The northern border - Algrim.

In the shadow of a canvas abode, Drake sat, his countenance serene as yeomen and servants alike busied themselves with the arrangement of the camp. The gentle whinnying of hitched horses and the whispering of leaves in the twilight breeze blew over him. In times like this, melancholy often gripped him, his thoughts drifting to the good days gone by, however fleeting they may have been. Other times he found himself loathing his choices, questioning the essence of his undying allegiance.

Today, his sentiments eluded definition. Behind him, just past the thin veil of linen that was the commander's tent, faint fatigued moans and euphoric grunts echoed, the sounds as obscene as their origins. Contrary to popular belief, his charge had always been a debauched lecher. Lord Sean, or, His Lordship, as the man child preferred to be called these days, only just recently lost all reasons to maintain his noble, ever-righteous facade. Freed of the onus of his mask, the earl's true colours—arrogance and perverse greed—bloomed for all to see.

The sounds climaxed, and shortly thereafter, a dishevelled serving wench emerged from the tent. Her brown locks were bedraggled, attire rumpled as she made her way out. A deep blush adorned her sweat-glistened face, and a faint musk emanated from her form, bearing witness to what just transpired inside. As her gaze met Drake's, though unnoticeable under the morning sun, her blush deepened. Drake stared silently as she bowed her head, mumbling a greeting before hurriedly scuttling out of sight on unsteady feet.

Ser Drake's impassive gaze followed the unfortunate wench, a silent plea uttered for her fate. Alas, it was but a meaningless gesture to one whose fate as another toy to be used, misused and disused was already set in stone. His attention panned instead to the presence remaining inside the tent. Calculating the moments until his lord regained some sort of composure, Drake cleared his throat before speaking.

"Your Lordship," he called, "may I enter?"

"Oh... Drake? Is that you?" queried a weary voice from within.

"Aye, My Liege. 'Tis I."

"Well, come in."

The knight acquiesced. Upon entering, however, a heavy musk assaulted his senses, his features briefly contorting before swiftly returning to neutrality.

"Pardon my unsightliness," the earl offered as Drake settled before him.

"'Tis not mine to intrude, Your Lordship. I ought to beg your forgiveness," Drake replied, meeting the gaze of the handsome, bare-chested blond reclining across from him. "I have fulfilled the task which you entrusted to me earlier."

"And what news do you bring?" inquired Sean, his expression unchanging.

"Thy suspicions were well-founded, My Liege," Drake reported. "Ser Blumun and Ser Ralph conspire. I suspect an attempt upon your life this eve."

The earl smiled, unperturbed. Then, he spoke, stifling a yawn.

"I stand alone now, it seems. None dare challenge their authority save for me. 'Tis fitting that I lead, being of nobler standing and the instigator of our rebellion. Yet the vapid cuckolds have contested me since our crossing. Fools, all of them. And the preparations?"

"All is as you desire, My Liege," Drake assured.

"Good," Sean nodded to himself.

"Now we wait."

Faywyn.

The sun did shine down brightly through clefts in the autumnal canopy, casting a warm and inviting glow upon the landscape. The sky was a clear and profound shade of azure, bereft of any clouds. A gentle zephyr stirred the tall grasses, causing a soft rustling that danced upon the breeze.

As the sun's rays beat down, a small stream gurgled gently, its crystalline waters sparkling in the light. A family of ducks floated lazily upon its surface, occasionally dipping below to catch the passing fry. The air was filled with the sickly-sweet fragrance of wildflowers ablaze with the ripened essence of fall, their wilting petals swaying in the cool morning breeze.

Far off in the distance, the laughter and play of children could be heard, their voices carried upon the wind. Yet, as the days wore on and winter drew nearer, the vibrant hues of the wildflowers faded, and a sense of melancholy settled upon the land.

It was a perfect day, bathed in the crimson light of the rising sun, and all fortunate enough to witness it would cherish the memory forever. Levi knew this with unwavering certainty.

