The rest of the road into the valley was quiet—almost too quiet.
The pine woods thinned out into open meadows, but Henry kept his hand near his sword pommel until the trees were well behind them.
No ragged bands of highwaymen leapt from the thickets, nor did the terrifying howls of hungry wolf packs echo through the hills.
By late afternoon, the sun dipped behind the hills, painting the valley in long streaks of orange and red.
Henry and Theresa guided their horses along the winding dirt road leading away from Neuhof.
Up on the gentle slopes, the sweeping fences of the Neuhof farmstead and its famed stud farm came into view.
Dozens of horses—sleek thoroughbreds, sturdy workhorses, and spirited colts—danced across the green pastures.
Henry pulled Olena to a halt, staring at the peaceful stables.
He couldn’t shake the memory of what was coming—Istvan Toth’s raid, the scent of burning wood, and the slaughter of these very horses.
It makes military sense, Henry mused silently, watching a groom lead a magnificent bay stallion toward the stone barns.
A war band needs mobility.
Even if half these beasts aren’t armored destriers, they are invaluable for pulling baggage wagons, carting siege equipment, and sustaining military supply lines.
Istvan would see Neuhof not as a farm, but as a prize.
He sighed softly, adjusting his grip on the leather reins.
For now, the farmstead was pristine, bathed in the peaceful amber glow of dusk.
“Henry?” Theresa called out softly from the driver’s bench of the trailing cart.
She looked up at the sky, where the bright blue was swiftly deepening into twilight.
“The sun is almost down.
I don’t think arriving at the upper castle in the middle of the night would be wise.
We should stay at my uncle’s mill down by the river tonight.
You can present yourself to Sir Radzig tomorrow when the sun is up.”
Henry paused, weighing her words.
“You’re right,” he agreed, turning Olena toward the lower path.
“A knight of Sir Radzig’s standing won’t appreciate being disturbed at his evening meal by a cart full of Skalitz goods.
Let’s head to the mill.”
They took the narrow fork that sloped gently downhill, bypassing the towering stone battlements of Rattay’s main gates.
The road followed the winding curve of the rushing river, where the cool breeze carried the fresh, earthy scent of riverbank moss and damp clay.
As they neared the settlement outside the walls, the quiet sloshing of the river was joined by the chatter of civilization.
Through the trees, Henry caught sight of the timber-framed bathhouses nestled along the water’s edge.
Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimneys, and the soft glow of candlelight flickered behind linen curtains.
Henry’s mind wandered back to the strange, half-forgotten mechanics of the world he knew—how gamers would visit these bathhouses to scrub away the grime of the road, mend their torn tunics, heal their battle wounds, and leave with that legendary ‘Alpha Male’ buff that seemed to grant a man effortless charisma and vigor.
Would I even get a buff like that if I stepped through those doors?
Henry thought to himself with a subtle smirk.
I haven’t even unlocked half my basic instincts yet.
‘Leg Day’ from carrying all this heavy armor, or ‘Lucky Drunkard’ for surviving on spiced ale…
I wonder if those rules still apply to a man made of blood and bone.
A soft, suspicious cough broke his train of thought.
Henry blinked, turning his head to find Theresa leaning over the side of the cart’s bench, staring at him with her eyebrows raised in a sharp, questioning arch.
She glanced at the lit bathhouse windows, then back at Henry, a distinctly narrow look in her dark eyes.
“What are you staring at over there, Henry?” Theresa asked, her tone carrying a faint, dangerous edge as a subtle smile tugged at her lips.
“And why are you smirking like a cat that just found a bowl of cream?”
Henry felt a hot flush creep up his neck.
He quickly reached up, awkwardly scratching his throat through his leather collar.
“Nothing!
I…
well, I was just thinking that before I go marching into Pirkstein Castle to meet Sir Radzig, I ought to take a proper bath.
I smell of horse sweat, campfire smoke, and three days of road dust.”
Theresa crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back against the wooden bench.
Her mouth twitched with a small, knowing smirk, though her dark eyes locked onto his with an intense, playful focus.
“A proper bath, is it?” she hummed, leaning slightly over the side of the cart.
“And here I thought you were staring at the silk curtains.
I know very well how young men from Skalitz talk when they think no one is listening.”
“Is that jealousy I hear, Theresa?” Henry asked, a slow grin breaking across his face.
“Jealous?” She huffed, tossing her dark hair back, though a faint blush crept up her cheeks.
“Go sleep on the bathhouse benches with the maidens if you like!
See if I care!”
Henry pulled Olena to a slow stop beside the cart. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
He leaned slightly from his saddle, his hand gently coming to rest over hers on the wooden rail.
