By morning, the grey northern light filtered weakly through the narrow slits of the private parlor.
Edric sat in a heavy, high-backed spruce chair, wrapped in a thick wool blanket that did little to soothe the subtle, persistent tremor in his fingers. He was still profoundly shaken, the phantom weight of the blade slicing through flesh playing on a loop behind his eyes.
Across the room, Lira sat at a small writing desk, her brow furrowed as she quietly looked over a set of portable financial ledgers they had brought from Galehelm. Celia stood nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the hearth, while Serah stood like an iron statue right beside Edric’s chair, her hand never straying far from her pommel.
The silence was heavy, but the two women noticed the tension in his shoulders.
Lira was the first to speak up, closing her ledger with a soft sigh. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a quiet, unprecedented concern. "How are you feeling this morning, my lord? Did the bath bring you any rest?"
Edric pulled the blanket a bit tighter, forcing his voice to remain steady. "I am doing better, Lira. The road was simply... longer than anticipated."
Celia stepped forward smoothly, her voice a gentle balm. "Would you care for some spiced wine, my lord? To take the chill out of your bones before the day begins?"
Edric shook his head, his golden eyes hardening slightly as he stared into the dying embers of the hearth. "No. I need a clear head when I speak with Baron Alric. We cannot afford any mistakes today."
Lira offered a small, reassuring smile, trying to ease the gravity in the room with light talk. "The ledger entries for the outer territories are messy, but nothing we cannot untangle. The Baron's administrative skills seem as rough as his terrain."
Edric gave a faint nod, then shifted his gaze up to the armored woman beside him. "Serah. How are our soldiers holding up? The vanguard captain?"
"The captain is doing much better, my lord," Serah reported, her voice low and disciplined. "His fever broke right before dawn. The wound was deep, but Baron Alric’s personal healers are exceptional at handling injuries of the like."
"Good," Edric muttered, a fraction of the guilt lifting from his chest. "That is—"
A sharp, rhythmic knock on the heavy wooden door interrupted him. A servant of the Baron, dressed in a simple wool tunic, bowed low in the threshold. "Lord Marquess, Lord Alric has invited you to accompany him to breakfast."
Edric stood up, letting the blanket drape over the chair. He adjusted his leather doublet, his stoic mask snapping perfectly back into place. "Lead the way."
The great hall of Crag Keep was built of massive, unpolished granite blocks, but today it smelled intensely of roasting meat and fresh tallow. As Edric walked inside, he stopped slightly, his eyes narrowing.
The long trestle table was practically groaning under the weight of the spread. There were massive platters of roasted elk, thick cuts of salted mutton, loaves of white wheat bread, and bowls of boiled grains mixed with wild berries. It was a feast meant for a king, let alone a traveling lord.
Sitting at the head of the table was Baron Alric. He stood up immediately, his massive frame casting a long shadow, and offered a deep, respectful bow. "Lord Marquess. Welcome. I trust you slept well? You look... far better than you did last night. The frontier is harsh, but a night inside these walls usually cures the road-sickness."
"It sufficed, Baron," Edric said smoothly, taking a seat at the center of the table.
As a servant stepped forward to carve a thick slab of elk for him, Edric raised a hand, his voice chillingly calm. "Before we begin. You." He pointed directly at the servant holding the carving knife. "Eat a portion of the meat. And a piece of the bread."
The servant froze, the knife trembling in his hand.
Alric’s shaggy eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he quickly recovered, a grim understanding settling into his eyes. An assassination wasn't just accomplished with steel.
"Do as the Marquess commands," Alric barked.
The servant quickly cut a piece of the elk and tore a chunk of the bread, chewing and swallowing hastily under Edric's unblinking golden stare. When the man showed no signs of choking, Edric relaxed by a fraction. He couldn't be too careful nowadays.
Edric picked up his fork, but before he took a bite, he looked back toward the door where Lira and Celia were waiting respectfully. "Lira. Celia. Sit. Eat with me."
Alric visibly recoiled, his mouth opening slightly in blunt shock. The old Edric would have rather starved than let common folk, let alone a maid and a low-born accountant, breathe the same air as his food. But Edric didn't give the Baron a choice, gesturing firmly to the empty chairs beside him.
Trembling slightly under Alric's wide-eyed stare, the two women quietly took their seats and began to serve themselves.
"The dishes are... exceptionally prepared, Baron," Edric noted after taking a bite of the tender elk. "The meat is fresh, and the white flour is refined."
Alric forced a rough chuckle, leaning back. "Only the best for House Artos, my lord. My hunters went out into the high ridges the moment we received word of your march."