"...Gilbert, my dearest," the earl murmured, tearing his gaze from the picturesque scene to his writhing companion, "Why dost thou vex me so, on such a flawless day?"

With a soft smile, he poured another bowl of water over Gilbert's face, drenching the thin shawl draped upon him. "Why dost thou compel me to inflict pain upon thee?" he continued, gesturing towards Gilbert's bound form as his assistant, Ser Drevos, lifted the wet cloth. Gilbert exhaled a sputtering cough, choking on the sudden influx of oxygen flowing into his lungs.

"Why?" Levi cooed once more, the words rolling off his tongue with a melodious lilt as he turned to face the horrified earl. "Why dost thou wound me so? Why dost thou scorn my battered heart? You have been a poor, poor friend, Gilbert. A friend so lacking! I hear news of my dear Uncle Josh, who arrived at Norcastle to await the winter, yet you failed to inform me. Do not feign surprise at my knowledge; several of your bannermen have turned, seeking clemency in exchange for their allegiance to me. Not all are as obstinate as you are.

"Now, Gilbert, my friend," Levi said, pausing for effect as he casually brushed a dried leaf from the Hera's shoulder, "your worth diminishes with each refusal to cooperate... I assure you, you do not wish to know what fate awaits when I deem you no longer useful. At this juncture, even your staunchest supporters, myself included, struggle to justify your value. Though you may boast noble blood, you must know by now it holds no sway over me. To me, you are nought but a burden upon my time, resources, and patience... A problem. A nuisance to be removed. Thus, I implore you, my friend... You should realize by now, I truly wish you no harm."

Levi gazed down at Gilbert's weary form, his expression soft yet imploring. The Hera scion returned the stare, fear evident in his bloodshot eyes. "I-I know nothing," he stammered in a trembling whisper.

"Now, now, let's not play games," Levi replied. "We both know that to be false. But, I know you're afraid, my friend. Tis' a natural response, of course. But here's the truth. Fear can cloud your judgment. It can make you say things you don't mean or do things you'll regret later. So, let us take a deep breath and begin anew. But be warned, if you dare deceive me or withhold information, the consequences shall be severe. More so than you have ever faced before. Rest assured, I will get what I want from you ... However horrible the means."

"...A-are you going to kill me?"

"Nay! Well... truly? Aye, but not for as long as I still find some value in you."

"...I will-I will talk. Please. Please don't hurt me."

Levi smiled warmly at that. "Good lad…"

Levi gazed fondly at the bound Hera being escorted back to his dungeon cell. This day brought a peculiar delight, for much was accomplished with minimal effort and expense. With a smile, the earl turned to address the men he had invited to witness the interrogation.

"I term it waterboarding," he explained, the playful lilt in his voice gone, replaced by a more serious countenance. "Essentially, water is poured over a cloth covering the face and air passages of the immobilized captive, inducing the sensation of drowning. Unlike other tortures, this method inflicts no physical harm, making it ideal for extracting information from valuable prisoners as you have seen."

"However," Levi continued, "improper execution may lead to lung damage, brain injury from dry drowning, and other physical harm, including broken bones due to resistance against restraints. Therefore, great caution must be exercised when interrogating prized captives. The wet cloth should not cover the prisoner's face for more than thirty seconds, followed by a few breaths of unobstructed air before repeating. The procedure should not exceed twenty minutes in one application, with intervals of rest afterwards. Mishandling could result in the irreversible harm or death of the subject."

Concluding his lesson, Levi surveyed the assembled men. Ser Lancelot stared blankly in Gilbert's direction, a conflicted frown plastered on his face. Ser Carter stood beside him, his arms crossed and gaze pensive. Behind them, Ser Justin just looked on, sombre. Ser Drevos, Levi's assistant for this session, was curiously intrigued; The earl figured it shouldn't have been surprising to find the man engrossed by the sight, after all, one needed to possess a certain sort of … interest to be able to make a living out of being Faywyn's resident king-of-the-ribald-cum-executioner.

"Any questions?" The earl asked.

