The marble staircase began abruptly — rising straight from the parched earth, packed hard by thousands of feet. No railings, no patterns: smooth stone, dazzling white in the sun and strangely cold amidst the scorching sand. At its foot stood two men. A stocky, middle-aged man in a black judge's robe, and beside him, a young bodyguard whose armor, still not molded to his form, faintly smelled of fresh, tanned leather.

  A few dozen meters before them, the rickety barracks of the Lower Quarter began. Gray buildings loomed sullenly over the narrow streets, huddling together as if seeking shelter from the merciless sun. In their shadows, dozens of people crowded, their heavy gazes sinking into the strangers like invisible knives. Some watched with lazy curiosity, others with envy, but most with a hostility they were careful to hide.

  The Judge, clutching a scroll tightly, seemed not to notice them at all. He gazed thoughtfully at his feet, at the cracks between the stones, at the emblem of the Central Camp adorning the middle of each step, and occasionally, as if with hope, raised his eyes upward, where the staircase vanished into the light. The bodyguard, in contrast, never took his eyes off the poor. His right hand rested demonstratively on the hilt of the sword at his belt. He scanned their faces, holding his gaze a moment too long. Whenever his attention landed on someone, people would immediately turn away and go back to their business — to their pots, to the torn rags they called clothes, to their children, to their bleak daily routine.

  "How much longer are we supposed to stand here?" he asked quietly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Everything's ready down there. They're only waiting for you."

  "Jonny, don't whine," the judge replied curtly, without turning around.

  John sighed in frustration and slumped his shoulders slightly. But the moment the last word faded in the stagnant air, silhouettes flared at the top of the staircase — sharp and distinct, momentarily eclipsing the scorching sun. There were five of them.

  Four tall, broad-shouldered men on the sides were clad in sturdy leather armor. On their chests shone the Camp's emblem — a simple yet expressive image of a triangular shield sheltering a turbulent ocean. The same symbol glinted with cold steel on the hilts of their sharpened swords. And between them, casting a sharp shadow on the marble, walked one figure — slender, petite, in a fitted black dress.

  The judge looked up. Squinting against the sun, he raised a hand to shield his eyes and peered intently at the silhouettes above. The weariness seemed to fall from him: his shoulders straightened, his back pulled taut. The fingers of his left hand unconsciously smoothed the edge of his robe, perfecting its appearance. He stood motionless, barely blinking, waiting for the figures to draw closer.

  As soon as the girl stepped onto the last stair, he executed a demonstrative, measured bow.

  "Lady Anna!" he pronounced clearly, with undisguised admiration. "Your beauty, as befits your status, is flawless!"

  The lady responded with an impeccable curtsy.

  "Good day, Lord Darius. I thank you," she said, her voice as flat as the sand on the nearest plain.

  Her gaze, gliding past his face, paused for a moment on the bodyguard.

  "Greetings, Sir…?" — her questioning intonation hung in the air.

  John tensed almost imperceptibly, his chin lifting as if on command, but he answered without hesitation:

  "I am no knight, my lady. Just John."

  "Is that so?" Anna's eyebrows rose slightly; a light, almost scholarly irony tinged her tone. "I hope your service to our new judge will be to your liking." She nodded, not dwelling on him a moment longer than necessary.

  At that very moment, seizing her attention, Darius stepped forward and ceremoniously extended his hand. The girl, with the same impassive expression, pretended not to notice this noble gesture and, with a precise movement, cleared the last step on her own. Only the edge of her silk dress barely brushed his frozen fingers.

  "What could compel you to descend into the Lower Quarter?" Darius asked, betraying no disappointment, finally lowering his uselessly outstretched hand. "For a lady of your standing, it could be dangerous here, even in the company of loyal guards."

  Anna continued on her way toward the gloomy labyrinth of barracks. Darius had no choice but to follow.

  "I believe you can guess perfectly well yourself, Lord Darius," she replied over her shoulder, and light notes of displeasure fluttered in her even voice.

