The Dreisterne trio had found themselves in the eye of a storm of attention. It began subtly at first: the odd freelancer or two pausing to observe their sparring sessions in the guild's practice ring. But as the weeks rolled on, the crowd grew. Guild members gathered in clusters, some out of curiosity, others in outright admiration, as Dreisterne tackled jobs with precision and flair. Blaine, the guild's grizzled instructor, capitalised on this surge of enthusiasm, organising larger training sessions and encouraging everyone to participate.
"Lads, you've started something I couldn't manage for years!" Blaine said, clapping Nathan on the back after one particularly gruelling session. "Getting these young pups taking their training seriously, I mean. You're making my job a whole lot easier."
Nathan nodded, though the unease coiled in his chest refused to dissipate. He caught glimpses of the older freelancers, those who once lounged in corners, sipping ale or playing cards, now watching him and his companions with eyes that carried far more malice than admiration. One of them, a grizzled swordsman sharpening his blade at the far end of the hall, scoffed as Nathan passed. "Famous now, are you? Don't let it get to your head, boy," he muttered, his voice low but edged with something unmistakably bitter.
"Ah, my dear students!" Harald called out to the young spellcasters hanging on his every word. "The art of spellcasting is not mere utility, nein. It is a grand symphony, and you are the conductor! Watch closely, for this conjuration shall leave you utterly...spellbound."
A chuckle ran through the onlookers as Harald wove an unnecessarily dramatic gesture to conjure his floating bonfire. It fizzled out with a puff of smoke.
Keith, leaning against the practice ring's post, whistled. "Myrdin's beard, H. I wonder how your cape didn't catch fire from all that gesturing."
"Ach! That mark of a true virtuoso!" Harald replied with mock indignation, lifting his chin. "We do not simply perform the spell; we become the spell."
Laughter rippled through the gathered trainees, but Nathan noticed something else: a few figures lingering at the edges of the hall, unmoving, unsmiling. Even as Keith smirked and Blaine chuckled, those older freelancers weren't laughing. They weren't even watching the spell. Their eyes were locked on him.
Yet, not all the senior members shared that bitterness. A stocky archer nodded approvingly at Dreisterne's latest feat, and a weathered rogue even cracked a grin at Harald's antics. But the others, such as those who muttered in corners and shot dark glances, weren't just envious. To them, Dreisterne was more than an intrusion. They were a disruption. A shift in the balance. And some men didn't take kindly to change.
Then, his thoughts lingered on the alley ambush weeks ago. Those men had meant to kill him. Not a drunken brawl, not a scuffle over a job. Real, murderous intent. Was it just a few bitter outliers? Or was it resentment for Dreisterne spreading? Or, perhaps those people weren't even freelancers, and they wanted him dead at someone else's behest? Nathan recalled Sandman and the Headsmasher, whose plans to profit from the illegal Spice trade in Dunsgoil Hill he and his friends managed to foil. Could it be possible that they're sending assassins their way, and he was meant to be their first target?
Nathan shook his head. He was a freelancer, and making enemies is part of his job. The problems his enemies bring are best dealt with one at a time, not for him to worry until he maddened himself from paranoia. He had no time to go mad when there were so many florins to be made.
During downtime, Nathan took his mind off things by honing his mobility in the quieter alleys of Trevorton. Heeding the Watchmen's advice, he carried his bastard sword with him just in case someone else decided to swing by and kill him. His movements had grown smoother and more confident as if his body was finally catching up to his ambition. Yet one problem persisted: his shoes. Their smooth leather soles offered little grip, and he slipped more often than he'd care to admit. Fed up with landing with his face first after every mistimed landing, he finally sought Blaine's advice.
"Hobnails," Blaine said without hesitation, leaning on his training staff. "Soldiers swear by 'em. Farmers too. Good grip on almost any surface, so you won't be slipping and sliding around like a drunken pig." He smirked. "I also happened to know just the shoemaker for the job."
Nathan nodded, rolling his shoulders. He was about to thank Blaine when he noticed the quarterstaff trainees nearby. Their movements were crisp and focused, yet their eyes kept flicking toward him as if expecting something. He hesitated, unsure how to respond to them. A knowing smirk would have suited Keith, and Harald would have turned to bombastic oratory displays in a heartbeat.