"That was harrowing, My Lord," Ser Justin remarked with a shiver.

"Yet effective, would you not agree?" Levi countered. "We gathered valuable information today. Information—which I must remind you—might prove to be the difference between life or death at the hands of a vengeful count this coming spring."

Lancelot sighed. "Why not conduct this in the privacy of the dungeons, My Lord? Such matters breed terrible rumours."

"Best the people understand the consequences of turning on a von Grifenburgs lest they repeat that mistake," Levi dismissed. "Sean would have served as an ideal scapegoat, but alas, he remains beyond reach. Hence, the Heras shall have to suffice. Besides, the dungeon was rather unpleasant with its stale air and downright disgusting, grimy walls. And while the torches did provide a bit of light, they did a very poor job at illuminating the cell; it would have been hard to give a proper presentation if you all failed to see what transpired in detail."

The group fell silent. Levi watched them, his expression serene. "I understand your concerns," he said, " but trust in my judgment. Now come, I have something less dreary to show you."

"Where are we headed, my liege?" Ser Justin asked as the group fell into step behind the earl.

"The smithy," Levi answered without looking back.

"Ah, yes that reminds me," the younger knight said as if suddenly remembering something, "the detained merchants have begun acting up again, My Lord. They remain quite persistent in demanding their release."

Levi frowned, slowing his pace. "Did I not instruct negotiation for tax exemption in exchange for cooperation?" he queried Lancelot. "A little patience is not beyond them, surely?"

"No, but apparently, it is damaging to their businesses," Lancelot replied. "You must find time to pacify them, my Lord, lest they begin to avoid trading in Faywyn or Mallowston altogether. That is a possibility I assume you would want to avoid. Especially amidst the burgs' rising expenditure."

Levi exhaled deeply, smothering his frown. "I shall attend to them come today's eve," he decided. "Let us proceed."

Upon stepping into the smithy, Levi's senses were assailed by the intense heat, the continuous crackling of hot coals, and the aroma of burning oils permeating the air. The two-story edifice stood dimly lit, illuminated only by the radiant glow emanating from the massive stone forge. A large anvil dominated the centre of the room surrounded by an assortment of tools strewn haphazardly—tongs, hammers, chisels, and files of all manner of sizes. The walls were lined with shelves containing piles of metal bars, chains, and other raw materials, waiting to be transformed into armour, weapons, and other useful objects. In one corner, was a large leather bellow, which was used to control the temperature of the forge.

A blacksmith, garbed in a heavy leather apron, gauntlets, and a leather cap, moved deftly around the mouth of the forge, working an incandescent piece of metal with precision and skill. The clanging of metal on metal echoed throughout the room as he hammered away. At another anvil nearby, another blacksmith worked tirelessly, his muscles bulging as he hammered a sharpened iron spike onto a wooden pole. A pile of finished pikes rested by his feet, extending out the entrance.

Despite the oppressive heat and cacophony, there existed a certain rhythm and flow to the labour, a sense of purpose and creativity that was apparent in every motion of the blacksmiths' hands. James had long harboured a desire to visit such a place. The first time he did, it turned out to be a fascinating experience, one that offered a glimpse into a centuries-old tradition of metalworking and craftsmanship.

"Blacksmith Braun!" The earl called, shouting over the din. "Blacksmith Braun!" One of the less attentive apprentices noticed Levi's entrance, tapping on the blacksmith's shoulders as he worked the pikes. The man turned around and Levi shot him a friendly wave.

"Good day, M'lord,' the man said, wiping oily grime off his hands with a filthy rag as he paid obeisance, bowing curtly. The man lightly hopped over the pile of pikes extending out of the entrance to join Levi and the others outside.

"Good day, blacksmith," Levi replied, "How is the smithy treating you? Are your fellow craftsmen adjusting to their newest accommodations well enough?"

"It's been hard, M'lord," the man replied with a faint sigh. "Me smithy is stuffed full of men unfamiliar with 'er. All sorts of trouble keep popping up like rats in a granary, but we blacksmiths are the hardy sorts. We'll learn to manage."

