Faywyn, 3rd Moon, 12th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  Malina lingered outside the young lord’s chamber, her heart a tempest of dread and uncertainty. Her hand rose toward the stout oak door, knuckles poised to knock, but hesitated mid-air. The weight of what lay beyond stilled her motion, a specter of inevitability she could neither escape nor fully name.

  “There’s no avoiding this,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with weariness. She exhaled sharply, trying to muster the resolve that eluded her. “Best to get it done. Mother said men like him rarely tarry long.”

  With that, she rapped her knuckles against the door.

  “Enter,” came the beast’s voice, smooth and welcoming in a way that set her teeth on edge. There was no kindness in it—just a performance of civility that seemed to mock her apprehension.

  She pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, halting just past the threshold. “You summoned me, my lord,” she said curtly, keeping a careful distance.

  The Lord didn’t answer at first, his attention fixed on the tome spread before him. He hummed softly, a sound of neither acknowledgment nor dismissal, and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Malina stood stiffly, her hands clasped before her, her heart beating too loudly in her ears.

  “My lord?” she ventured again after a long pause, her voice edged with impatience.

  “What is it?” Levi replied, his tone languid and dismissive, his eyes never leaving the pages before him.

  Frustration prickled at Malina’s composure. She had steeled herself for this encounter, bracing for whatever indignity awaited, yet she had not prepared for this—this deliberate prolonging of the moment.

  Resolving to endure no further delay, she stepped forward, fumbling with the laces of her gown. “Ahem,” she said, clearing her throat to draw his attention.

  The young lord sighed audibly, marking his place in the tome before turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly at the sight of her disrobing. “Malina,” he said, his voice tinged with incredulity, “this is the second time you’ve disrobed in my presence without invitation. Forgive my ignorance, but I was under the impression that maidens of your virtue were more... circumspect.”

  Her hands stilled, and a flush of mortification swept over her. “I—” she began, but the words caught in her throat.

  He shook his head and returned to his book. “Do restrain yourself. I’ve no need for a striptease this morning.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks as she fumbled to retie her gown. Silence fell once more, heavy and awkward, as Levi continued reading with apparent indifference. She stood rooted in place, unsure whether to flee or remain, her humiliation bubbling into resentment.

  At last, the earl closed his tome and rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. He approached her, and Malina braced herself, her stomach knotting as he drew near. This is it, she thought bitterly, steeling herself for the inevitable.

  But instead of touching her, Levi reached past her shoulder, retrieving a bundle of parchment from the bookshelf behind her. Malina blinked, her confusion growing as he carried the papers to the table.

  “Sit,” he instructed, gesturing toward the chair he had vacated.

  Bewildered, she complied, watching as he laid out ink, quill, and parchment before her.

  “Last we spoke, your father claimed you were well-learned,” Levi began, his tone conversational. “Today, we shall see the truth of it.”

  “What?” she asked, her confusion deepening.

  “You have an hour to answer the queries on these pages,” he said, producing an hourglass and setting it beside her. “Fail, and I shall relegate you to the scullery. I’ve no use for dullards among my staff.”

  Malina gawked at him, her mind spinning, but the lord only gestured impatiently at the papers. “Begin,” he said.

  Swallowing her indignation and fear, Malina turned her attention to the questions. They ranged from insultingly simple to maddeningly obscure, and as she scribbled answers, she couldn’t help but glance at the lord, hoping to glean some hint of his intent. He stood behind her, observing her work with an unreadable expression.

  “Well?” he prompted when her pen faltered. “Get on with it.”

  Minutes dragged into an hour, and when the last grains of sand slipped through the hourglass, Levi tapped her shoulder lightly. “Time’s up,” he said, taking the pages from her hands.

  “But I wasn’t finished—” she began, but his sharp look silenced her. Reluctantly, she rose and stepped aside, leaving him to review her work.

  The room fell into tense quiet, broken only by the rustle of parchment as Levi perused her answers. Malina hovered near the wall, her emotions a maelstrom of anger, confusion, and humiliation.

  A knock at the door disrupted her thoughts. “Enter,” Levi called without looking up. A servant stepped inside, bowing slightly.

  “Miss Sarah bids me inform you, my lord, that certain men seek your audience,” the girl said, casting a curious glance at Malina’s rumpled dress and disheveled hair.

  "Oh? Who?" the lord inquired, finally turning his attention to the servant.