But Nathan Festivus? He just smiled, sheepishly and uncertainly, and that was apparently enough to send a ripple of giggles through the group.
Later, Nathan headed to Puss in Boots, a humble workshop just a few blocks north of the Freelancer's Guild hall. The swordsman was greeted by the scent of tanned leather and wood polish which permeated the shop, as rows of shoes and boots lined the shelves ranging from simple footwear worn by the townsfolk to the more rugged designs favoured by travellers and mercenaries. One particular pair immediately caught his eye: a sturdy set of high boots of deep brown leather bearing a faint sheen that hinted at both durability and quality craftsmanship.
"Excuse me, sir," Nathan addressed the shoemaker, a serene-looking man who looked in his middle ages. "What can you tell me about those boots?"
"Oh, these? They're griffon hide, custom-made for a ranger," the shoemaker explained, running a calloused hand over the supple hide. "Poor fellow met an untimely end in the forest downhill, mauled by a Kingsguard bear, of all things. Never even got to break them in."
Nathan's grip tightened, his breath catching for just a moment. His mind raced back to that darkened forest, its damp, grassy grounds stained red, silence pressing in, broken only by the sight of Eludor Trevorsson's shattered body slumped against a tree. He remembered ripping off the ranger's freelancer's plate, followed by his and his friends' very close call with the rampaging Kingsguard bear. The elf had been a renowned ranger among Trevorton's freelancers, a man who moved like the wind, swift, sure, untouchable. And yet, even he had fallen. Nathan exhaled sharply, his fingers tracing the supple griffon hide. These were meant to carry Eludor across endless trails, through untamed wilds. Instead, they sat here, untouched and waiting for feet that would never fill them.
"It's a shame, truly," he muttered, his voice quieter than before. "Old El deserved better."
The shoemaker gave him a long, considering look, his expression softening. "You knew him, then?"
"In a manner of speaking." Nathan let the words settle between them, their weight heavier than he'd expected. "He was already dead when my friends and I found him. I never knew the man personally, but the people of the guild here loved him very much."
The shoemaker sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, they've been sitting here for a while, and no one has been interested in them so far except you." He gestured toward the boots. "You'll be taking them, won't you?"
Nathan swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. Carefully, he slipped his foot into one, testing the fit. They were slightly large, but nothing an adjustment wouldn't fix. He rolled his foot against the ground, feeling the firm yet pliable leather shift around him. "These are remarkable," he murmured, the admiration in his voice real. "I'd like hobnails fitted to the soles. They grip the ground better. And the fit needs adjusting. The boots are a bit loose."
The shoemaker nodded approvingly. "Five gold florins, and you can have them by morning."
Nathan blinked. "Five? Sir, that's too cheap."
The shoemaker exhaled, rubbing his thumb over the boots' fine stitching. "Old El already paid me the seventeen gold they were worth. What you're paying for is just the soles." He gave Nathan a small, knowing smile. "Seems only right that someone walks in them."
The next morning, Nathan returned at first light, barely containing his excitement as the shoemaker presented the finished product. The boots now fit like a glove, snug but comfortable, and the hobnail soles provided a satisfying grip as he tested them against the wooden floor. He stepped outside, revelling in the solid contact between the boots and the earth beneath him. The added traction made his footing feel more secure, and with each step, he knew he had made a worthy investment. With a satisfied smile, Nathan adjusted his gear, ready to put his new boots to the test. Old El never got to walk in these boots, but Nathan would. And with every step, he'd carry a piece of that unfinished journey forward.
Later, Nathan stood in a narrow alleyway in the business district, which had become his usual haunt for his secret training. He rolled his shoulders as he flexed his feet inside his new boots. The griffon hide was snug but pliant, moulding to his movements as if it had been made for him. The hobnail soles scraped against the cobblestone beneath him, the grip firm and reassuring.
He took a breath, then shot forward.