Levi fell silent for a moment before responding. "I plan on starting constructing a larger forge early next spring. You reckon you can manage till then?"

"Will do, M'lord. Thank you."

"My steward mentioned you were done with my order?"

"Yes, M'lord," Braun said before turning to one of the younger apprentices, a boy who looked to be about ten to twelve years old. "Lad!" Braun shouted over the noise. "Bring me His Lordship's order! It should be on the third rack by the oil bath!"

The boy scurried away before returning with three bundles. Braun received them before laying them out on a nearby table. Levi and his companions crowded around as the blacksmith unveiled the contents.

"Is that not your father's handgonne?" Lancelot inquired as Levi inspected the weapon for damage.

"Yes," Levi affirmed, scrutinizing the firearm's matchlock mechanism. The gun had a brown lacquered wooden stock and forestock, a reinforced wrought iron barrel, and an iron and brass matchlock mechanism with intricate carvings on the barrel. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to European arquebuses of the 16th century, the gonne looked more like a work of art or a musical instrument than it did a weapon of war.

After several seconds of inspection, Levi confirmed that the weapon was undamaged. The handgonne, which belonged to Aden, was one of the few things of value that escaped Sean's grasp during his insurrection. To Levi though, its research value far exceeded its monetary worth. The earl carefully placed the gun aside, ignoring the silent, but curious glances Lancelot and the rest shot at him, his attention turning towards the other bundle on the table.

Unwrapping the larger one, Levi revealed another gun. A musket, this one slicker and less adorned than the previous weapon. It had a dull appearance with its brown lacquered stock and a wrought-iron, smoothbore barrel. At the end of the gun's barrel, a bayonet was clipped on. A leather carrying strap extended across both ends of the forestock.

"What manner of device is this, My Lord?" Ser Carter asked, staring at the gun in Levi's hand. Without receiving a prompt, the older man reached for the last bundle. Unwrapping it, he saw it contained yet another weapon.

A pistol.

The weapon bore significant similarities to the one Levi held, albeit much shorter, with a smaller barrel width and the absence of a bayonet, butt-stock and carrying strap.

"They are called Flintlocks," Levi replied as he handed the weapon to Lancelot to examine. "The one with you is called a pistol, and I refer to the larger one as a long gun."

Levi pulled out a scroll from his cloak. It contained precise, hand-drawn schematics of the two weapons with individual parts intimately detailed which he compared with the weapon in his hands.

"Five and a half feet long with the bayonet. Weight; ten pounds. The barrel smoothbore with a half-inch diameter…" Levi trailed off as he read from the scroll before turning to face the blacksmith. "Is everything crafted to my specifications?"

"Yes, M'lord," Braun replied.

"You haven't tested it yet?"

"No, M'lord."

"Very well. Shall we?"

"The hand cannon has existed in Udoris for over half a century, has it not?"Levi inquired as he led his retinue toward an open clearing in the forest.

"Aye?" Lancelot replied, a touch puzzled.

"And they have been continually refined and improved upon by the zealotry brought forth by their devastating might," Levi continued. "Yet, alas, it seems the hand cannon has become widespread not as a tool of war, but as a mere trinket to amuse the nobility."

"Well, forsooth, that be for the reason that they are not practical implements of war, My lord," Sir Carter interjected. "They are costly to craft compared to a bow, imprecise at the necessary range, and proven to be a perilous encumbrance in unorganized combat."

The knight cast a glance at Levi, speaking softly. "My liege, though our situation seems dire, especially if Gilbert hath spoken truly afore, I counsel thee to proceed with caution. Many attempts have been made to innovate the use of handgonnes in warfare, yet all have ended in failure. 'Tis a dead-end, my Liege. I would advise you not to invest overmuch in this venture."

Levi glanced at the elder knight before turning to Lancelot. The viscount observed him in silence. Blacksmith Braun followed three paces behind, seemingly heedless of their discourse, whilst Ser Drevos and Justin trailed a few steps further.

