In another part of Ashford, the artisans gathered—a small, tight-knit group: blacksmiths, masons, carpenters.
An older man sighed. "I've handed my plot of land to my son. He's of marrying age now. My hands still work, but... will the lord even remember us?"
"No idea," someone muttered. "He hasn't said a word about us. Maybe he's forgotten already."
Others nodded. Their silence said more than their words.
"I've worked for decades," another said quietly. "I don't want it all to end like this…"
Again, silence.
---
Elsewhere, the old town guard—those once under the warrior—sat gathered. Their tone was sharp, bitter.
One of them, sharp-eyed and ambitious, spoke first. He wasn't content being a soldier—he had dreams of leading, of being respected.
"Look," he said, "we need to take control of our future. That noble? He's a threat to our way of life. And what are we doing—waiting around? We've defended this place longer than he's been alive."
His voice grew louder.
"Let's form our own block. Just for townfolk. No noble oversight. Why should we bow to someone who doesn't know our names?"
No one responded. But their silence wasn't rejection—it was hesitation.
He smirked. "What's he gonna do? Kill us all? That'd just turn the town against him. But if we stand together—he's powerless."
The first roots of rebellion sank in.
Their eyes turned toward the warrior—their former commander. But before he could speak, the ambitious one continued:
"Think about it: our own taxes. Our own laws. Our own leadership. No more waiting on some baron's approval. We can be kings in our own right."
A murmur of approval followed.
"It could work..." "All we need is the leader's support."
All eyes returned to the warrior.
He instinctively raised a hand, trying to quiet them—but the hunger was growing. This wasn't about justice anymore. It was about power. And starving men don't look away from meat.
His jaw tightened.
Memories clawed at him—running through fields with his father before the beast tide. His siblings had died. His father too. And the nobles? Not a word. No aid. No justice.
He had grown up hating nobles.
But he knew something they didn't.
Ordinary men with unchecked power could become worse than the lords they despised. They'd exploit, twist, and betray. At least nobles had legacy. Scrutiny. Eyes above them.
He glanced at Bramir.
Bramir gave a slow, unreadable nod.
The warrior said nothing.
And that silence was permission.
The guards cheered. The ambitious speaker puffed up, proud. Others sneered, regretting they hadn't spoken first.
From the side, Eldrin frowned, troubled. He wanted to speak—but stayed silent.
And so it spread—quiet as rot under floorboards.
The guards, once Ashford's shield, began to splinter from within.
---
In a creaky house beneath the stars, a civilian-turned-priest stood before a small crowd. Men, women, children—all refugees who followed the Church of Light—sat quietly in reverence.
Eyes closed, he recited from memory:
"The Almighty Dues brought light to humanity, lifting us from darkness…"
As he finished, they bowed in solemn prayer.
SLAM.
The door burst open.
Townfolk stormed in—led by the rebellious guards. The priest's eyes flew open. His face darkened. The men in the room instinctively shielded their wives and children.
"Make way," the speaker said arrogantly, pushing forward.
The crowd parted—part fear, part familiarity.
He sneered. "Blasphemy. Who gave you permission to worship that god here? You disgrace Mother Earth—the true spirit of this land. You bow to betrayers who abandoned us!"
He gestured to the room.
"Look at them! These invaders worship demons! Are we just going to stand by while they poison our land?"
"No!" someone shouted.
The speaker grinned. I'm good at this.
With a wave, the mob lunged.
Screams tore through the night.
Fists flew. Blood spilled.
The braver civilians fought back—but they were outnumbered. Wood clashed with iron. One attacker struck the priest down in a frenzy, laughing as he collapsed in a bloody heap.
Women and children huddled. One boy clutched his mother's sleeve, crying.
Then—just as it turned unbearable—
"STOP!"
A voice thundered through the chaos.
The crowd froze.
The warrior stood in the doorway, dagger in hand, fury seething from his pores.
He scanned the room—blood, bruises, terror.
"Are you even human?" he spat. "Fight the men if you must. But lay a finger on a woman or child—and I will cut that finger off myself."
Shame rippled through the mob.
The speaker said nothing. The civilians didn't thank the warrior—but their eyes said enough.
---
The riot report reached the castle quickly.
One of the original protestors, now horrified by the bloodshed, ran to Arvind.
Aldric moved immediately.
By the time he and the knights arrived, the scene was carnage. Dozens injured. Groans of pain. If there had been real weapons involved, it would've been a massacre.
Aldric dismounted in silence.
He unsheathed his sword. Fighting spirit surged.