His boots struck the ground with confidence as he sprinted through the alley, his steps sure, his footing secure. He weaved between barrels and sacks of grain stacked against the walls, then vaulted over a barrel in one fluid motion. The traction held firm as he landed; no skidding, no awkward fumbling for balance. Then, coming in from a few steps ahead was the familiar stack of crates; his personal landmark in Trevorton's business district, untouched and conveniently placed. Without breaking stride, he stepped onto the lowest crate, sprang onto the next, and then kicked off the last one to grab the edge of the roof above. His fingers found purchase against the weathered stone ledge, and with a firm pull, he hauled himself up. Standing tall on the rooftop, he took a moment to revel in the view of the town sprawling before him. Chimneys puffing smoke, merchants setting up their stalls, the distant clang of a blacksmith at work. He could hear the city waking up, but up here, it was just him and the open sky.
Nathan grinned. The shoes were perfect.
The freelancer dashed forward, the rooftops stretching out before him like an invitation. His boots clung to the tiles, gripping like a second skin as he leapt across narrow gaps, rolled over slanted roofs, and kicked off walls to reach higher ground. The wind rushed past Nathan's face as he sprinted across the rooftops, each step landing with newfound confidence. His boots gripped the tiles with ease, letting him move faster than ever. He leapt over gaps with exhilarating ease, his landings firm, controlled. It was as if his body had finally caught up to his ambition. He even dared to think that some of his manoeuvres were perfect.
Nathan couldn't hold back his laughter. This feeling of boundless mobility was intoxicating.
Scaling a chimney, he vaulted onto a sloped roof and kicked off, flipping mid-air before landing gracefully on the next building. The added traction made all the difference, and he felt like he could run across the entire city without breaking a sweat. Lost in the thrill, he kept pushing his limits, jumping, rolling, and sprinting until his enthusiasm inevitably outpaced his senses. He was flying now, faster, smoother, and unstoppable. He didn't even pause to check his footing as he pushed off the next roof, already anticipating the perfect landing. Then his stomach lurched. The moment his feet left the roof, he realised three things.
One: He had miscalculated the landing.
Two: There was nothing but empty air beneath him.
Three: Gravity is a harsh mistress.
Nathan tumbled down, screaming and arms flailing, until his face met something hard, round, and completely unyielding. Instead of a soft landing, he crashed into a pile of cabbages, the impact sending a shock through his ribs. For a split second, he was dazed, pain radiating from where a particularly sturdy cabbage had introduced itself to his stomach. The sharp scent of crushed greens filled his nose, and leaves crinkled under his weight as a few unfortunate cabbages exploded beneath him.
"Me cabbages!" A rough voice jolted him from his stunned state. "Get your filthy boots off 'em!"
Nathan barely had time to blink before a pitchfork jabbed dangerously close to his ribs. He scrambled up, wincing as his boot slipped on a rolling cabbage, sending him stumbling sideways. More leafy shreds clung to his clothes, and bits of cabbage stuck to his hair like an ill-advised garnish. "S-Sorry! Sorry!" he sputtered, throwing up his hands in surrender as the farmer, a burly man with sunburnt arms and murder in his eyes, took a menacing step forward.
"I swear, one more bloody kid leaps into my cart, and-"
Nathan didn't stick around to hear the rest. With a hurried bow of apology, he vaulted off the side of the cart, nearly twisting his ankle on another rogue cabbage before dashing off down the street, trailing shredded leaves in his wake. His ribs ached, his pride was bruised, and he would definitely be feeling that impact tomorrow.
And yet, as he ran, a grin tugged at his lips. That fall was worth it. By the time he returned to the guild that evening, his confidence in his newly enhanced mobility was unshakable. He pushed his luck, certainly, but that was part of the thrill. Next time, he'd get it right.
... ... ... ... ...
The road to Uschtenheim was a pleasant one, winding gently through rolling meadows and past scattered clusters of trees. The afternoon sun cast a golden light over the fields, painting the landscape with an idyllic serenity.
After several consecutive action-packed outings recently, Dreisterne agreed to pick an easier job this time, and they took a cart to a local cow farm to fetch their client's order of cheese. As the party rode along, Harald took the opportunity to share his knowledge of their destination, his tone brimming with pride.