"I appreciate thy concern, but a dead-end?" Levi retorted with a barely concealed scoff. "I have perused myriad concepts regarding the effectiveness of muskets and have found that many failed to gain traction due to being overly complex or rigid in structure. They had the right notion, but knew not how to implement it."

"And you do, my Liege?" Sir Carter queried rhetorically, a sceptical brow raised.

"Of a certainty," Levi asserted, "else I would not have broached the matter." Lancelot and Sir Carter exchanged a glance, their doubts evident.

Levi sighed before reaching into his coat for a scroll. "I stumbled upon this in my research into the viability of handgonnes upon the battlefield," Levi explained as he proffered the scroll to Lancelot. "It is a transcription of Ser Kyrillos' treatise on the future of infantry arms and the theoretical efficacy of what he terms 'the countermarch infantry volley formation.'"

"Ser Kyrillos? The Ser Kyrillos? Verum's Iron Gilmore?" Lancelot exclaimed, bewildered, almost snatching the scroll from Levi's hand. "Why? How? When? Where did you get this, My Lord?"

"A merchant from the north," Levi lied, nonchalantly shrugging.

"Indeed?"

Levi nodded.

"Ser Kyrillos had put forth some truly innovative ideas, for which I commend him," Levi remarked, causing the two knights to regard him strangely. "The sole reason they have not gained purchase hitherto is the strict requisites of their implementation. Furthermore, due to the relative tranquillity before the invasion, there was no reason to spur investment in such novelty; thus, Ser Kyrillos' plans to introduce matchlocks into warfare fell stillborn."

"But how are you assured of its viability, My Lord?" Sir Carter asked.

"Astute logical reasoning and a subtle dash of gut instinct."

"You speak with such conviction, My Lord," Lancelot sighed wryly. "Whilst it seems promising on parchment, its execution may prove less facile."

Levi simply waved off the concern. "I am cognizant of that. Yet I believe... Nay, I know this to be the future of warfare."

"...Which does explain your insistence on enlisting peasant soldiers," Sir Carter deduced.

"Aye," Levi affirmed. "My flintlocks would be faster to reload than hand cannons. Their power would devastate more than a longbow. And they are portable and easy to train and equip personnel with. But while these weapons do open a niche unoccupied by any ranged weapon before it, I still acknowledge the risk inherent in building an army solely dependent on this thereon. Hence, I plan on testing this on a small scale first before we see a widespread application. If the trial fails, we shalt lose but aught save some coin and a few superfluous soldiers. But should we succeed..."

Lancelot and Sir Carter exchanged another glance.

Levi smiled. "Clearly, the rewards vastly outweigh the risks. Knowing this, have you still any further objections to proffer on this matter?"

"None," Sir Carter replied, "but you did mention testing?"

"Aye," the earl nodded. "Mine Dearest Count shall arrive come spring with his men as Gilbert had promised. They ought to suffice, no?"

Levi reclined beneath the shadow of a verdant wire tree, observing his military advisors as they handled the flintlocks with a hint of youthful enthusiasm. Although they maintained their dignified bearing, their actions betrayed a sense of eager curiosity under the guise of 'appraising' the weapon's efficacy.

In the midst of a clearing, the men endeavoured to shoot a tree from a distance of a hundred paces with the imprecise firearms. The ground bore witness to their efforts, strewn with the shattered remnants of an iron breastplate, splintered logs, and even the viscera of a slain boar. Despite their fervent attempts, they struggled to identify anything the guns did not obliterate upon impact, much to Levi's amusement.

Amused, Levi idly caressed Lord Aden's handgonne, swiftly abandoned by the elder men in favour of the newer flintlocks. Laying the miniature cannon across his lap, Levi turned to address the blacksmith standing nearby.

"Fine craftsmanship, Blacksmith Braun. Truly commendable."

"Thank you, M'lord."

"Now that you possess experience in crafting such weaponry, how long would it take to fashion another?" Levi inquired.