He raised it high—and slammed it into the earth.
BOOM.
A shockwave tore through the ground. Both sides were thrown back. Blood sprayed from mouths.
The riot was over.
Aldric pointed his sword at the still-standing instigator.
"Knight formation—encircle them!"
The knights moved instantly, surrounding the townfolk like wolves closing in.
Aldric's blade began to glow. A sharp flick—
SWOOSH!
A blade of pure sword aura sliced cleanly through the rebellious man's limbs. He dropped, screaming in agony.
"He won't die," Aldric said coldly. "But he'll never fight again."
The man fainted from pain and despair.
The warrior stepped forward at last, silent.
"I knew it was you stirring things up," Aldric growled. "I gave you a lesson once. You didn't learn. Should I make it permanent this time?"
The warrior said nothing. His silence was louder than defiance. Shame was already carving deeper wounds.
"Anyone who openly challenges my lord..." Aldric raised his blade again, "won't walk away."
The knights moved.
Screams rang out—short, sharp. Not meant to kill. Just enough to ensure memory.
Aldric's eyes narrowed.
Then he lunged.
BANG.
The warrior hit the dirt, groaning. Blood ran from a dozen cuts. His leg and shoulder had been dislocated, shattered by precision strikes. His eyes—dull. His spirit—broken.
Aldric stood untouched. His sword sheathed, posture clean.
Around them, men moaned where they'd fallen.
"Stop. That's enough," Aldric commanded.
The knights withdrew. The survivors gasped for breath, clutching bruises and broken bones.
---
By the time Arvind arrived, it was too late.
The square stank of blood. Civilians huddled in corners, wide-eyed and silent. Others lay crumpled in the dirt, clutching wounds and murmuring names of lost loved ones.
Then he saw him—the warrior.
Bloodied. Hollow-eyed. More carcass than man.
Arvind's heart clenched.
Damn it. I let this fester. I could have stopped it...
He bit his lip as Aldric approached.
"My lord," the knight said evenly, "we need to make an example. Hang the ringleaders publicly. Fear is the cure for rebellion."
The words hit Arvind like a blade to the gut.
He hesitated—but couldn't falter in front of his commander.
"…Mm."
Aldric gave a grim smile and turned.
"Move out."
The knights began hauling prisoners away.
Arvind watched in silence. A part of him screamed: Stop this!
But the moment passed.
---
Then—two figures knelt in his path.
Bramir and Eldrin.
Bramir's voice shook, but his spine held straight.
"Please, my lord... show mercy. Most were coerced. Only a few were truly guilty. These men have families—they made a mistake, yes, but they aren't beyond redemption."
Eldrin added softly, "It was that one—he spread the rebellion. The others... they followed blindly. My father didn't stop them. But he didn't lead them either."
He hesitated as Bramir tugged his sleeve, trying to hush him.
Arvind said nothing. But he remembered.
Then Aldric returned—with Shankar at his side.
"My lord," Aldric said, sharper now. "The gallows are ready. Give the order. Fear will restore order."
Bramir's shoulders sank. Eldrin glanced at his father, then at Arvind—pleading.
Arvind clenched his fists.
Shankar leaned close.
"You must act," he said quietly. "Hang them. Publicly."
Arvind looked up, met his eyes... and gave a nod.
But instead of answering Aldric, he turned to Eldrin—and nodded again.
You might be someone I can trust.
They spoke more.
Arvind learned Bramir had served as steward under the previous baron. He was clever, yes—but loyal. His concern for the land was genuine.
Then—two children emerged from the crowd.
A boy and a girl, barely teenagers.
They dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the dirt.
The boy wept. "Please... forgive our brother. He raised us. He's all we have. He's our father..."
The girl sobbed louder, then pointed—furious—at Aldric.
"He's not evil! He's the incarnation of Mother Earth! That knight hurt him out of jealousy! He's afraid our brother will take his place!"
Gasps broke the silence.
The boy pulled her back, bowing frantically.
"S-she's just a child, my lord! Please—don't take her seriously!"
Aldric's glare could've cut stone. But Arvind raised a hand.
He said nothing.
Then Bramir stepped forward again, voice steady.
"My lord... he stayed when others fled. He fought beasts. Turned down bribes. He never asked for reward. He's not the man you think."
Arvind stared at the children. At their tears. At their pride, broken.
His chest ached.
Maybe... we judged too harshly. Maybe punishment is needed—but not cruelty.
He turned to Aldric.
"Proceed as you see fit... but leave the warrior behind."