"Ah, Uschtenheim! A quaint gem of pastoral charm," he began, gesturing grandly as he spoke. "Established, as records would have it, by a Teutonian yeoman of humble origins, who had the remarkable foresight to cultivate not merely crops, nein, but the noble industry of cow farming. And lo! Over seventy years later, this verdant village stands testament to his vision!"
Keith, lazily holding on to the reins, smirked. "Yeah, you're right. The next time we get ambushed, I'll be sure to stun bandits with a riveting lecture on dairy farming."
"Ach, mein Freund, you jest, but there is value in the pursuit of knowledge," Harald replied with a flourish. "One must be prepared for the unexpected! Did I not say the same before we ventured into Unicorn's Horn? Was I not vindicated?"
Nathan listened quietly. While Harald's theatrical musings often veered into the absurd, he couldn't deny the merit of being curious and prepared. Perhaps it was time for him to adopt a similar mindset. Without the dramatic flair, he mentally added.
Their arrival at Uschtenheim came quicker than expected, and at first glance, the village appeared exactly as Harald had described. The fields were lush, the cattle grazed lazily, and the cottages with their thatched roofs exuded rustic charm. Keith took in a deep breath.
"It's peaceful 'round here, innit mates? Feels like a dream, this does," he said, his voice softened by the atmosphere.
Harald nodded, clearly in agreement. "Indeed, this is the sort of place where one might wish to retire. Of course, assuming one could bear the smell of the cows."
But Nathan wasn't so easily soothed. His sharp eyes caught the subtle disquiet beneath the surface. The villagers they passed moved quickly, heads down, their glances darting toward the party and then away just as fast. There were no sounds of children playing, no laughter or chatter, only the occasional lowing of cows and the shuffle of hurried footsteps. The further they went into the village, the heavier the silence felt.
Nathan's unease steadily intensified when the party reached the cow farm, where the landlady greeted them. She was a teenage girl around his age with a slight build, wavy black hair, and a notable beauty mark on her right cheekbone. She smiled warmly at the party, but the swordsman could see that it didn't reach her eyes, in addition to her tense posture and hands fidgeting at her sides. Still, she did her best to maintain a semblance of hospitality.
"Welcome to the Miles farm, good sirs. You're here for the cheese, right? We've got it all ready for you," she said, her voice steady but tight.
Harald, ever the charmer, offered her a grand bow. "Ja, meine Dame, und what a fine establishment this is! Truly, this village is a testament to Teutonian industriousness."
The girl's attempt at a laugh came out strained, and her gaze flitted nervously past Harald. Nathan followed her eyes and noticed a man approaching. He was presumably a guard of some kind, one lightly armed and armoured, and he stopped beside the girl, his expression hard as he studied the group.
"Everything alright here?" the guard asked, his voice low and clipped.
"Y-yes," the girl replied quickly, her voice faltering. "Just customers picking up their order."
The guard's eyes lingered on the party for a moment before he nodded. "Good. Let me know if you need anything." He turned and walked away, though not without casting a wary glance back over his shoulder.
While the party helped the landlady load the cheeses onto the cart, Nathan's instincts screamed at him. The girl's forced composure, the guard's lingering presence, and the villagers' earlier wariness painted a picture of a community on edge, though the cause remained a mystery. Harald and Keith continued their light-hearted chatter, all the way until they were leaving the farm, blissfully ignorant of the signs of distress that only Nathan seemed to notice.
As they departed, Nathan cast one last glance at the farm. The girl stood by the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, watching them leave with an expression he couldn't quite place, perhaps something between fear and resignation. Nathan's thoughts refused to still as the party steadily rolled back to Trevorton. The odd silence, the nervous glances, the absence of children, all of it nagged at him like an itch he couldn't scratch.
... ... ... ... ...
The warm glow of the guild hall tavern's lanterns cast flickering shadows on the wooden walls as the party gathered around their table for dinner. The clatter of cutlery and the hum of quiet conversations filled the room, but for Dreisterne, a heavy tension hung over their small corner. Nathan stared into his bowl of stew, his brow furrowed in thought. The events of the day in Uschtenheim replayed in his mind: every nervous glance, every forced smile, and most of all, the eerie absence of children. His companions, however, seemed far less troubled.