"...Likely a week, M'lord," the blacksmith replied after a brief pause, "Should I labour alone."

Levi pondered momentarily before nodding. "I shall consult with steward Robert regarding the possibility of employing additional smiths, preferably apprentices, who may be more amenable to the requisite conditions," he proposed, earning an agreeable nod from the blacksmith. "This ought to alleviate the workload and free skilled hands for other endeavours."

After a moment's reflection, Levi retrieved a scroll containing the flintlock schematics. Turning the paper to its blank side, Levi produced a charcoal nib from his pocket, eliciting a quizzical glance from the blacksmith.

Then he began to sketch.

A minute later, the paper bore the outline of an odd-looking device.

"Can you fabricate this?" Levi inquired, extending the sketch to the blacksmith.

"I... I am uncertain, Milord," the blacksmith confessed, endeavouring to decipher the contrivance presented by his lord. "Forgive my ignorance, M'lord, but it appears rather complex to grasp fully. Is it a boiler? A furnace perchance? Certain components elude my comprehension."

"But, I labelled it..." Levi trailed off, realization dawning upon him.

"I do not know how to read, M'lord."

Levi frowned.

"But how then did you fashion the flintlocks without reading the labels?"

"Steward Robert read them for me, sire."

"No, this would not do," Levi declared, shaking his head in dissatisfaction. "Before today's eve, send the brightest of your sons to me. I will see to it that they receive some education. Issues like this cannot impede our progress any further."

"...T-thank you, M'lord," the smith stammered, stunned by Levi's order.

"I believe my task here is complete," Levi remarked casually as he rose to depart. "Shortly, a servant shall arrive with instructions and compensation for your services. Endeavour to satisfy me, Braun, and I shall not forget your dedication. Do you comprehend?"

"Y-yes, M'lord."

The northern border, Algrim.

Baron Blumun caressed the hilt of his blade with taut anticipation, his gaze riddled with a subtle hint of apprehension. "I have a gnawing unease, Ralph," the baron confided in his companion by his side.

"What's the matter, Lord Blumun?" the other baron inquired, a hint of disdain colouring his tone. "Life's flashing before your eyes?"

"Nay," Baron Blumun retorted with a derisive snort. "Yet I fear we may be underestimating the lad more than is prudent."

The younger baron's chuckle at Blumun's unease did little to assuage the elder's disquiet.

"Methinks age has dulled your senses, old man," the younger baron quipped, his laughter lingering. "We lurk beneath the shroud of night, armed with our best knights, not to confront Aden in the open fray but to slay his treacherous offspring in his slumber. If you lack the balls to face a sleeping cub with darkness on our side, what emboldened you to pilfer from the Dark Gryphon himself?"

Blumun seethed silently as he weighed the baron's words. Though they stung, there lingered a kernel of truth. Perhaps he erred on the side of excessive caution. With a resigned sigh, he rubbed his face, fingers tracing the lines of his grizzled beard as they descended. Turning to face the younger baron, who still chortled lightly. A flicker of murderous intent flashed in the count's eyes before he concealed it.

"Not now," Blumun muttered to himself, blinking as he wrestled his emotions under control, his countenance smoothing into an inscrutable mask.

"I deem it time to proceed," Lord Ralph declared, casting his gaze toward the waning moon in the night sky. Blumun followed suit, observing the crescent's descent toward the horizon.

"Aye."

The group departed from their encampment, traversing a circuitous path toward Sean's location. Upon reaching the Earl's camp, they observed his guards for a few minutes, noting their alert yet lax demeanour.

Three dead guards later, they stood outside Sean's tent, encircling it. Baron Blumun raised the tent flap, brandishing his dagger before swiftly plunging it into the chest of the figure within. A sigh of relief escaped Blumun as he restrained and muffled the earl thrashing against him, warm blood spurting upwards, wetting his hands, thighs and torso.

The deed was done.

'Twas not as challenging as he feared; perchance he was overcautious.