Aldric frowned.
Arvind didn't blink.
A pause.
Then Aldric gave a curt nod—and walked away.
Arvind exhaled.
Maybe this man can still become my shield... if I don't break him completely first.
---
That night, Arvind didn't sleep.
Faces haunted him—wounded civilians, terrified children, broken men.
He called for Shankar.
The butler arrived swiftly.
Arvind didn't waste time.
"Tell me," he said, voice hoarse, "was this the right thing to do?"
Shankar smiled faintly, eyes cold with certainty.
"My lord," he said, voice solemn, "to be a noble is to wield power—and project deterrence. Without it, people begin to gamble with disobedience. If they sense hesitation, they mistake it for weakness. And then, the barony bleeds—not in coin or harvest, but in chaos. Discipline lost is never easily restored."
Arvind said nothing.
Shankar's voice softened—but the edge cut deeper.
"You think compassion earns respect. But in their eyes? That makes you naïve. Power, my lord—power is the foundation."
He paused, then added with a cool smile, "And don't mourn your morality. Even the gods haven't objected."
Arvind nodded slowly, bitterness swirling under his calm.
The gods… always demanding devotion, yet silent at injustice. Maybe they're no different from us—pretending righteousness until it's inconvenient.
---
In Ashford, under a sky painted with stars, Bramir stood before a quiet home, seeing the siblings off.
The girl wiped her tears, looking up at him.
"Will we ever see big brother again?"
Her voice was small—half-hope, half-dread.
Bramir placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, forcing a smile.
"Of course. Your brother is not a bad man. And our lord is wise. He will save him."
The boy and girl brightened, bowing gratefully before stepping inside. The door closed with a soft thud.
From behind, Eldrin spoke—sharp and weary.
"You really believe that? Or are you just lying to children now?"
Bramir didn't turn.
"You saw it too," Eldrin continued. "That knight wanted blood. And our lord—he flinched, but he didn't stop him. What if tomorrow… our brother's head is hanging from the gate?"
Still, Bramir said nothing.
Eldrin sighed, eyes lifting to the stars.
"They're so bright tonight. Fitting—for lies and comfort."
Then, quieter, bitter:
"Do you think our lord will reward honesty… or punish us for knowing too much?"
Bramir closed his eyes.
He had no answer.
---
The next morning…
A cool breeze flowed through the castle's open windows. Birds chirped softly. Arvind sat in a plain wooden chair, eyes distant.
An older maid approached quietly, setting down a worn kettle and bamboo cup with practiced care.
"Come, my lord," she said gently. "Try our local tea. You might fall in love with it."
Arvind accepted the cup and took a slow sip.
Not bad. Surprisingly smooth. Even better than what he'd had in his father's court. A subtle energy stirred in his chest—his fighting spirit awakened slightly, like soaking in cool water on a summer day.
He tilted the cup thoughtfully. Low-grade magical resource, maybe?
The maid chuckled softly, hands clasped behind her back.
"Well, my lord? How is it? Does our humble Ravengarde tea deserve its fame?"
Arvind smiled. "I'm in love with it already. Where did you get it? Does your family grow it? If so, I'd like it supplied to the castle. Don't worry—we'll pay proper coin."
He noticed her hesitate.
Did I say something wrong?
Clearing her throat, she finally spoke.
"My husband… was once a seasoned hunter. He traveled all across Ravengarde. Years ago, near the Wyrdwood—some forgotten village, I'm afraid—he found this tea. Since then, he became the main supplier to Ashford and the surrounding villages."
Her voice trembled. Tears welled in her eyes.
"He was a devout follower of Mother Earth. Never raised prices, always shared what little he had. People were grateful—but we barely got by. The trip took nearly a month, round-trip. Now... my son has taken over the work. If you'd like, I can ask him to bring you the tea for free. I feel... you're a good lord."
Arvind's jaw tightened. Her clothes were threadbare, washed too many times. Their family clearly lived on the edge.
He clenched his fist—thinking back to all those dreams of wealth from trade. How naïve I was.
"Why?" he asked quietly.
"Do you not think I'm your lord? Or... do you think I'd rob from the poor?"
She looked up, startled.
"I mean it," he continued. "If it's free, I won't accept it. Ask your son to supply the castle regularly—and we'll pay. Fair and square."
She blinked. Her hands trembled.
"Thank you for listening, my lord," she said softly. "I'll take my leave—I won't waste your time…"
Arvind watched her go, the taste of tea still on his lips.
Not bitter. Not sweet. But real.