  The silent guards immediately moved, closing ranks around their mistress. The judge, as if snapping out of a stupor, stepped after her. He caught up to the girl in a couple of strides and, lowering his voice to a courtly whisper meant only for her, asked:

  "Does your appearance have something to do with your sister?"

  Anna did not slow her pace. Her profile remained impenetrable, her gaze fixed ahead, as if the question had gone unheard.

  "Out of the way!" one of the guards barked, not breaking stride. His gauntleted hand roughly shoved a man standing in the middle of the road. The man, unable to turn in time, fell into the dust, a half-rotten apple tumbling from his pocket.

  "I heard your sister was seen near the entrance to the 'Drunken Rat' about an hour ago," Darius said, pausing to gauge the effect of his words. "Allow Jon and me to accompany you. It'll be safer with us."

  "You are excessively solicitous, my lord," she replied in a tone that betrayed a deep, almost physical weariness with this dialogue. And then her steps slowed, then stopped altogether. Frozen mid-turn, she seemed to draw an invisible line between them. "And I very much want to believe that your 'informant' simply happened to be in the right place… and was not following orders to spy on my family. Is that not so?"

  "Of course," Darius replied with a practiced, polite smile.

  "Splendid." Anna nodded, pretending to believe him. "By the way… permit me to inquire: does the newly appointed judge not have enough concerns of his own? What circumstances brought you here?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she moved forward again.

  "Justice, my lady," he called after her, and there was pride in that phrase.

  "Surely, to execute someone from the Lower Quarter doesn't require a judge's deliberation?"

  "Strictly speaking — no," a connoisseur's pleasure flickered through his composure. "The shift supervisor at the nearest guard post has the authority to pass a sentence himself."

  He paused, choosing his words.

  "But the law requires me to be present at the execution of the sentence and to witness it with my signature."

  "Curious," Anna said thoughtfully. "I don't recall Lord Philip troubling himself with such matters."

  "Lord Philip was removed from his post," the new judge said, drawing out his words. "And I was chosen."

  He allowed himself a barely perceptible smile.

  "I do not intend to repeat his mistakes."

  After these words, their procession continued in silence, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of sand under the guards' boots and the hissing bursts of voices from behind the thin walls. With every turn, the road — or what was left of it — became more hostile.

  Many rainy seasons had washed away the path, and without proper care, it had become a chaotic canvas. Deep pits had formed in places, raised humps in others. Anna's elegant black open-toed shoes, perfectly complementing her ensemble, were intended solely for the hard, polished streets of the Upper Quarter. In places, the poorly compacted sand threatened to swallow her slender stiletto heel.

  "That imperial whore is William's bed-warmer," a muffled female whisper drifted from the crowd. "The most expensive prostitute on the island!"

  The sticky, poisonous words burrowed into Anna's consciousness. The girl's face did not change; she pretended not to have heard. Only her eyes momentarily darted toward the source of the voice, instantly returning to their former, icy point ahead. The noble lady knew perfectly well what was said about her behind her back.

  Darius, finely attuned to this fleeting tension, hastened to break the silence, hoping to divert her attention.

  "Almost a month has passed, and you still haven't graced me with congratulations on my appointment…"

  "Please accept my most sincere congratulations," Anna said dryly. "I hope you have finally found a position commensurate with the scale of your ambitions?"

  The answer was only prolonged silence. Darius clearly had something to say, but he was in no hurry. What exactly remained unspoken could only be guessed from one eloquent gesture: his lips slowly, almost sensuously, stretched into a smug grin.

  The deeper they plunged into the depths of the Lower Quarter, the more distinctly they smelled the heavy stench of sweat, dirt, and smoke. It was mixed with the reek of rotten vegetables and the stench of human waste, merging into a thick, acrid atmosphere hanging in a motionless haze. It didn't just enter the nose — it stabbed into the lungs of anyone alien to this place. Anna grimaced and convulsively pressed a handkerchief to her nose. Even the piercing, hateful stares of the crowd seemed to fade before this all-consuming stench.

