I strode into the hall of Bicman and let the doors close behind me without a glance back.

  My expression stayed carefully blank as my eyes found the man sitting in my old chair—the one I had used to pass judgment. I shivered to think how this man would wield the authority that that chair held. The chair looked smaller with him in it. I imagined it resented the downgrade.

  Baron Weston Yarbeth was best described as soft. Plump cheeks sagged around a mouth permanently puckered in mild displeasure. His beady eyes tracked me with the slow confidence of someone used to rooms bending around him. What little remained of his black hair had surrendered to gray, hanging in thin, wispy strands that clung to his scalp like cobwebs.

  Next to him sat his wife.

  She was all sharp angles and hollow spaces—a beanpole wrapped in expensive fabric. Her face was gaunt to the point of caricature, cheekbones jutting like blades beneath pale skin. She looked as though she had stepped straight out of a Tim Burton film, all severity and quiet disdain. The way her fingers rested together in her lap, knuckles white, made it clear she judged the world harshly and found it wanting.

  Unpleasant didn’t begin to cover it.

  Behind them stood three men—his sons. All adults. All married as I had learned earlier. None with wives or children in attendance. That absence was not an accident; it was a statement. These men were here to represent the strength of Yarbeth, not to introduce themselves to their new lord.

  Each of them wore arrogance like tailored cloth. Straight-backed, chins lifted just a touch too high, hands clasped behind their backs as though they were here to receive a petitioner.

  I crossed the threshold fully, boots echoing once against the stone floor, and only then did the baron and his wife rise from their seats.

  The steward stepped forward, voice swelling with rehearsed importance, and announced me as though reading from a script he’d practiced in a mirror.

  “May I present Count Bicman of North Cove.”

  The words scraped at me. Not the title—the tone. Like the name itself was a courtesy, not a fact.

  They bowed.

  Each to the appropriate depth. Precise. Polished. Empty.

  I inclined my head in return, no more and no less than etiquette demanded. Without a single word spoken, we had expressed our feelings about the others in the room.

  Let them think me polite. Let them think me restrained.

  There would be time later to show them exactly what I thought of unpleasant people sitting in judgment chairs that were never meant to hold them.

  Benjamin had returned to me after attempting to review current affairs with the new steward. According to him, the man had practically kicked him out after less than a day, declaring that he had no need for a boy who could barely see in front of his face, telling him how to do his job.

  That alone told me more than a week of reports ever could.

  Benjamin and I had discussed several approaches to handling the Yarbeth family. In my old world, I had once taken a course called Business in a Box, where they broke leadership down into three broad styles: autocratic, democratic, and laissez-faire. Autocratic seized control. Democratic invited discussion. Laissez-faire stepped back and let subordinates hang themselves with their own rope.

  We considered the last option briefly—letting Weston believe he had free rein, lowering his guard until he made a mistake large enough to trap him cleanly. In the end, we discarded the idea. Once control was surrendered, it would be harder to reclaim, and more importantly, I did not trust what he might do to my people in the meantime.

  No. This required a hammer. Immediately.

  “Welcome to my barony, Count Bicman,” Baron Weston said at last, his voice smooth and courteous in the way only practiced hostility could be. “I hope your travels were pleasant.”

  “I thank you, Baron,” I replied evenly. “They were indeed pleasant.” My eyes flicked briefly to the long table behind him, already set and waiting. “I see preparations have been made. Let us continue in a more relaxed manner over a meal.”

  I paused, just long enough for him to think he had reclaimed the initiative.

  “Actually,” I added mildly, “let us first settle the matter of oaths of fealty. Do you wish to speak for your whole family?”

  There it was—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A crack in the mask. He had planned to posture first. Introductions. Formalities. Perhaps even letting the smell of food hang in the air while he spoke at length, asserting himself as master of the house.

  Instead, I had walked into his hall, cut past every courtesy, and told him it was time to kneel.

  His wife’s face flushed a sharp, offended red. Her lips parted as if she meant to interject.

  Weston recovered before she could embarrass him and cut her off.

  “As you wish, my lord,” he said through teeth that did not quite unclench.

  I turned my gaze slightly, letting it settle briefly, but deliberately, on his wife before returning it to him. “Will you be speaking for your family,” I asked, “or will each of them swear individually?”

  The question carried its own quiet insult. Either he controlled his house, or he did not.

