The tavern thundered like a tempest. Tankards collided, voices rose high, and the bard played until the strings seemed ready to break.
"The Phantom Lord has taken a knight!"
"A knight of Caldrith! An oath upon steel itself!"
"Drink, drink! The first of his army is sworn!"
D'rail remain motionless on the bench, every cheer hammered another nail into his coffin. The sword still lay gleaming at his feet, like a trap he'd already stepped into.
Ser Vaunt stood with deliberate slowness, his hand placed on his chest. "Hold your heads high, honorable citizens. This evening marks the initiation of a purpose more significant than any crown or realm." His voice echoed, deep and powerful, honed for leadership. "The Phantom Lord does not seek your praise. He craves silence, strength, and loyalty. Do not discuss what you have witnessed unless he commands it."
The room bowed to him, like waves bending toward a rock.
D'rail muttered into his cup, "Oh yes, tell them all to be silent while shouting it from the rafters."
But the crowd wasn't listening to him — they were listening to Vaunt. Farmers pressed forward, asking if they too might swear fealty. A merchant's wife begged D'rail to bless her child, shoving the wriggling baby into his embrace. Someone tossed a pouch of coins at his feet "for the war to come."
The war to come? D'rail nearly dropped the child.
As the moon ascended over Briarhold, the tavern had changed completely. His table was no longer just a bench — it was a throne in miniature, surrounded by drunkards, dreamers, and desperates. They argued titles for themselves, swore petty oaths, and bragged of what they would do for the Phantom Lord once his kingdom was raised.
Vaunt stood at D'rail's side like a sentinel, watching each volunteer with hawk's eyes, measuring, judging.
"Do not waste his time with empty promises," Vaunt barked at one overeager lad. "If you offer coin, it must be true. If you offer steel, it must be sharp. If you offer loyalty, it must be until death."
The lad nearly wept with joy, nodding furiously.
D'rail tried to slip away twice, but both times hands dragged him back — to hear a plea, to accept another "gift," to murmur some vague blessing. He invented phrases on the spot, nonsense cloaked in shadowy gravitas.
"Your devotion… echoes in the unseen halls," he intoned to a fishmonger.
"The silence of your heart will be your armor," he muttered to a tailor.
Each ridiculous line earned gasps, tears, and deeper devotion.
By the time the tavern's lanterns burned low, D'rail sagged under the weight of his own lies. A dozen strangers now claimed to serve him. Vaunt had declared himself commander of this ragtag "court." And the people of Briarhold whispered of a hidden lord who would soon rise against kings.
D'rail slumped against the table, head in his hands.
I just wanted bread. How in all nine hells did I end up with a court?
...
D'rail awoke to the sound of commotion.
That was never a good sign.
He cracked open one crusted eyelid and found himself not in a ditch or alley, as was customary, but sprawled across a tavern bench. The stale tang of spilled ale clung to his cloak. Around him, the remnants of last night's revelers were still singing about "The Phantom Lord's First Knight" in voices so ragged it sounded like crows dying.
D'rail groaned. If this is my kingdom, I abdicate immediately.
He slipped out the side door while Vaunt was distracted, lecturing two hungover farmers about honor and vigilance. With his hood pulled down and movements careful, he crept into the side streets. The morning air was sharp, stinging his lungs with the smoke of hearthfires and the fishy musk of the riverside.
The market was alive already: merchants shouting, kids weaving through the stalls, the sound of coins jingling like a downpour. The crowd and the clamor provided comfort; anonymity was safety. He could vanish here, leave the madness behind, reinvent himself again in some other backwater—
"Leaving so soon, my lord?"
The voice slid like silk through the din, brushing the nape of his neck. D'rail stood still.
A woman stood before him, framed by a canopy of bright-dyed fabrics. She wore silk the color of ripe plums, sleeves trailing like banners, rings winking on every finger. Her hair was bound in an intricate coil pinned with gold, and Her eyes—keen, evaluating, playful—remained fixed on his face.
D'rail tried to stammer something neutral. "I—wrong man. Just a humble—"
She raised one manicured finger, and the noise of the market seemed to hush of its own accord. "Please. I know a mask when I see one. And I know the face that hides beneath."
His heart stuttered. Gods damn it. She knows.
The woman swept into a curtsy so shallow it was practically mockery. "Mercia Nary. Trader, broker, opportunist, some call me spider. I prefer… weaver. I weave gold, reputation, influence. And I've chosen to weave you into my next tapestry."
"Me?" His voice cracked. "I think you've mistaken me for someone taller. With more… everything."
Her grin twisted, blade-sharp beneath the honey. "Come, my lord. We both know you're not meant for fishmongers' chatter. A moment in private, yes? I believe I can help you… manage your affairs."
She gestured gracefully toward the shadowed archway of a perfumed tent.
D'rail glanced around, half-expecting Vaunt to materialize and drag him away. No such luck. Rather, traders were already murmuring, their eyes aglow, as though the simple act of Mercia addressing him confirmed every rumor of power.
He muttered under his breath, "Shams and prayers, D'rail… shams and prayers…" Then, with the air of a condemned man walking to the gallows, he ducked into the tent.