  Suddenly, a familiar voice sounded from the crowd:

  "That gorgeous necklace looks even better on your elegant neck!" a young man shouted, not hiding in the crowd. "Glad to see you, little fox!" he added, not lowering his voice.

  Anna froze, as if rooted to the ground. That voice… She had forgotten how it sounded. A slight tremor ran down her spine. Her eyebrows shot up, her fingers trembled, her hand lowered the handkerchief. "Little fox"… Only one person ever called her that. She tore her gaze across the milling faces in a desperate desire to make out familiar features — and she saw him.

  The young man was looking directly at her — with that same smile, behind which always came something else. For a moment, the girl forgot to breathe.

  "Address the lady properly!" Darius's voice thundered like a bolt from the blue. The judge cast a stern glance at John and gave a barely perceptible approving nod.

  His bodyguard stepped forward and, with an inconspicuous, practiced movement, forced the imprudent youth to his knees. The frightened residents of the Lower Quarter recoiled, clearing a space around him.

  "Stop it!" Anna's voice cut through the street sharply and unexpectedly.

  Her cheeks flushed slightly, her fingers involuntarily clutched the bright green pendant on the gold chain adorning her neck.

  The guards exchanged bewildered glances and almost simultaneously turned to her, frozen, awaiting her will. The young man caught his breath, slowly got up, straightened his faded shirt, and picked up his crumpled hat from the ground. He looked at Anna as if the blow had never happened, and smiled broadly.

  "You know him?" Darius asked warily, closely observing her reaction.

  "Leave him," Anna said after a short pause. "It's time for us all to go."

  Her fingers clutched the pendant tighter than before.

  She hastened to turn away, but it was too late. This meeting had breached her memory. Recollections, deliberately locked behind seven seals, burst forth, causing a painful heaviness in her chest. Anna took a deep breath, trying to maintain a semblance of composure, and literally commanded herself to hurry up.

  "You are too kind to him," Darius intruded into the girl's thoughts, not hiding his suspicion, noting the flush rising on her cheekbones. "John could have taught this boor manners for the rest of his life in one minute."

  "Such 'lessons' teach the locals nothing," Anna said quietly. "They only further inflame the flames of hatred in their hearts toward people like us."

  "Little fox…" the judge repeated softly, his gaze lingering on her red curls. "An intriguing nickname."

  "I want to ask you not to call me that," Anna corrected him coolly.

  "Yes, of course." He paused. "Still, you haven't answered. Is that young man known to you?"

  The girl slowed slightly. Her gaze dropped to her feet for a moment — as if searching for an answer written in the sand. The fingers of her left hand tightened more firmly on the hem of her dress. The pause lengthened.

  Suddenly, from behind one of the barracks, a grimy little boy darted out, barefoot, with scraped knees. He ran straight toward them and stopped only at the last moment, staring at Anna.

  "Woman…" he stammered, swallowed. "Spare a coin…" without looking away, he murmured almost in a whisper.

  Not daring to approach the men with swords longer than himself at their belts, the boy stopped a few steps from the procession and timidly extended his hand, not raising it above his waist.

  The girl reflexively tried to find her purse but quickly realized that her attire — strictly tailored for social outings — had no pockets or any belt to hang it on. She froze in this awkward pose, and before she could think of what to reply, an elderly woman in a shabby jacket ran up to her. Roughly grabbing the child by the arm, she yanked him toward her so hard he squealed, and without letting go, bowed in an awkward, humbly deep curtsy.

  "Beg your pardon, great lady," she said with a sneer. "His mother died too soon and didn't have time to teach him manners. He won't dare trouble your highness again."

  Anna left the veiled mockery unanswered. She just stared at her with a cold, fixed gaze.

  That was enough. One of the guards stepped forward, shielding his mistress.

  "Be off with you, ragamuffin!" he commanded in a raised tone, looking contemptuously at the old woman.

  She, without uttering another word, straightened up as much as she could. Clutching the boy's hand in the same death grip, she turned and pulled him along, disappearing into the labyrinth of cracked walls as quickly and silently as she had appeared.