"I am telling you, Nathan..." Harald began, swirling his mug of ale with an air of exaggerated authority, "These...vague inklings and gut instincts of yours are merely the product of an overactive imagination. Villages can be peculiar places, ja, but not every oddity conceals a grand nefarious plot."
Nathan looked up, his expression tight. "Harald, you're telling me you didn't notice how jumpy everyone was? That girl at the farm looked ready to bolt the moment we stepped near her."
Harald took another sip of ale before responding, his voice carrying the air of a scholar explaining an obvious truth to a stubborn pupil. "Nathan, you are weaving quite the tale from mere wisps of speculation. If the villagers were uneasy, perhaps it was simply because they were not accustomed to armed strangers passing through. Small communities are often wary of outsiders, ja? It does not mean a conspiracy lurks in every shadow."
Nathan's frown deepened. "That girl wasn't just uneasy. She was terrified. And the way that guard watched us? He wasn't just being cautious, he was waiting for something to happen."
Harald let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. "Or perhaps he was merely a diligent man performing his duty. A small village does not have the luxury of an extensive Watch, so naturally, their guards would keep a close eye on visitors. As for the children? There could be a simple explanation. A bad harvest, a sickness, a recent wolf sighting. Any number of things could keep them inside."
Nathan's voice cut through the weary tone. "This isn't just about children playing outside, Harald. The villagers were afraid, perhaps of us or something else entirely. Whatever is going on there, it's not normal. And what if their lives are at risk?"
"And what, pray tell, do you suggest we do about it?" Harald countered, leaning forward. "March back to the village and interrogate the locals like the Watchmen? Or perhaps entangle ourselves in yet another 'mystery' that could land us all in trouble? Nein, mein Freund, this is beyond our scope."
Keith raised an eyebrow. "Blimey, mate. I didn't think I'd see you scarper soon as things got a bit dodgy. You're usually all over this kind of stuff, giving speeches and whatnot."
Harald bristled at the jab but maintained his composure. "There is a time and place for heroics, Keith. We are freelancers, not vigilantes. If there is a problem, the duty lies in the Watchmen to investigate, not us. Do not forget the trouble we have gotten ourselves into back in Dunsgoil Hill for nosing about."
Nathan shook his head, his frustration evident in his voice. "The Watchmen need evidence to act. Right now, all we have are suspicions. If we just leave this alone, what happens to those people if we're right and something terrible is going on?"
The table fell silent for a moment, save for the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl. Keith scratched the back of his head, clearly torn between Harald's practicality and Nathan's sense of duty.
"Look, Nate," Keith finally said, his tone softer. "I get where you're coming from. But what exactly do we do here? We can't just barge in and demand answers. That'll just make 'em clam up even more."
Nathan let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming against the table. "I know. I just... I can't shake the feeling that if we walk away now, we'll regret it later. I don't know what to do yet, but I can't ignore this."
Harald's voice was calm, but there was a note of finality in it. "We cannot solve every village's woes, Nathan. It is not our burden to bear."
Nathan's fingers curled into a fist against the table. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to stay measured. "And what if it was your family in that village? Your loved ones? Would you still call it someone else's burden?"
For the briefest moment, Harald's expression darkened—just a flicker of something buried deep. Then he scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. "You grow sentimental, mein Freund."
The discussion fizzled out after that, with no consensus reached. They ate the rest of their meal in relative silence, the tension lingering like a shadow over their table.
When they retired to their rooms for the night, Nathan lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His gut told him they'd stumbled onto something that couldn't be ignored, but without a plan or even a clear idea of what was wrong, his hands felt tied. For now, all he could do was wait, and hope that he was indeed only being paranoid.
... ... ... ... ...
The clang of metal rang through the workshop, punctuated by the steady hiss of bellows feeding the forge's hungry flames. Sweat slicked Nathan's back as he pushed the wheelbarrow forward, the scent of scorched iron and soot thick in the air. Every lift and heave sent a dull ache creeping into his arms, but he and Keith worked in tandem, their teamwork evident in how they coordinated without needing too many words.
Keith called as he heaved another crate onto his shoulder, his drawl cutting through the din "Blimey, Nate! I reckon this is the sweatiest honest day's work we've done in ages!"