Emerging from the tent, Blumun's hand remained poised on his sword's hilt, his gaze wary as it met Ralph's calm stare.

"Well?" the other baron inquired.

"'Tis done," Blumun replied, breaking their gaze. "Remove the body," he ordered calmly, making way for his knights to retrieve the earl's corpse. Yet, Blumun's motion ceased as he caught sight of the body by his feet. His gaze snapped to Ralph's the next moment as he drew his sword.

"What treachery is this, Blumun?" Ralph snarled, recoiling as he also unsheathed his sword.

"I should be asking you that, you conniving dog," Blumun growled, kicking the corpse of the manservant by his feet. "Where is Sean?"

"What―" Ralph began just as an arrow punctured the side of his skull, silencing him forever. Baron Ralph and six of the knights that accompanied them fell to the ground with dull thuds.

Blumun froze as something warm trickled down his neck. He reached for the side of his scalp and his gloved hand came away bloody. The baron swivelled on the ball of his feet as he heard the sound of footsteps echo from the shadowy undergrowth. From the darkness, over a dozen armed figures materialised, surrounding him.

Leading the group was Sean von Grifenburg with his assistant, Ser Drake Faywater, in tow two steps behind. With his men dead, and his ally now deceased, Blumun came to understand he had made a rather grievous lapse in judgement.

Tis no gryphon cub, he thought grimly, his gaze meeting Sean's serpentine one.

Earlier.

Enveloped in an eerie stillness, the earl stared at his tent in the distance, nestled within the effective range of his longbow. His figure knelt under the cloak of the moonless night, senses attuned to the occasional anxious whinnying of horses in the distance. Even the beasts, clueless as they were, seemed to sense the treacherous machinations unfolding in the shadows.

Yet, Sean remained patient, awaiting his quarry with a tranquil demeanour. Then, a sardonic smile tugged at the corners of his lips as ten cloaked figures emerged from the darkness. The aspiring assassins slinked towards his tent with what he assumed they imagined was predatory grace.

Amused, Sean observed as one assailant entered the tent, followed by a muffled scream. With a consenting nod to Drake, who crouched at his side, the earl turned back toward the campsite. The hunt was underway. Drawing his bow with a steady hand, he took aim, a small smile gracing his lips as the assailants dragged a corpse from the tent, sparking confusion and panic.

A resonant twang, followed by a dozen more, and Sean released his grip, the arrow he drew finding its mark. His target, along with six others, fell lifeless, pierced by shafts of death. Discarding his bow, Sean's smile softened as he observed the survivors' panic. Drawing his sword, he strode into the open, addressing his would-be assassins with a hint of condescension.

"Baron Blumun, you should have told me you were going to stop over."

The cornered baron and what remained of his cohorts turned to face Sean. "You bloody son of a whore," the baron growled, pointing his sword at Sean. The man could not hide his fear from Sean's experienced eyes. Stopping just a few metres away from the group with his men moving to cut off the baron's escape route, Sean glanced downwards towards the corpses on the floor.

"Oh! How terrible! It appears the venerable Baron Ralph is no longer with us," the earl sighed theatrically as he kicked the corpse of a blond-haired man. Sean sighed again, cocking his head as he turned to face Blumun. "You should still have informed me before you visited, and at such a time as well? I could have at least prepared a proper reception for your honourable selves."

"Cut the crap, you slimy snake! I should have expected at least this much from a slippery vermin such as yourself, the baron spat, his words dripping venom.

"And here I was thinking we could both have a civil conversation, but I guess I was wrong," Sean replied. He sighed once more, gesturing dramatically with his free hand. He smiled as he watched the rest of their equally mutinous entourage awaken from their slumber and converge to witness the scene. The baron noticed the men gather as well but did nothing to call out to them or request their aid, readying his blade for a fight to the death; even he knew no one would help him now.

His fate was sealed.

Sensing the baron's resolve, Sean guffawed, raising his blade as bloodlust reignited in his veins.

"Kill them!" he bellowed, charging towards the baron.