  "Don't worry about him," Darius spoke up confidently, nimbly stepping over a fetid puddle. "He looks about eight, and since he lives here, he was likely born out of wedlock, which means he'll soon be taken to the Mountain Camp's Brotherhood House. He'll have food and shelter for the next few years."

  His answer was met only with a sharp, broken gasp from Anna.

  The group walked the next street in silence. The path wound between piles of debris, crossed narrow arches, and dipped into more potholes filled with rubbish. And suddenly, one of the guards, the one walking beside the lady, spoke — as if to himself, addressing no one in particular:

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "I have a son… a bit older than that boy," he said hoarsely, glancing at his mistress, as if the words were getting stuck in his throat. "Probably helping his wife around the house now. Or chasing the dog around the yard, he loves that." A brief smile quickly faded.

  After a couple of steps, he turned his head hesitantly toward Anna and continued — in a tone mixing determination and caution:

  "Jack… was born just when I was trying to join the service. Of course, for my wife and me — simple field hands — the camp's assistant manager wouldn't have given permission for a child. He wouldn't have even let us through the door, no matter how we bowed, no matter how we begged…"

  He swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking convulsively.

  "In a month, he'll be eight. And by law… well, you know," his voice faltered treacherously on the last words. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. "Anyway… If you… could perhaps put in a word for us with Sir William… Maybe he could arrange something? My wife and I aren't rich… but we'll pray for you forever. My wife, if needed, will come every day — wash, do laundry, help cook… hell, scrub the barracks walls. Just so they don't take him."

  "Sir William doesn't deal directly with such matters," Anna said, trying to maintain an official tone.

  "But…" she added quietly, softening her intonation, "if an opportunity arises, I will ask him to help. But I promise nothing." She met his gaze for a second, and something akin to sympathy flickered deep in her eyes. "You and your son are both named Jack, aren't you?"

  "Yes… Exactly! We named our little one after me," the guard burst out. Hope, fragile and new, broke through in his voice for the first time. He perked up, and his previously downcast gaze met hers confidently for a moment. "Thank you… greatly, truly thank you, my lady!"

  "We're here," Darius intervened, noticing a dense ring of people ahead.

  On the near edge of the square that had come into view, a tall, broad-shouldered man stood with his legs wide apart; his officer's insignia glinted in the sun. He surveyed the crowd with a heavy, appraising gaze, holding his helmet with one hand while wiping sweat from his closely cropped hair with the other. Off to the side, huddled in a semicircle, three bored guards were talking. Spotting the approaching procession out of the corner of his eye, he seemed to come alive: put on his helmet, lifted his chin, straightened his back. The officer took a few precise steps forward.

  The crowd's conversations stopped mid-word, movements slowed, and dozens of those present stared at the arriving nobility at once. A dead, oppressive silence fell — only the crunch of sand under a hundred shifting feet and the occasional cough.

  "Greetings, Lord Darius," a short nod. His gaze, respectful and cold, slid to the side. "Lady Anna."

  The girl responded with an almost imperceptible movement of her head. Her eyes involuntarily slid to his right hand. Or rather, to what replaced it: a crude iron prosthetic, darkened by time, etched with scratches and dents. It resembled more a tool or a weapon than an attempt to replace a lost limb.

  "Hello, Lieutenant Carter," Darius said flatly, without a shred of courtesy. "What's your report? Briefly."

  The officer silently nodded his head toward the center of the square. Toward where, above the heads of the onlookers, the guillotine towered.

  On its platform knelt the condemned man, securely fastened with ropes. The bonds bit into his bare flesh, forming a horrific pattern on skin covered in bruises and abrasions. His hair was matted with dried blood, his face swollen beyond recognition, his breath rattling in his chest with every agonizing inhalation. His eyes, glassy and empty, reflected neither pain nor awareness. Even the judge's arrival went unnoticed by him.

  Nearby, silent and motionless, stood a priestess of the Temple of the Common Father, wrapped in a translucent blue robe. Her face, hidden by a hood, seemed carved from wax — pale, cold, without a single shadow of living emotion.