Nathan grunted in agreement as he pushed a heavy wheelbarrow loaded with ingots. "Beats running errands for merchants who underpay."
"I'll overpay you for a job well done, believe you me!" chirped Armando Casios, blacksmith and owner of the business, as he meticulously hammered away on a new weapon. Nathan recognized the blade resembled one of the khanda he saw at the Industani stall the other day, but he didn't get around to questioning the blacksmith about it.
By midday, they'd moved enough stock to warrant a break, and the blacksmith called them over to a modest table in the corner, where a simple meal of bread, cheese, and hearty stew awaited. The trio sat down with Armando and his assistant for the day, his middle son Fernando, enjoying a brief reprieve from the heat of the forge.
Nathan took a sip of the hearty stew, letting the warmth settle in his stomach before he spoke. "So, Uschtenheim..." he started, keeping his tone light. "Do you hear much about it?"
Armando scratched his head. "Not much, I'm afraid. Just a quiet village south of here, isn't it? Heard their cheese is top-notch, though. That's about it."
Fernando, a wiry young man with soot-smudged hands, perked up. "Well, you might get a chance to meet some Uschtenheimers soon enough. They usually show up during the Remembrance Week Festival. Starts this Sunday evening, and lasts the whole week. They've got games, performances, food stalls, you name it."
Nathan's ears perked up, and he quickly pulled out a small notebook, jotting down notes with a focus that made Keith smirk.
"Blimey, mate," Keith teased, leaning back with his bread in hand. "You're turning into H right before my very eyes!"
Nathan shot him a flat look. "It's just useful to keep track of things, that's all."
Keith grinned, leaning closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Next thing we know, you're gonna start waving your hands around while waxing poetic about the pumpkin pasty you just ate!"
The blacksmith and his son burst into laughter as Nathan groaned, narrowing his eyes at his friend in disgust. "I hate you sometimes, Keith."
The mood lightened considerably after that, and the duo had finished their task by mid-afternoon. The blacksmith handed each of them ten silver florins, thanking them for their hard work.
As they stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, Keith stretched with a satisfied sigh. "So Nate, how about a treat? I heard there's some frozen stuff on sale in the square. Tastes like cream and berries, or something."
Nathan raised an eyebrow, curious despite himself. "Frozen cream? Sounds fancy."
Keith smirked. "It is. But you're buying, yeah?"
Nathan chuckled before he immediately deadpanned. "No."
The friends quickly engaged in a game of rock paper scissors, best two out of three. Nathan won, and a begrudging Keith grumbled as he agreed to fork out his coins. "You just got lucky, mate. Don't get used to it."
As they passed Norvinter's shop on their way to the square, they stopped in their tracks at the sight of Harald emerging from the door, talking animatedly. Norvinter, leaning against the doorway with a weary expression, looked up and spotted them.
"Ah, impeccable timing, gentlemen!" the old mage called out. "Take him away, will you? I've had enough of his chatter since morning."
Harald scoffed, tossing his cape over his shoulder with dramatic flair. "Ach, Herr Norvinter, you wound me! I will have you know that my insights are a gift."
Norvinter snorted, arms crossed. "I know. I just thought you could gift them elsewhere right about now."
Keith snickered. "Trouble in paradise, I presume?"
"Nein, nein," Harald said with exaggerated indignation, waving a hand. "It was merely a discussion of arcane import. A spirited exchange, if you will."
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't look like Mr. Norvinter enjoyed it much."
Norvinter let out a chuckle, his gruff voice tinged with amusement. "The man's got talent, but he could talk the ears off a statue. Now go on, all of you. This old man needs a nap."
As they said their goodbyes, Nathan noticed Harald exchanging a knowing glance with the old mage but decided not to press the matter. The trio hurried to the frozen treat stand, but it had sold out by the time they reached the square, much to Keith's dismay.
"Should've seen this coming, to be honest," Keith muttered, kicking a pebble. "The frozen things sell faster than hot cross buns here."
Nathan smirked. "Well, I suppose free things come to those who wait, eh Keith?"