  I watched closely to see which answer he chose.

  For the first time since I entered the hall, color crept into his face. Not anger—not yet—but a faint, embarrassed pink that spread across his cheeks.

  “I will be speaking for my family,” Weston said.

  “Then come forward,” I replied calmly. “And kneel.”

  The order landed heavy, heavier than any shouted command.

  He pushed himself up from the chair with visible effort, the wood giving a faint creak of protest as his weight shifted. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he might pretend not to hear me—if pride might make him test the line.

  Instead, he took a single step forward.

  Then another.

  And finally, he dropped to one knee. He probably hadn't knelt before anyone in a long time unless he visited Kimton.

  I stepped closer, just enough that he had to tilt his head upward to meet my gaze.

  “Do you, Baron Weston Yarbeth,” I said evenly, my voice carrying clearly through the hall, “promise to act with integrity and honesty in your duty? Do you swear to uphold the laws of the kingdom, the dukedom, and the county in which your barony resides?”

  “I so swear,” he said.

  That alone would have satisfied tradition.

  I did not stop.

  “Do you swear,” I continued, “to uplift and sustain the people of Bicman—ruling justly for all your days in strict accordance with the law, and giving them all the respect and courtesy that the law demands?”

  The hall went still.

  That line was not part of the oath. Everyone present knew it. I saw it in the stiffening of his sons’ shoulders, in the way his wife’s hands clenched in her lap.

  Reports had already reached me—of sharp words, of contempt disguised as efficiency, of a man who viewed people as obstacles rather than subjects. This was not ritual. It was restraint, laid carefully around his neck.

  If the baron or his men had actually hurt my people in any way, I might not have been able to restrain myself from using actual rope. If Kylie hadn't backed down when the guards threatened her and the children, I might have had to test my commitment to that thought.

  Silence stretched.

  Then, at last, Weston said, “I so swear.”

  I smiled.

  “Wonderful,” I said pleasantly. “Let us eat.”

  Servants moved at once, relief rippling through the room as the tension broke and the table was approached.

  It did not take long into the meal before the attacks began.

  “This manor looks well-maintained,” Weston said after only a few bites, his tone conversational and dismissive all at once, “but it is so small. At first, I did not even realize it was where the Bicmans lived.”

  I set my utensils down carefully before answering.

  “That it is,” I said mildly. “I considered building something more grand, like the estates in Malcomp. But this place was part of my ancestry—the place where I grew up. I could not bring myself to tear it down.”

  The words were chosen with care.

  I caught the gleam in his eyes and smiled inwardly. He would hear what he wanted to hear, a poor kid trying to boast about his ability to build a better home without actually having the means.

  An emotional attachment to the home I grew up in. In a way that was true but this had not been the home I grew up in.

  Weston took the bait.

  “Well,” he said, straightening slightly, satisfaction creeping into his voice, “it is fortunate that I am of the House of Yarbeth. We have the finest builders in Kimton at our disposal. I will be commissioning my uncle to construct a proper manor here in Bicman.”

  He gestured vaguely, as if the hall itself were already rubble in his mind.

  His wife inclined her head approvingly.

  “We may even keep this one,” he added, “for storing livestock.”

  Low blow, Dude.

  One of the sons snorted softly before catching himself, earning a sharp glance from his mother.

  There wasn’t much I could do about it. It was his barony now, and within the bounds of law he could build whatever monument to his own vanity he pleased. I could likely prevent him from tearing the old manor down entirely, but whether I could forbid him from turning it into a glorified barn was less certain. That would require a careful reading of the statutes, and Benjamin’s input.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Not that it truly mattered.

  Why stop him from wasting coin, time, and pride acting like a fool?

  I let a hint of defensiveness seep into my voice, just enough to sell the lie. “You may do as you wish. I have been elevated, and I will not cling to the past.”

  The words did exactly what I hoped they would. Weston heard surrender.

  If he wished to pour his family’s resources into a new manor, let him. Perhaps he would even raise a proper castle over Bicman, one I could someday grant to the man who replaced him when this was all over.

  “There is also the matter of that hill,” the baroness said suddenly, lifting her chin and fixing me with a narrow, appraising stare, her voice thin and sharp enough to cut. “The one with the monument to peasants.”

  “Valor Hill,” I replied at once, the edge in my voice unmistakable. “It is not a monument to peasants. It is for all those who have given their lives for North Cove.”