  "Got drunk," the officer began in a flat, lifeless voice, as if reading a report. "Fell asleep behind the barracks. When he came to, a woman was hanging laundry nearby. He raped her."

  Darius slowly swept the crowd with a heavy gaze, then fixed it on the condemned man. After appraising him, the judge winced slightly. Then he took a step closer to Carter, leaning in so only he could hear:

  "Is the victim from the Lower Quarter?"

  "Yes, a local."

  "Alive?"

  "Affirmative."

  Genuine bewilderment momentarily twisted Darius's face. Then he uttered the words, carefully enunciating each one:

  "Did he mutilate her? Cripple her?"

  "Bruises. Scratches. Otherwise — intact," the lieutenant replied instantly.

  Darius looked once more at the criminal — attentively, without disgust, as if at a poorly drafted document with legal errors.

  "So… the death penalty for raping a beggar woman?"

  Carter didn't answer. His narrowed gaze didn't waver. He looked directly into the judge's eyes — firmly, confidently, without a shadow of doubt or justification.

  Darius tilted his head back, as if weighing something in his mind. Then he stepped back and said loudly, addressing the whole square:

  "Well, well… Lieutenant Carter, you have once again clearly demonstrated to the residents of the Central Camp…"

  He deliberately let his gaze linger on his iron prosthetic. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly in a semblance of a smile.

  "…the firm hand of the law."

  Those around reacted differently. Someone let out a hoarse chuckle, others, barely smiling, averted their eyes just in case, while a few only clenched their jaws, not sharing such humor. Carter himself remained unmoved — not a muscle twitched on his face. As if he hadn't heard, or as if the barbed words simply bounced off his steel helmet, lost in the sand at his feet.

  Fueled by the crowd's stifled laugh, Darius finally released his smirk — it broke out unusually openly. Following it, his gaze automatically darted to Anna. Her cold mask didn't crack. The judge's smile immediately faded, leaving only a flat, professional line.

  "Proceed, Lieutenant," he said dryly and finally, as if signing a death warrant.

  Carter abruptly turned his back to Darius and addressed the condemned man:

  "Do you have any last words?"

  A hoarse, gurgling sound escaped the convict's chest — whether an attempt to say something or a death rattle. His lips, swollen and bloody, moved.

  "Mmm… ah…" he wheezed, trying to muster saliva and thoughts shattered by hangover and pain. His gaze still wouldn't focus. "Tha… that woman… she her…"

  "Proceed." The officer didn't let him finish and gestured sharply toward the priestess.

  She, like a marionette, came to life. A short, ritual dagger with a cold, polished blade emerged from the folds of her robe. She took a silent step toward the platform.

  "You, perhaps, should not witness this, my lady," Darius said with genuine warmth, shielding Anna from the sight of the guillotine. "I would escort you further, but my position requires me to stay until the end."

  "Thank you for your concern," the girl replied and inclined her head in a short, impeccably measured bow.

  Without another word, she turned and strode away, trying to leave the square behind as quickly as possible. The guards instantly moved, following her and again closing into a tight, living ring around her, cutting off the noise and the heavy stares.

  The rapist's screams, as ritual symbols were carved into his flesh, echoed off the wooden walls and mingled with the priestess's relentless chant. Their echo carried for many dozens of meters, as if the square itself was trying to expel them from its confines.

  "Let the Righteous, Judge of all deeds, justly determine your sins."

  "Let the Merciful, guided by the heart's light, beg the Common Father's forgiveness for your transgressions."

  "Let the Knowing, who weaves the threads of fate, show you the path to Him."

  "Let the Common Father determine your place in His eternal Kingdom."

  "Let the Keeper protect all that is dear to you in this mortal world."

  As soon as Anna left the square, the joyful roar of the crowd reached her — justice had been served. But in these cries, there was no triumph of law, only pure, unvarnished delight in the spectacle. The girl closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the bestial exultation, and almost ran away. Her head grew heavy, as if a tight, dull ring was slowly tightening inside. Even when the noise was left behind, it still rang in her ears for a long time — a dull, sticky hum. The next few blocks passed in detached stupor.