  "Bounty hunters, My Lord," came the reply.

  Levi paused, his countenance taking on a pensive air. “Inform her I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said before turning to Malina. “You may leave. I’ll summon you when I have need of you.”

  Malina rose quickly, murmuring her assent before fleeing the chamber. Her thoughts churned as she descended the hall. Still bewildered by the recent events, she hoped her mother might offer insight into the eccentric behavior of their lord, for she herself remained perplexed and clueless.

  Olga's fascination with the settlements of the lowlanders was a long-standing amusement to him, if not a begrudging admiration. Their towns were strange things, so different from his clan’s sturdy stronghold nestled within the unyielding crags of the Aiga. The way their werfs sprawled without pattern, the roads wide yet often lacking cobblestones, and above all, the looming stone forts that seemed to dominate every horizon—all of it piqued his curiosity. Such fortifications were foreign to his people. They had no need for them; the Aiga itself, with its steep cliffs and narrow passes, was fortress enough.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Olga cleared his throat, spitting a glob of phlegm onto the dirt path as he led his party through the gates of the lowland town. The guards were upon them before they had gone three paces, spears leveled, their polished armor glinting in the midday sun. Behind them, townsfolk clustered, their wary gazes darting between Olga and his clansmen. Fear, mistrust, and barely-veiled hatred rippled from them like heat from a fire. Olga relished it. Fear made men careful, and hatred made them predictable.

  “Halt!” barked one of the guards, stepping forward with his spear raised. His comrades followed suit, the points of their weapons forming a prickly hedge that barred the way.

  Olga’s comrades chuckled darkly, their laughter carrying a low menace. Olga himself studied the guards with disdain, his dark eyes lingering on their polished helms, their fine mail, their spears that gleamed as though freshly forged. Soft, he thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. Coddled pups playing at being warriors.

  Slowly, deliberately, he rested a hand on the pommel of his sabre, watching with satisfaction as the lead guard flinched, his grip tightening on his spear. The reaction was predictable, almost pitiable.

  “We, of the Ironhides, come to collect what is owed,” Olga said, his voice a low growl as he withdrew his hand from his blade. With a casual flick, he tossed a bundle at the guard’s feet. It landed with a wet thump, and the twine that held it slackened just enough to reveal the bloodied, slack-jawed faces of two severed heads.

  “That’ll be two hundred silver,” Olga continued, his grin spreading to reveal his teeth. Behind him, two of his clansmen stepped forward, bearing poles on their shoulders, from which dangled two maimed captives. Their faces were pale with pain, their wounds hastily dressed to keep them alive. “And I reckon these two are worth about two gold. So, pay up.”

  The guards stared in stunned silence, their gazes flicking between the grisly trophies and the imposing Ironhides. One of the younger sentries visibly paled, his spear trembling in his hands.

  “Fetch Ser Mannon!” barked the lead guard, his voice cracking with urgency. The young sentry nodded stiffly and bolted, his armor clinking noisily as he disappeared into the streets.

  Olga grinned wider, his mirthless laughter echoing in his chest as he watched the boy flee. “A good lad,” he muttered, turning to his comrades. “Runs like game.” The Ironhides laughed again, their voices low and cruel, as they settled in to wait.

  The lord of Faywyn was an odd one, that much was plain. Unlike his father, who had been a warrior through and through, the boy lacked the raw presence of a man born to lead soldiers into battle. Yet there was something in his gaze—calm, calculating, unnervingly direct—that set Olga on edge. The Ironhide’s fingers brushed the pommel of his sabre, seeking comfort in the familiar weight of the weapon. The boy’s pale eyes flicked to the movement, and a faint smile curled at the corner of his lips.

  Strange.

  “I am impressed,” the boy said at last, breaking the tense silence. His gaze shifted to the bound bandits sprawled in the centre of the hall, their faces bruised and bloodied. “I hadn’t expected results so soon. Yet here you stand, proving your reputation as warriors is not without merit.”

  Olga stiffened, frowning. “We are Ironhides,” he replied, his voice cold. “To expect less is to insult our honour. Surely your father, before passing the mantle to you, imparted such wisdom.”

  The earl laughed—a rich, ringing sound that echoed off the stone walls. It was not the reaction Olga had anticipated, nor the one he would have preferred. “My father,” the boy said, stifling his mirth, “has been absent from Faywyn for near a moon’s turn, and truth be told, I never had much taste for his lessons. So, no, I’ve received no such education. But perhaps, in time, you might educate me yourself—over barrels of wine, of course.”