  She sniffed, a delicate sound full of contempt. Before she could speak again, Weston leaned forward, his mouth twisting.

  “I forget,” he said, disgust plain on his face, “that only recently this barony gained people who were more than peasants. But you cannot honestly suggest that peasants should be buried beside their betters.”

  I did not raise my voice. I did not need to.

  “It will be up to the family of the deceased to determine where their dead are laid,” I said evenly. “Valor Hill is a place of honor. It has nothing to do with station, and everything to do with service to the kingdom. The first two interred there earned their place by saving the life of a noble.”

  The explanation fell on deaf ears. I could see it in their eyes. They could not comprehend the idea.

  The baroness smiled then, a thin, knowing smile. “It is one of the most beautiful locations in the village,” she said, as though humoring a child. “Such a place deserves a more fitting purpose. In Kimton, the latest fashion among the great houses is the use of labyrinth gardens. Hedge mazes.”

  She tilted her head slightly, watching for my reaction, clearly pleased with herself. “Perhaps you have not heard of them.”

  I very nearly laughed.

  “On the contrary,” I said lightly. “I am quite familiar with hedge mazes. In fact, I assisted Baron Sophis in designing his.”

  The reaction was immediate.

  “I did not realize you were acquainted with Baron Sophis,” the baroness said, genuine shock slipping through her composure.

  “Yes,” I replied pleasantly. “I had to trade ideas for information. Getting anything useful out of the man is like trying to squeeze blood from a stone.”

  I took a sip of water before continuing, as if discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “The concept and layout of his hedge maze came from me. So did the plans for his sawmill—it is modeled after my original design. In return for my assistance, he will be sending Starlight Mars once Cove Town has suitable land for grazing.”

  I watched Weston carefully as I spoke. He struggled not to look impressed, his eyes flicking away a fraction too late.

  “I will admit,” he said slowly, “I was surprised when I heard you had developed a water-powered device capable of sawing timber. I have not yet had the opportunity to inspect it myself. You say Baron Sophis has one?”

  “He does,” I confirmed.

  Weston nodded, thoughtful. “Then I will have to see whether my father is aware of this.”

  I held my expression steady and my laughter firmly in check.

  Baron Sophis was almost certainly already selling the designs. A man like him would have begun circulating copies the moment Weston Yarbeth departed for Bicman. He is shrewd enough to know that it would leak to Count Yarbeth as soon as the new baron arrived here. Of course, spies might have already released the information.

  I set my cup down with deliberate care. “We should return to the matter at hand.”

  The room stilled again.

  “I forbid the destruction of sacred county land,” I said calmly, letting each word settle. “Valor Hill will not be defiled, nor will those who gave their lives for this county be dishonored. As long as my family rules North Cove, the monument will stand.”

  I folded my hands together. “An addendum will be entered into county law stating that all county monuments and public facilities may not be removed or altered without explicit permission. I trust you and your family have familiarized yourselves with the current laws I requested you review. Ignorance of the law is no defense for violating it.”

  The baron’s face soured, the faint politeness curdling into resentment.

  His eldest son had less discipline.

  “Do you believe yourself wiser than the King or the Duke?” he demanded, voice sharp with offense. “Do they even know you are changing the laws of the land?”

  I did not look at him immediately.

  “Hold your tongue,” I said at last, eyes still on his father. “Heir of a baron.”

  That earned his attention.

  “It is obvious by your statement that you have not taken the time to familiarize yourself with the laws,” I continued evenly. “If you had, you would know that county statutes exist to strengthen and clarify the laws of the kingdom—not to contradict them. They close loopholes an unjust ruler might otherwise exploit to the detriment of the people or the land.”

  The young man flushed. “Are you accusing us of dishonorable intentions?” he blustered.

  I leaned back in my chair, deliberately relaxed, letting the accusation fall flat.

  “Reign in your son, Baron,” I said coolly, “or I will do so myself.”

  Only then did I turn my gaze fully on the heir.

  “Boy,” I said, my tone mild, almost bored, “do you imagine your family is the only responsibility I carry? I rule more than one barony—and more than barons. The king's laws apply to everyone in the Kingdom. I have simply defined them in greater detail so that those i rule over may be better rulers. If you are unfamiliar with the law, have it read to you.”

  The insult struck home.