  "My lady, we're here," Jack said quietly, not wanting to interrupt her immersion in thought. "Just around the corner."

  Anna started, as if surfacing from deep water, turned — around the corner loomed a large, dilapidated building. Its roof seemed ready to collapse at any moment — a jumble of roughly hewn boards, painted gray-brown by time; one corner was already noticeably askew. A sign swung above the door. The crooked letters spelling "Drunken Rat" and the crude carving of that rodent were eaten away by cracks — as if the very rats had been gnawing at it for years.

  Despite its repulsive appearance, the establishment was clearly popular with the locals — evidenced by the melody of a lute coming from inside. Pleasant music felt out of place here: like a velvet glove left at the bottom of a garbage pit.

  Anna took a few steps forward, but before she could get a closer look at the sign, three tipsy men tumbled out of the doors with a crash. Staggering and cursing, they went around the building and immediately began to relieve themselves right on its wall.

  "Stop," the young lady commanded sharply, not hiding her disgust.

  At that moment, a woman emerged from behind the rickety wooden fence, pulling up her pants as she walked. Drunk, with bleary eyes and tangled hair, she seemed to notice no one around. Anna grimaced and recoiled, closing her eyes for a moment, as if trying to erase the image from her retina. But a second later, her eyelids snapped open, and her gaze fixed on the nearest guards:

  "You two. Check if she's in there," the girl ordered and hastily moved aside, not wanting to see what was happening.

  "And if Lady Liana refuses to come out?" one of the men clarified, while the second had already headed toward the entrance.

  "Tell her I'm waiting outside. And that I'm furious," came the brief, cold reply, leaving no room for further questions.

  ***

  Wooden tables, covered in stains and dried drips from mugs, were densely laden with bowls of modest but hearty food. In a far corner of the establishment, a young guy sat on a large barrel with a lute, playing a cheerful, rhythmic tune. The floor, scarred by dirty boots and soaked with spilled beer, creaked under the feet of dancing patrons. Loud laughter, the clinking of mugs, and drunken shouts drowned out the music, merging into a single boozy symphony.

  It seemed this could go on forever. But suddenly, one of the men slammed his beer mug on the table with a crash: drink splashed over the edge, and the table itself noticeably wobbled. Drawing attention to himself, he slowly stood up, straightened his dusty shirt, shook his thick beard, and stepped into the center of the room.

  "Friends!" the bearded man addressed everyone present. "Another work season is over! Calluses, sweat, fights over a spot in the shade — all behind us. We endured. We made it. It's always been this way and always will. Now — it's time to celebrate! So let's drink to our hands, unafraid of work! To our backs, that can bear any burden! To our souls, that know how to rejoice, even when everything is against us! To us! To our loved ones! To bread on the table! Hurrah!"

  The crowd roared, supporting the toast with approving cries and whistles. Amidst the sounds of general jubilation, the orator raised his mug above his head — high, like a banner, inviting everyone to share in the solemn moment — and drained it in one gulp. The remaining beer ran down his mustache, glistening amber drops in the sunlight. But before the merriment could flare up anew, a dull hammering sound echoed through the hall.

  "What the hell is that?.." turning around, he muttered, scratching his head.

  By the counter, the innkeeper was intently nailing a new sheet of paper to the wall. On it, burned with a clear brand, was the emblem of the Central Camp.

  "Brought it this afternoon… Told me to hang it," the innkeeper grumbled reluctantly, driving in a second nail.

  "I don't give a damn when they brought it," the stocky man roared, surveying the room. "What's written there? Anyone here who can read?"

  But a literate volunteer turned out to be closer than he expected.

  "Specially for you, Norman," the innkeeper growled and reluctantly began to read, syllable by syllable:

  "'Dear residents of the Central Camp!