The playful teasing melted away, leaving a quiet, warm air between them.
“I don’t care about the bathhouse women, Theresa,” Henry said softly, his voice dropping low as his eyes met hers.
“The only thing I cared about on this road was making sure you got here safe and sound.”
Theresa looked down at his hand resting over hers.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingers twitched under his touch before she looked back up, her cheeks flushed red and her eyes shining in the evening twilight.
A soft, genuine smile tugged at her lips—one that showed he had touched her heart far more than he realized.
“Good,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned her eyes back toward the river path.
“Because if you spent your hard-earned silver on them, I would have left you to drive the wagon yourself.”
A few hundred yards down the riverbank, the heavy wooden wagon finally creaked to a halt in the yard of Miller Peshek’s property.
The mill was an impressive, sprawling timber homestead.
Its massive, moss-covered water wheel churned slowly against the powerful current of the Rattay River, emitting a rhythmic, dull groaning sound that echoed through the quiet evening air.
A fine, white dust of ground wheat drifted lazily through the atmosphere, settling over the surrounding grass and wooden fences like a dusting of fresh winter frost.
Standing near the open double doors of the grain barn was an old man wearing a flour-dusted linen cap and coarse, plain woolen clothes.
His gray beard was neatly trimmed, and the deep, rugged wrinkles carved across his face looked as though they had been chiselled into hardwood by an artisan.
He was in the middle of hoisting a heavy burlap sack onto his shoulder when the clatter of the cart pulled his attention.
He squinted through the gloom, froze, and slowly set the sack down onto the gravel.
“Theresa?”
The voice came out thin and cracked, as if his throat had gone completely dry.
“Uncle!” Theresa cried out, her voice breaking.
She didn’t wait for the cart to come to a full stop; she scrambled off the high wooden bench, dropped to the gravel, and ran across the yard, throwing her arms wildly around the old man’s neck.
Miller Peshek caught her, pulling her close into a fierce, suffocating embrace.
His weathered arms trembled violently against her back.
He opened his mouth as if to shout, as if to demand explanations, but no words came out.
In the end, he simply buried his face against her hair, patting her back repeatedly with a heavy, dust-covered hand, as if trying to physically confirm to himself that she was truly real, truly alive.
After a long, silent moment, Peshek gently stepped back, using the sleeve of his coarse shirt to wipe away a stray tear from the corner of his eye.
His sharp, calculating eyes immediately shifted past Theresa, landing squarely on Henry, who had just dismounted from Olena.
“Henry,” Theresa introduced quickly, wiping her own tears as she stood by her uncle’s side.
“He is the son of the master blacksmith from Skalitz.
Uncle, he saved me from the Cumans…
he fought them off and escorted me all the way here.”
Peshek sized Henry up with a slow, intense stare.
His gaze was remarkably sharp for a man of his age, evaluating Henry’s plate armor, his posture, and the loaded wagon behind him like an experienced merchant assessing goods of unknown origin.
Finally, the old miller gave a firm, single nod.
He stepped forward and extended a broad, calloused hand.
“Thank you, my boy,” Peshek said gruffly.
Henry grasped the old man’s hand.
Peshek’s palm felt like holding a piece of rough, weathered tree bark—hardened by decades of manual labor.
“Theresa is my friend, Master Peshek,” Henry replied softly, holding the miller’s gaze.
“She is a survivor of Skalitz.
If there had been another in that burning hell, I would have helped them just the same.”
Peshek nodded slowly, a flicker of genuine respect softening his rugged features.
“Come then.
Let’s get these draft mares unhitched and roll the cart into the dry barn before the night damp gets into the canvas.”
Together, Henry and Peshek unharnessed the tired draft horses and led Olena into a warm, straw-filled stable stall, filling their troughs with fresh water and dry hay.
Mutt trotted contentedly beside them, sniffing at the barn mice before curling up near the tack room.
Later that evening, the three of them gathered in the mill’s cozy backyard under a wooden gazebo.
A stone fireplace built into the wall crackled merrily, casting long, dancing orange shadows across the timber beams and keeping the crisp river draft at bay.
As the fire flickered, Theresa began to recount the nightmare of Skalitz—the terrifying thud of catapult stones, the endless tide of Sigismund’s Cuman raiders, the loss of her family, and the desperate, bloody escape to Talmberg and Uzhitz.
Sometimes her voice faltered with heavy grief, sometimes she spoke with a calm, stoic resignation, and occasionally she offered a lighthearted joke about Henry’s clumsy attempt at driving a two-horse carriage.
Peshek listened in absolute silence, puffing slowly on a clay pipe, the glowing embers in the bowl brightening with every deep breath he took.