  Olga grunted, uneasy. The boy’s tone was light, yet there was a weight behind his words that unsettled him. The Ironhide glanced at his comrades, who exchanged wary looks but remained silent.

  “But enough of that,” the young lord continued, his gaze returning to the captives. “You’ve done well, and your gifts”—he gestured to the bound men with a flourish—“have lifted my spirits. Robert!”

  “Aye, my lord,” answered the steward, a withered old man standing by the lad’s side.

  “See that these men receive their due,” the earl commanded, waving a hand toward the Ironhides. “And include an extra gold royal in their payment. Let them drink and make merry before they return to their mountains. Such valour deserves reward.”

  Olga accepted the pouch from the steward with a curt nod, his brow furrowing as he felt its weight. Opening it, he found three gold royals instead of the two he’d expected amongst the silver pieces. His gaze snapped back to the earl, suspicion flickering in his dark eyes, but the boy had already turned away, his attention wholly fixed on the prisoners.

  “The criers shall make it known,” the lordling declared, crouching before one of the bandits. His voice carried easily through the hall, commanding yet calm. Slowly, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing the man’s bruised cheek with the back of his fingers, a gesture almost tender. “A trial by ordeal shall be held in the town square within the hour. Let all who have eyes come and see the fate of those who dare destroy what this lord claims as his own.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the steward murmured, bowing deeply before shuffling off to fulfill the command.

  The lord remained crouched, his knights standing like sentinels behind him, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The captive whimpered under the boy’s touch, but the queer lad merely smiled, his expression inscrutable.

  "Good folk," Olga heard the lordling proclaim from his elevated platform, hastily erected above the throng of assembled townsfolk. His voice rang out clear and commanding, cutting through the murmurs and chatter. "With a heart heavy with sorrow, I stand before you on this day. Twice hath our lands been scourged by those who would see us broken. They seek to take what is ours, to raze our hearths, and to plunge us into darkness. Traitors, brigands, and vile curs have dared to challenge our peace, sowing chaos and ruin. But no more!"

  The earl paused, his pale eyes sweeping over the crowd, his voice rising with fervor. "No more shall we suffer these miscreants to walk free! They shall know the full breadth of our wrath. For every flame they kindle, for every life they extinguish, there shall be retribution. We shall not rest until every shadow that threatens our light is banished, until every foe is brought low. No matter where they flee, no matter where they hide, we shall find them—and to those who seek to harm my people, know this: there will be no mercy."

  A roar of approval erupted from the gathered crowd, their cheers rising like a tide. Olga observed the spectacle, his hand resting idly on the hilt of his sabre. The boy had a knack for rousing a crowd, he had to admit, though his words veiled the cruelty that lingered beneath the surface.

  The lordling raised a hand, silencing the crowd with a gesture as he turned to the bound bandits lying in the dirt. His movements were theatrical, deliberate, and grandiose, drawing all eyes to him. "Behold," he declared, his voice brimming with righteous fervor. "The first of many. These wretches stand accused of the burning of Longboat, Mells, and South Rock Village. If innocence be found in them by the grace of our forefathers, they shall go free. But if guilt be proven... let death claim them! Bring forth the beams!"

  A cacophony of cheering erupted once more as two large wooden beams were dragged into the square. The bound bandits writhed pitifully on the ground, their eyes wide with terror as the beams were laid beside them. The crowd jeered and hurled detritus—rotten vegetables, stones, and worse—at the helpless men. The guards and knights stepped forward, clearing a path through the rabble. Without ceremony, the bandits were seized, their wrists tied and nailed to the beams. Their screams pierced the air, a sharp counterpoint to the crowd’s savage shouts of approval.

  The beams were hoisted upright, standing like grim sentinels in the town square, their miserable occupants still writhing and moaning. Olga tilted his head, watching as the bloodied figures twitched against the rough wood. It was a grotesque sight—two broken men pinned to the timber like insects on a board. The townsfolk roared their approval, their voices blending into a single, deafening wave of sound.

  For the first time, Olga felt a flicker of respect for the young lord. The boy was no warrior, that much was clear, but this display spoke of a different kind of strength. Ruthless, calculated, and unflinching. Perhaps the lad did have a bit more of his father's blood in him than Olga had first thought.

  "Impressive," Olga muttered to himself, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.