Keith groaned, throwing a punch on Nathan's shoulder as they walked back home. Harald hummed a cheerful tune, his mind clearly elsewhere. Despite the lighthearted end to the day, Nathan couldn't shake the feeling that Harald's knowing glance at Norvinter held more weight than it seemed.
... ... ... ... ...
The flickering light of a single oil lamp cast long, distorted shadows across the room's stone walls, its dim glow barely enough to pierce the gloom. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint tang of iron. In the corner, where the light faltered and the darkness loomed, a figure sat hunched over a wooden table. His face was shrouded in shadow, the glint of his eyes barely visible beneath the wide brim of a hat. Resting by his side was a sword, its craftsmanship exquisite, boasting a mirror-polished steel blade, and a golden crossguard and pommel adorned with delicate filigree that seemed almost out of place in such a grim setting.
The door creaked open, the sound echoing off the cold walls. A teenage girl with wavy black hair entered, her steps hesitant and her breathing shallow. She carried a tray of food and drink, her trembling hands causing the cutlery to clatter softly. Behind her, a man clad in light armour followed, his boots scuffing the stone floor with purposeful strides. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but his posture betrayed no urgency, only practised vigilance.
The pair approached the table, the woman swallowing audibly as she set the tray down. Her eyes darted nervously toward the shadowy figure, whose hands moved with unsettling precision, polishing the blade resting by his side.
"Thank you, dear girl," the figure murmured, his voice smooth and cold, like silk wrapped around steel. He gestured toward the tray without looking up. "Do stay with me. Accompany me for dinner."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her apron, knuckles white. If she spoke too quickly, would he think she was lying? If she took too long, would he grow impatient? Breathe. Steady. Do not shake. "I-I'm sorry, sir. There's still work to-"
"Work, ja?" His hand stilled mid-polish, the lamplight catching the sheen of his blade. "Such a diligent little milkmaid." His tone was gentle, and indulgent, like an adult humouring a child. Then he leaned forward, just enough for the gleam of his eyes to pierce the dim light. "But tell me... what would little Heidi think?"
Her breath hitched as she stared at him, her lips quivering.
"You know Heidi, the baker's daughter? One who looked up to you as her sister? So precious. So innocent. It would be... unthinkable," the figure said slowly, savouring each word, "if anything were to happen to her because her sister forgot her manners toward a guest."
The girl's shoulders slumped in resignation, her gaze falling to the floor. "Y-Yes, sir," she whispered.
"And what news?" the figure asked, his voice light but laced with an undercurrent of menace.
The guard straightened. His voice remained firm, even. Too even. "The village is under control. The people are compliant. No more resistance since last week." He hesitated briefly, glancing at the milkmaid before continuing. "We've also made contact with new friends in town. They're ready and waiting for your orders, mein Herr."
The figure's laugh was low and hollow, a sound that seemed to echo unnaturally in the cramped room. He ran a gloved finger along the edge of his sword, the blade catching the faint light and reflecting it like a sliver of moonlight. "Splendid..." he murmured. "The stage is set, then. How delightful. Such obedient little pawns."
The milkmaid flinched at the word, clutching her apron tighter. The figure's gaze flicked toward her, and though she couldn't see his expression, she felt the weight of his attention like a noose tightening around her neck.
"Fret not, my dear," he said almost kindly. "If you continue to behave... I might even reward you. Wouldn't that be nice?"
She nodded quickly, her head bobbing like a puppet on strings.
"Go on, then," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Bring another plate for yourself. It is rude to let a guest eat alone."
The girl hesitated, her eyes darting toward the guard, who gave her a small nod of encouragement. With a meek curtsy, she left the room, her steps hurried but silent.
The guard shifted, his hand resting firmly on his sword. "What's the next step, sir?"
The shadowy figure leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Patience," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let us savour this calm before the storm. When the time is right, I shall give the signal. And then..." he said, his voice growing sharper, "That wretched Dreisterne will taste pain and humiliation as we end them, and we will carve our mark upon this land." His fingers stilled, resting lightly on his blade's hilt. The oil lamp flickered, casting his face into momentary darkness.
Then, as the flame steadied, so did his smile. Cold. Cruel. Hungry.