When Theresa reached the part of the tale where Henry had salvaged the remaining grain, silver, and weapons from the ruined town, Peshek finally spoke up, exhaling a thick plume of gray smoke into the night air.
“Those weapons and stolen goods…” Peshek muttered, his voice low and raspy.
“If you try to sell them to the city merchants or hand them all over to the lords, you’ll be cheated, boy.
I have…
special channels.
Miller networks run deep in Bohemia. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
I can help you turn those extra spoils into hard silver without drawing the eyes of the bailiff.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully.
He knew Peshek was right.
Deep down, Henry knew that if he handed every single sack of grain and iron blade directly to Sir Hanush or the Rattay garrison, much of it would simply be absorbed into the castle’s war reserves rather than feeding the starving refugees sleeping in the dirt outside the lower gate.
Besides, Henry thought with a subtle, inner grin, Peshek is practically the underground mob boss of the regional millers.
In the game , if player crossed the miller, every fence from Sasau to Talmberg knew yplayer face by morning.
The conversation shifted naturally to the current state of affairs in Rattay.
Peshek leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his tone growing darker.
“The city is on a knife’s edge,” Peshek warned, shaking his head.
“Ever since the survivors from Skalitz began pouring down the road, Rattay has been in total chaos.
The local townsfolk complain that the refugees are begging, stealing, and taking what few day-labor jobs exist.
The refugees cry that the locals are heartless swine who let them freeze in the mud.
Just two days ago, a proper brawl broke out near the South Gate—knives were drawn over a single loaf of bread.”
He turned his sharp gaze toward Henry.
“You said you intend to see Sir Radzig tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Henry confirmed.
“I was told he is staying as a guest at Pirkstein Castle.”
“Aye, Pirkstein.
It sits right inside the South Gate,” Peshek tapped the stem of his pipe against his thumb.
“But if you mean to walk up to a lord’s hall, I suggest you change out of that blood-stained brigandine and wash the road dust off your skin first.”
“That was my plan,” Henry smiled faintly.
“I brought a set of clean woolen clothes in my pack.
I’ll sort through the cart in the morning, set aside what belongs to Theresa, and take the rest up to the castle.”
Peshek looked at Henry for a long moment, then nodded toward the main house.
“You saved my niece’s life, Henry.
You have a bed here at the mill for as long as you need it, until you find a place of your own in Sir Radzig’s service.
I live here alone, and when my time comes, this entire mill will belong to Theresa anyway.”
“Uncle!” Theresa gasped softly, placing a hand over her heart.
“What are you saying?
Don’t talk like that!
You will live a long, healthy life!”
Peshek let out a rare, raspy chuckle, the tight lines around his eyes crinkling.
“I am just speaking truth, girl.
In case the good Lord decides my time is up sooner than later.”
He stood up from his seat, dusting off his apron.
“Enough dark talk for tonight!
Tonight, we celebrate.
My niece is home safe, and we are going to eat like kings!”
Peshek was in such a generous mood that he went deep into his private pantry, pulling out jars of rare spices, garlic sauces, and dried herbs he usually saved for high feast days.
Together, they prepared a grand feast: fresh river trout caught right from the mill’s rushing current, a fat chicken raised in the backyard coops, and wild mushrooms gathered from the nearby woods.
Within an hour, the wooden table in the gazebo was laden with a magnificent spread: crispy, golden-roasted river fish, rich stewed chicken brimming with wild mushrooms and herbs, and thick slices of dark rye bread slathered in fragrant garlic sauce.
Henry sat down, the rich aromas making his stomach rumble.
Before taking his first bite, he sliced off a thick, juicy piece of the roasted chicken, walked over to the side of the table, and set it down in a wooden bowl for Mutt.
The dog wagged his tail furiously, digging into the meat with enthusiastic crunching sounds.
Peshek took a bite of the roasted fish, raising his bushy eyebrows in genuine surprise.
“Hmph!
Not bad, boy!
Tastes considerably better than the bland porridge we usually chew on around here!”
Theresa laughed softly, her eyes shining in the warm candlelight as she passed the bread basket across the table.
For the next few hours, the three of them sat beneath the starlit canopy of the backyard, watching the night sky light up with thousands of twinkling stars.
They talked long into the night—speaking of the quiet beauty of old Skalitz, the harrowing escape through Talmberg, and the long, dangerous road that had finally brought them together to the safety of Rattay.
Theresa spoke openly of her family, honoring her father, mother, and brothers with stories of their laughter rather than tears, while Henry listened, offering a steady, quiet warmth by her side.
As the fires of the gazebo slowly died down to soft, glowing embers, the heavy trauma of the past days finally began to lift, replaced by the quiet, enduring hope of a new beginning.
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