They arrived in a small town, much to the delight of the mercenaries. The local Inn couldn't house them all, however, so a few stayed behind to guard their supplies outside the town where they made their camp while ther rest of them had a drink at the tavern. The ones left behind would get to enjoy themselves in the next one, it was promised. 

Anyway, Phaedra wasted no time in acquiring herself a room along with Ruri. Once she was settled, she joined the mercs down at the tavern for a drink. 

Sadly Hadrian was oddly strict and only allowed her either milk or cider, so fuck him. 

Regardless, the milk was good and chilled. 

Though as her ears picked up the conversations around her, her heart chilled too. 

"The entire army was destroyed."

"The man took on ten great demons, and won!"

"How can anyone be that strong? It's insane!" 

Various voices mixed together. One conversation in particular captured her attention.

"I heard that along the way they rested at Brightwater and Baron Caldwell offended him. His castle was brought down the next day."

"Someone who can do that, are they even human themselves?"

"That's nothing."  A man with a rough voice responded. "There's rumors he killed his own men."

"What? That can't be true."

"Just hearsay, but I'm not sure. I saw the Hero passing through  Gregory. He seemed a cold one. He treated even the Princess like a nuisance, much less his other companions."

"About them, it's said two died in the battle."

"Bah, who cares? From what's being reported they were all useless anyway. The Princess was the only one of any help, what with her healing."

"Well, I don't know about those rumors, but a strong, merciless Hero is exactly what we need." A third voice joined in. " I always feared we'd get someone like from the stories. All self-righteous and shit." 

Faye heard the man spit.

She shivered as she listened to their words, because they had no idea how terrible her brother actually is. Her parents' territory was small, but in the past had been terribly plagued by bandits. 

Once, during a carriage ride through the forest to help her sleep, she and Maverick had encountered these bandits. 

Maverick killed them all, then got paranoid. He started hunting down bandits like crazy, to the point where not a single one dared enter their territory again. It only took him three month to accomplish this. Over two hundred bandit dens, destroyed. And honestly, most of that time was spent simply traveling to the next den. 

Maverick didn;t care about whatever riches they found, whoever they may have held captive. He simply slaughtered everyone. If anyone was saved, that was merely a by-product. 

He did the same to criminals. Their territory had become the safest place in any Kingdom, merely for the fact that Maverick's overprotectiveness made him handle all criminals with merciless efficiency. 

Everyone was too scared to commit crime. Even the other small-time Nobles didn't dare break a single law for fear of her brother's visit.

That's why he was so scary: He was an extremist. 

Everyone in their territory feared and respected Maverick in equal measure. Though this reputation didn't exceed their area of influence as he never traveled afar, unwilling to leave Faye's side, if the Princess had done a proper investigation into her brother she'd realize he was the furthest thing from a hero she could imagine.

Faye entirely believed he'd kill the soldiers he fought with if he believed them useless. Or worse, a burden.

Hearing their talks did little for her fears of him finding her. Not able to stand the reminder of her brother's overpoweredness, she paid for her food and drink and left upstairs to her bedroom

***

"You're sure it's them." 

This was no question. It was a statement. Coming from a calm, tranquil voice held by a man. 

But this was no ordinary man. No,he was a different kind. To say he was handsome would be accurate, but beautiful would suit him better. The gentle curves of his face, the sharpness of his eyes, it made for an attractive-looking man. 

That was not why he was different. it was his agelessness. There was just something about him, something not quite of this world. He seemed old and young at the same time, a youthful face with the temperament and aura of a man far more aged. 

This was Cardinal Paiva, the who had received the Goddess' prophesy about the Hero months ago. 

He was also the father of Lord Dalton, the man who currently ran the black market. Of course only a select few knew of this connection. 

Given Dalton's thiry-plus years, Paiva's current youthful appearance left one even more unsettled. 

Those were the current sentiments of the man standing in from of him. 

"Yes," Joseph Hensleigh replied curtly. "We are." 

Paiva stood near a tall window overlooking the Holy city. A seat of major power throughout the entire human domain. 

His white and gold robes hung off his slim figure majestically. He smiled. "The King won't like this. His uncle's death, that won't sit well with him even if they are estranged." 

He referred, of course, to the one called Maurice. Though this was not his true name. Rather, after he was expelled from the castle this was the name he'd chosen to go by. 

The circumstances of his exile were shrouded in mystery, and soon no one even remembered him as it had happened so long ago. 

But Paive knew. 

Of course he did. He orchestrated the affair himself. 

"Who was the other again?"

"Gabriel Fishburne."

"Ah yes. The merchant. A shame, he was useful." But of no consequence. In fact this was a good opportunity. He'd kill the remaining people who knew the man's true face and identity, then replace him. 

Rather than a piece of the pie, Paiva would have it all. 

"Do you know the assailant?"

"Not currently, but we have leads."

"Suspects?"

"Yes. There's three within the vicinity that could have done the job, at least that we know of.  There's only so few who could kill someone like that. Marcus Redfield may have been old, and a drunk, but it takes speed and skill to do to him what his attacker did. So swift and clean, it's not common to have such ability." 

Paiva nodded. He was well aware of Marcus, rather, Maurice's strengths. Though his skills would have dulled, he would not have gone down so easily if it were a normal opponent. They'd have to be fast.

Very fast. 

There were not many folk like that among the degenerates that frequented the black markets.

"Kill them all. It doesn't matter which of them did it. The King will hear of this soon enough, and I would like to gift him their heads."

Why? Because the King was incompetent. It's how Paiva raised him. He'd never find his uncle's killer on his own, and doing so would waste resources. Paiva needed the man's attention on the matter at hand.

After all, though a puppet he was still a King, and Paiva could not control events the same way if the man was distracted by trifling matters such as these. It was inconvenient, let's say.

"Yessir."

Paiva did not bother to respond. He merely closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. 

To him, it was the warmth of his Goddess. 

Do your work well, my dear Hero. Return me to her side.