  His mouth snapped shut, and this time it stayed that way. Calling a man at least a decade my senior a boy was deliberate. A reminder—to him, and to everyone watching—that rank, not age, dictated who spoke and who listened. And hinting that he could not read was icing on the cake.

  “We are not starting off well, my Count,” Weston said at last, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. His tone softened, carefully measured. “Do you not think it would be best if we began our relationship on a better foot?”

  I let out a short, humorless snort. “Did you want me to ignore the fact that your father is actively attempting to seize my lands?”

  The effect was immediate.

  A serving girl near the wall went rigid, eyes wide.

  The room went dead quiet. Even the servants froze where they stood. You could have heard a pin drop on the stone floor.

  Their expressions told me everything. They had truly believed I was ignorant. Or timid. Or too provincial to notice the shape of the net being drawn around me.

  “Do not insult me by pretending I wouldn’t know,” I continued calmly, my voice low but carrying. “He was not subtle. All three of my barons were sent from House Yarbeth.”

  I let my gaze move slowly from Weston, to his wife, to his sons.

  The eldest son’s jaw tightened visibly, a flash of surprise slipping through his practiced composure before he forced it back down.

  The youngest shifted in his seat, boots scraping faintly against the stone as his confidence faltered for the first time.

  “Or did you assume I would simply ignore it?” I asked. “That I would be too afraid to call him out on it?”

  The baroness’s lips thinned, a look of anoyance on her face.

  I leaned back slightly, as if merely curious. “These are the games nobles play. Always reaching. Always grasping for more land.”

  My eyes returned to Weston.

  “The only question I have for you,” I said, feigning ignorance I did not possess, “is why.”

  There was only silence in the hall, but that was fine. I already had a clear idea of what they were after.

  Bicman had never been the prize.

  The pass through the mountains had. And the wealth of the Artanes that lay beyond.

  “So what if my father seeks to expand his influence?” Weston said at last, forcing his shoulders back as though posture alone might restore balance. “Land is power. It always has been. I already hold prosperous lands in the south, and if I prove myself here, more will follow. This territory gives my father access to a broader stretch of the mountains—a resource you have never had the population to fully exploit.”

  I chuckled softly, unable to stop myself. “Yes. It makes perfect sense.”

  I leaned forward just enough to keep him listening.

  “At least, it would—if not for a few inconvenient facts. First, why send a son at all? And why the second son? You already possess land. Your father could have sent a lesser man, someone expendable.”

  I let the implication breathe.

  “Unless,” I continued, “he required someone absolutely loyal. Someone who could keep a secret.”

  Weston’s jaw tightened.

  “What secret,” I asked mildly, “does Bicman hold?”

  I did not wait for an answer.

  “There is also the matter of manpower. The reports I received show you brought farmers. No miners. If the mountains were truly the goal, one would expect picks and carts to follow. It suggests that even Count Yarbeth is short on men he trusts.”

  “My father commands the largest mining concern in Kimton,” Weston snapped. “He is the only count permitted to mint gold. His wealth exceeds that of half the counts combined.”

  “Speaking of wealth,” I said, tilting my head, “I sometimes wonder how much silver it would take to convince the Rabiss to raid my lands. The profit would be mediocre at best… unless the goal were not profit at all.”

  Weston’s chair scraped as he shifted. “Are you accusing my father of—”

  I raised a hand, stopping him mid-breath. “Of course not. It could have been Turabe. Or any number of interested parties.”

  I met his eyes again. “Still, what I know may be more than your father expects. And so I would ask you to pass along a message.”

  My voice remained pleasant.

  “He should be more careful with the men he places in baronies he acquires. Plimgus was careless with information. Information and documents that will survive even if I am gone. Documents a king's Messenger might find interesting.”

  I paused, just long enough.

  “That may be why his son and wife were so eager to see him gone.”

  The color drained from the faces at the table.

  I stood, smoothing my coat. “I believe that concludes our meal. I have lost my appetite.”

  I inclined my head politely. “If I depart now, I can inspect my works in Kerisi before leaving for North Point at dawn. Our troops gather there in two days, and it would be improper not to see them off.”

  I let the moment breathe, then softened my tone just enough to be heard as conciliatory.

  “Of course, the past is the past. My family and I never quite saw eye to eye,” I said. “Perhaps your father and I can come to some sort of agreement.”

  Then I let the warmth drain away.