"I am sure they did," Edric said, setting his utensil down with a dull click that echoed in the quiet hall. He locked his eyes onto the old soldier. "But tell me, Alric... how are you able to prepare such a lavish feast? White flour, salted mutton in the dead of pre-winter, and enough grain to feed a garrison for a week?"
Alric stopped mid-chew. He slowly lowered his goblet, his mind racing as he looked at the young lord, trying to gauge if this was a trap.
Before the Baron could formulate an excuse, Edric leaned forward, relying heavily on the research he had done. "Lira's findings from the Galehelm tax registries show that Crag Keep has claimed extreme agricultural blight for the past three years. You requested a sixty percent reduction in your grain tithes because your silos were supposedly empty and your people were eating boiled leather."
The air in the room grew instantly suffocating.
Alric’s hand slowly drifted down toward the edge of the table, his posture turning rigid. But before the old hound could even think of showing aggression, Serah took a single step forward from the shadows behind Edric's chair.
The heavy, metallic thud of her armored boot was deafening. Her hand rested squarely on the pommel of her greatsword, her aura so utterly oppressive and terrifying that the air itself felt cold.
Alric looked at the legendary knight, then at the leaner, sharper version of the Marquess sitting across from him.
Suddenly, the Baron threw his head back and burst into a loud, booming laugh that lacked any real mirth. "Ha! You have sharp eyes, young lord! And a sharper accountant! Fine, yes, the registries are... stylized. A frontier necessity, surely you understand? The ledgers in the capital don't account for the spoilage on the road, or the—"
"Alric," Edric cut him off, his voice dropping to a gravelly, absolute whisper. "The truth."
The laughter died instantly in the Baron's throat. Realizing there was absolutely no fooling the young lord anymore, that the spoiled boy from the capital was entirely gone, the old soldier finally capitulated. His massive shoulders slumped, and he looked suddenly very old.
"The truth?" Alric muttered, staring into his dark wine. "The truth is that years of border wars and unceasing mountain raids have utterly ravaged these lands. Your house promised us soldiers, steel, and grain subsidies years ago, and yet none have arrived."
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and fierce with a desperate honesty.
"The silos aren't empty, Edric. I hid the grain. I falsified the ledgers because if I paid the full capital tithe, my people would have died long before you ever discovered my deception."
Silence enveloped the room; all but one had already stopped eating.
While looking straight into his eyes, Baron Alric leaned forward. "Those bandits who attacked your carriage yesterday? They weren't bloodthirsty raiders. They were from a now-abandoned village. They were my tenants. Starving fathers and sons who I couldn't feed because I didn't have enough to go around. They were forced into banditry by... the circumstances."
Hearing those words, a violent wave of nausea hit Edric’s stomach. Internally, he lamented. A deep, agonizing guilt clawed at his chest.
"I made it this way."
He was the author. When he was sitting at his computer in his warm, comfortable apartment, he had written the northern frontier to be a bleak, unforgiving hellscape filled with tragedy and starvation just to add "dark grit" and high stakes to his story's setting.
He had thought it was just flavor text. He hadn't known, he hadn't realized that those careless descriptions would manifest into real, breathing human beings suffering in the dirt. He was the architect of their misery.
The silence stretched, long and agonizing.
Alric swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table as he looked at the silent, pale Marquess. "So, tell me, Lord Edric... will you punish me for saving my own people? Will you hang me for treason because I chose to feed them instead of padding your vaults in Galehelm?"
"Mind your tongue, good lord," Serah flared up as she stepped forward. "You forget yourself."
"Have I?!" Alric retorted as he stood up, increasing the tension inside the room. "I have watched my people starve and resort to banditry for years, while you people fattened yourselves up!"
"Insolent bastard!" Serah angrily snapped as she drew her sword. "You dare?!"
Around them, Lira and Celia noticed some of the Baron's men gathering around, all visibly nervous, most probably at the thought of having to fight Serah, a knight with a fearsome reputation.
In contrast, Edric merely stared at him. His face was entirely void of emotion, his skin stark white, and his golden eyes wide and unblinking as he processed the horrific weight of his own cosmic guilt.
To Alric, to Serah, and to everyone else in the room, that cold, silent, and unwavering stare was entirely misunderstood. They didn't see a guilt-ridden modern man; they saw a predator locking onto its prey. They saw the terrifying, unbothered calculation of a high noble preparing to crush a rebellious vassal.
Lira held her breath, and Alric braced himself for the order of execution.
Edric finally closed his eyes, exhaling a breath he felt he didn't deserve to draw. He opened them, looking directly into the old Baron's, defiant eyes.
"No," Edric said softly.