  On behalf of the entire administration, I congratulate you on the completion of field work. The entire harvest was gathered on time and in full. Everyone has made an invaluable contribution to our common cause! I also bring to your attention that, due to arising necessity, military exercises are announced. Every man aged twelve and above is required to undergo daily combat training for a period of three months. Certain categories of workers are fully or partially exempt from combat training. Details can be obtained at your workplace from your supervisor.

  Administrator of the Central Camp, Lord Robert.'"

  A dead silence fell over the hall. Even the music stopped, and the lutist awkwardly lowered his hands. One of the men quietly cursed through his teeth, nervously squeezing his mug, and at that very second, its clay edge cracked. The one who had been joking a moment ago now stood silent, trying to comprehend what he'd heard.

  "'Due to arising necessity'…" Norman repeated thoughtfully. Then he looked up and added darkly: "Oh, this ain't good, dammit…"

  "'Certain categories of workers…' Who the hell do they write so complicated for?" one of the patrons protested. "Can't make sense half the words! Did anyone understand who among us doesn't have to prepare?"

  "That's about you, fool," the innkeeper chuckled, baring his teeth. "Drought or rain, there's always work for you with your shovel. Pigs shit all year round!"

  He burst out laughing — sharply, loudly. Judging by the smiles around, many appreciated the joke.

  "Hee-hee," came a ringing female giggle from a far table. Lighthearted and playful, it seemed to slice through the tense air of the hall, drawing attention. And perhaps, it was this that saved the innkeeper from the swineherd's itching fist.

  "What the fuck is this new rule?!" Norman roared, slamming his mug on the table with a crash. "In the sixteen years I've been on this godforsaken island, there's never been anything like this!"

  He came closer to the paper and continued, waving his arms:

  "Does this cocksucker think, just 'cause the field's plowed and the rainy season's ahead, we're gonna sit around twiddling our thumbs? Who the hell's gonna fix the plows, according to him?! Who's gonna mend the hoes?! Or maybe the barns falling to splinters will fix themselves?"

  "My son's having a birthday," the swineherd put in gloomily. "I promised to teach him how to hold a fishing rod. And now what?"

  "And now you'll learn to hold a sword with him," Norman growled, clenching his fists in fury. "Oh, how I'd love to smash his lordship's skull with this very mug!" he exhaled through his teeth, glaring toward the wall with the order.

  "Shh! Quiet…" a strange woman quietly tugged at Norman's sleeve. Several people around froze, staring behind him.

  Through the open door, two tall men stepped into the inn. The creak of floorboards under their heavy boots echoed through the hall, announcing their arrival. People exchanged glances. Someone pretended to be busy with their bowl. Someone fell silent, looking away. Only Norman stood as before, arms crossed on his chest.

  Without a word, they began slowly scanning the premises, peering intently into the faces of those present.

  "No incidents here. Thank you for your service," the innkeeper said politely and, forcing a smile, added: "Fancy some cold beer?"

  "Don't suck up to them, George," Norman quickly corrected him. "You're not welcome here…" the bearded man addressed the uninvited guests.

  He dared to voice what dozens of faces silently expressed. To everyone's surprise, these words seemed to go unheard. The guards, having scanned each of those before them, turned their attention to the far tables. Behind one of them, in the shadows, sat two people.

  Their hoods were pulled down deep, hiding their faces, and their clothes — though deliberately simple — were too clean and pressed. The table before them was empty: neither mug nor bowl. They didn't stand, didn't participate in the general merriment, didn't converse with neighbors. Such detachment looked unnatural for typical patrons of the establishment.

  One of the guards, without explanation, slowly headed toward the suspicious figures. He came close — and, to the regulars' surprise, didn't tear off their hoods or even order them removed, but only bent down uncertainly, trying to see their faces.

  The mysterious pair hastily turned away, as if hoping to remain unidentified. But the next moment, something happened that no one expected.

  "Ha-ha-ha!" came a ringing female laugh. The very same one that had dissipated the tension in the hall a few minutes earlier now sounded ten times louder, boldly, like a slap.