  “But understand this,” I continued calmly. “These are my lands. My people. And they will remain so.”

  With that, I turned and walked away.

  Behind me lay a stirred nest of hornets—but they would think twice before striking. I had made certain they understood that I held information that would bring down a king's Messenger.

  I had to admit.

  It was rather satisfying.

  John of the Mitt Trading House was, by nature, a patient man.

  That patience had been ground thin in Vaspar.

  It had taken three days just to leave the city—three days of delays, questions, and thinly veiled intimidation. The moment he mentioned North Cove to the dockmaster, everything had changed. His name had been written down. His papers had been checked twice. Then again. He, his sister Sherry, and little Abby were detained and passed from one official to another like an unwanted package.

  Three separate interrogations.

  Three separate men, all asking the same questions with the same dull smiles.

  And each time, the expectation had been clear.

  A bribe would make this go away.

  John refused every one of them.

  Paying petty extortionists offended him on a professional level. Bribes were tools of trade, and only worth using when profit justified the expense. He wasn’t trading goods this trip. There was no ledger where he could write this off. So he held his ground, smiled politely, and endured.

  It would have been tolerable—barely—if not for Sherry.

  Every time she opened her mouth, John had to scramble to smooth things over. She challenged questions. She scoffed at delays. She had an uncanny talent for sounding both beligerant and insulting at the same time. By the second day, John had stopped wondering if she would make things worse and started calculating how soon they would kill her.

  He had thought the ship ride from Mitt was unpleasant.

  Being trapped in Vaspar with her was worse.

  He wasn’t sure he would ever forgive his wife for insisting Sherry accompany him “for Abby’s sake.”

  By the time they finally escaped the city, John’s patience was gone—and his suspicions were confirmed.

  A single day of quiet digging had been enough.

  The new count was harassing anyone bound for North Cove. Caravans were being turned back. Peasants who heard of North Cove's new prosperity and sought better lives were being attacked. Entire roads were suddenly “unsafe.” Everyone blamed bandits—fees demanded, threats made, travelers warned away—but no one actually believed it.

  This sort of thing never lasted long. Nobles were expected to keep their roads clear. A count or baron who allowed banditry damaged his standing, and one who enabled it risked far worse. The title “robber baron” was not an insult—it was a legal category, and one that could end with a noose.

  Still, reputations took time to crack.

  So John adjusted.

  They left Vaspar through a lesser-used gate and turned toward Yarbeth County instead. He brought Sherry and Abby only as far as a modest border town—large enough to be safe, dull enough not to attract notice. Convincing Sherry to stay had taken nearly an hour, and every ounce of patience he had left.

  “The roads aren’t safe,” he told her firmly. “Not for Abby. I’ll return with soldiers from North Cove. Then we’ll travel openly.”

  She had argued. He had held his ground.

  Eventually, she relented.

  John doubled back alone.

  After an hour, he left the road entirely, guiding his rented horse into the trees. The forest swallowed him quickly, branches dripping with rain and old leaves muffling sound. It was slower going, but quieter—and Amos Bicman had better appreciate the effort.

  John wasn’t merely delivering news.

  He was stealing ideas and positioning himself for a trade deal that would be lucrative enough to justify every bruise and delay. Half a day later, soaked and irritated, he emerged onto a narrow road and followed it northwest until it merged with the North Road.

  That was when the rain began in earnest.

  Cold. Heavy. Relentless.

  Still, he pressed on, cloak pulled tight, deciding the weather worked in his favor. With luck, whoever was enforcing the count’s will would be huddled beside a fire instead of patrolling in this miserable downpour.

  He was halfway through congratulating himself on that thought when he heard the whistle.

  A sharp sound—too fast to be wind.

  Then a dull thunk struck the rump of his horse.

  The animal screamed, reared, and collapsed sideways in a flailing mess of panic and pain. John had just enough time to curse before he was thrown hard onto his back, breath exploding from his lungs.

  The world spun.

  Rain smeared the sky into a gray blur as pain radiated from the back of his skull. Shapes moved above him—dark, hooded, faceless against the rain.

  “This looks like our guy,” one of them said calmly.

  Boots splashed closer.

  “Go get his horse,” the voice continued. “The rest of you know what to do.”

  John tried to move.

  Tried to shout.

  Pain answered instead.

  The first blow landed, and then the world narrowed to nothing else.