frantic energy of unseen cooks toiling over spits and cauldrons.

  A minstrel plucked a lively tune in one corner, his notes mingling with the cacophony of voices. A young couple danced in the open space by the hearth, their movements clumsy but exuberant, encouraged by the cheers of the onlookers who clapped in time with the music. The air throbbed with revelry, the alehouse alive with the sounds of fellowship and joy.

  Reamus found it all rather insufferable.

  The door creaked open, and a gust of cold air announced the arrival of a cloaked figure. The man stepped inside, shaking the evening dew from his shoulders, and cast a quick glance around the room before his eyes landed on Reamus. Without hesitation, he made his way to the brigand lord’s table.

  "Well?" Reamus muttered, his words muffled as he took a long pull from his tankard. He set it down with a hollow thud, his dark eyes narrowing.

  "Lord Aden is absent," the newcomer, Outhor, said in a low voice. "His son as well. Word is, the boy’s chasing vengeance to the south. They say he won’t return for days, perhaps longer."

  Reamus sighed, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his tankard. "A pity," he said, though his tone betrayed no real disappointment. "I had hoped to present the first of my many offerings to at least one of them in person."

  "A pity indeed," Outhor echoed, a thin smile tugging at his lips.

  Reamus leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting back to the revelry around him. The fire crackled in the hearth, the minstrel’s tune picked up speed, and the laughter of the patrons swelled to fill the room.

  He swirled the dregs of his ale, his mind already far from the warmth of the tavern.