Hector Yarbeth, son of Weston Yarbeth

  He paced the narrow hall like a caged animal, boots striking the stone with clipped irritation. This wretched manor was enough to drive any sane man mad. There was nothing to do here—no gatherings, no music halls, no refined company. His wife was six months pregnant, and there was not a single pleasure district in the entire county where a man could unwind.

  “You need to come hunting with me, brother,” Quinton drawled from a chair he’d half-collapsed into. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone,” Hector snapped. “I want to be in a pleasure district in Easton.”

  Quinton rolled his eyes. “You are truly obsessed. Invite one of the maids if you need to… act like an animal.”

  Hector ignored the jab. “I would—if Father had brought any worth inviting. I swear he did it intentionally.”

  “Well… there are those odd people near Cofi,” Quinton said thoughtfully.

  “The savages?” Hector scoffed.

  “I hear they have hair the color of gold,” Quinton mused, “or like a flame.”

  Hector paused. He remembered the tales—strange reclusive people with odd customs, rarely seen outside their stone-walled villages. Perhaps it was worth checking. It was only a couple of hours’ ride, and if nothing else, it would ease his mind.

  And even if the count was a fool, he was at least a fool who built very good roads.

  The wind tugged sharply at Hector’s cloak as he rode, but the day was pleasant. Fields rolled out on either side—healthy, vigorous, lush with green. As good as any field in Yarbeth. The young greens were beginning to grow their stalks; barley and oats were thick and strong. Beans and root crops he knew less about, but even those seemed to be growing well. He didn't understand why people had complained about these lands. Probably to avoid taxes.

  A pity they had ruined so many fields by overplanting. Any fool knew you let land lie fallow every other year. Bicman had insisted on a third-year rotation, switching crops instead. A ridiculous notion. Father would fix that nonsense next year.

  As Hector approached the village of Karr, he slowed. The place was… fortified. Stone walls rose solid and imposing, thick enough to withstand a siege. Far sturdier than any village in Yarbeth. Strange people, these Karr.

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  He didn’t need to go inside to find what he sought. A handful of women were working the fields outside—three young, the rest older. They all stood quickly when he rode up, brushing the dirt from their well-made clothing. Their dyes were rich. Their stitching neat. For “savages,” they dressed better than many townsfolk.

  But it was their hair that stole his attention—burning red, bundled tightly into buns, held with hair sticks, though a few fiery strands escaped and danced around their faces like little wisps of flames.

  And the younger ones… well, they were certainly pleasing enough.

  Hector’s gaze settled on one woman, early twenties, strong posture, striking in a way the others were not.

  “You,” he commanded, pointing with a gloved hand. “I have come to invite you to the manor this evening. To keep me company.”

  No blush. No shock. No coyness. Just a level, unflinching stare.

  “You seek to bed me?” she asked flatly.

  Hector recoiled. The bluntness. The complete lack of decorum. It was obvious why these people avoided society—no refinement at all.

  But he recovered quickly, offering his most charming smile.

  “Yes. I find you attractive. And my wife is indisposed.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she replied, “but I must decline. It is against the custom of our people. The goddess Yaris and her husband Henlic, first of the gods to institute marriage, decreed that intimacy is for the married alone. Thus it has been, and thus it will be.”

  Her calm words poured oil on the fire of his irritation.

  “You would deny your lord?” he snapped.

  “I would deny any man, no matter their station—as would any woman of the Karr.”

  His temper spiked. “And what if I insist?”

  She didn’t flinch.

  “Then you would be breaking the law of both Falmoren and North Cove,” she said. “The law of Falmoren states no person may be taken without consent. The lord of this land has expanded that law further. The punishment is fine and immediate banishment. If the rape leads to death, the criminal pays with their life.”

  Hector’s vision tinged red.

  “You don’t actually think these rules apply to me?” he shouted.

  “It has already been proven,” she said calmly. “A noble was banished after forcing himself upon a girl in Melnon.”

  “I am the son of a baron.”

  “I suggest you take up your concern about how the law applies to you with the Descended—Count Bicman. I would advise you not to act rashly. It would be… embarrassing… for a family who has just sworn obedience to their lord to immediately break his laws.”

  Her tone remained cool and unshaken.

  Hector ground his teeth. Lord Bicman would use any excuse to humiliate the House of Yarbeth. But he could not—would not—let this insult stand.

  “We shall see.”

  He turned sharply, riding off with the two guards he’d brought. Dust kicked up behind them.

  Neither he nor the guards noticed the subtle movement behind them—one of the young women adjusting her hair, letting a long red strand fall free. As she did, she slid a pair of metal hair sticks with wooden knobs down her sleeve, eyes tracking Hector’s retreat.

  When they were finally out of earshot, Hector leaned toward the closest guard.

  “Burn this field tonight,” he ordered. “Bring oil if you must. I want them to remember their place.”

  That night A sliver of Karr’s fields burned under the dark sky. Flames hissed as they chewed through wheat and dry grass.

  And three soldiers of the House of Yarbeth… vanished. No trace would be found.