  The girl decisively threw back her hood and, continuing to laugh, shook out her lush red hair. She looked a little over twenty. Cheerful, bright, playful — she seemed to relish the attention. Following her, her companion also removed his hood — a young guy with sharp facial features. He barely suppressed a smile, exchanged glances with the girl — as if they'd just heard a good joke.

  "Lord Austin. Lady Liana," the guard uttered, inclining his head in a respectful bow. Hesitation sounded in his voice.

  "What do you want?" the young man asked with irritation, not taking his eyes off his lady.

  "Forgive me, my lord. I wished to address your companion," the guard said cautiously.

  "Speak quickly. And clearly," Austin tossed out, still not deigning to look at the speaker.

  The man, slightly flustered, stepped back and glanced at Liana.

  "Your sister awaits you outside. She bid us escort you to her," he spoke somewhat stiffly, as if trying to appear more confident than he was.

  "I don't object," the girl smiled, losing none of her composure. She deftly adjusted her crushed curls and, raising an eyebrow, turned to her cavalier:

  "But what says my lord?"

  Liana laughed openly and boldly, and Austin only allowed the shadow of a smile at the corner of his lips — too brief for anyone to discern if it had even existed.

  "Hmm… This place has become boring, I suppose," the guy tossed out and indifferently surveyed the hushed poor. Those who met his gaze hastily lowered their eyes.

  He lazily reached for the nearest mug, picked it up, twirled it in his fingers — and, without taking a sip, set it back down. The foam slowly trickled down the edge, leaving a sticky trail on the table.

  "Escort us," he ordered the guard nervously clutching his worn leather belt.

  The young people headed for the exit. Before they could reach the doors, the remaining servant at the threshold barked at the hushed hall:

  "Everyone move aside, now!"

  The people obediently parted, yielding the way. All except Norman.

  "Need me to cut you into straps, fatso?" the guard snapped, sharply grabbing his sword hilt.

  "Don't curse in a lady's presence," Austin intervened, as if forgetting all he'd heard during his time here. "He'll do us no harm. Look in his eyes — he's no fool. Too bad, though, he never learned to read," the lord added, again drawing a smile from his companion.

  Satisfied with her reaction, Austin exited first, followed by Liana and the guards. Those alien to this establishment left it, leaving behind silence and a tense atmosphere.

  As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, one of the drunks, unable to bear it, voiced the question on everyone's mind:

  "So, a lord and a lady… Did anyone recognize those two?"

  "Don't know the guy… But I've definitely seen that girl somewhere," Norman replied, taking a swig from the nearest mug.

  "This redhead warms the bed of our guard commander, Sir William," one woman said, grinning crookedly. Then, lifting her chin proudly, she threw out with venomous contempt: "Whore!"

  "Maybe it was her sister. Can't tell 'em apart," a drunk muttered, swaying on the spot.

  "Main thing is, she's a looker. You won't find women like that across the whole Empire," Norman said, not hiding his admiration, wiping foam from his beard with his sleeve. "No wonder William sent his trained dogs for her. Someone like her has no place in this hellhole"

  "Thank you for such a high opinion of my establishment," George noted dryly. "Speaking of dogs. Do you know those guards?"

  "No, of course. You see those chicks? Back when I held a sword serving in the camp guard, these two were still learning to hold a spoon," the bearded man grinned with noticeable nostalgia.

  "Next time, try to be more restrained. I don't need trouble with the authorities," the innkeeper said glumly.

  "Ehh…" Norman sighed heavily. Then, without a second thought, walked over to the nailed-up sheet, tore it from the wall, and flung it into the center of the hall:

  "People, why the long faces? Today's a holiday, dammit! Let's have some fun!"

  The patrons — hesitant at first, then with growing confidence — started drifting back to their drinks. The musician returned to his spot and resumed delighting the crowd with pleasant tunes. One by one, people threw themselves into the dance — and soon the hall was humming again. Within a few minutes, the writing on the sheet was no longer legible — it had vanished beneath a layer of grime and the marks of unwashed soles.