The word hung in the damp air of the great hall, heavy and entirely unexpected.
"No."
Baron Alric didn't move. His hand remained tightly gripped around the rim of his pewter goblet, his knuckles white.
He stared at Edric, his shaggy brows furrowed as his mind scrambled to find the trap. Behind him, his house guards shifted uneasily, their hands hovering near their hilt-guards, entirely unsure of how to react to a Marquess who refused to play the executioner.
Serah’s hand stayed firmly on her pommel, her sharp eyes scanning the room, ready to paint the granite walls red if a single guard made a sudden move.
Edric slowly picked up his napkin, casually dabbing the corner of his mouth before setting it down with a deliberate, maddening slowness. When he looked back up at the old Baron, his golden eyes were entirely devoid of heat, carrying only the cold, unyielding precision of an accountant about to balance a ledger.
"I will not hang you, Alric," Edric said, his voice cutting through the silence of the hall. "A dead Baron is of no use to me, and I have no desire to waste my soldiers cleaning up a civil war just before winter sets in. But do not mistake my practicality for weakness. Your deception requires a steep price."
Edric turned his head slightly toward the writing desk. "Lira."
"My lord," she responded instantly.
"The actual registries you compiled from Galehelm," Edric mandated, his tone chillingly level. "What is the precise discrepancy between what Crag Keep reported over the past three years and what their true agricultural capacity dictates?"
Lira didn't hesitate. She opened her portable leather-bound ledger right there at the breakfast table, her eyes scanning the columns of neat, compact figures she had spent the early morning hours re-checking.
She pulled a small slate from her bag, her chalk moving with terrifying speed, clicking rhythmically against the stone.
Alric watched her, a look of profound, rising dread washing over his rugged face. He had assumed his crude bookkeeping tricks on the frontier were safe from the soft nobility of the capital. He hadn't accounted for a prodigy.
"Based on the rainfall data, the total size of arable land, and Crag Keep's outer silos," Lira spoke up, her voice clear and completely confident, "the Baron has underreported his yields by exactly forty-two percent over a thirty-six month period. Compounded with the avoided capital tariffs and the hidden grain reserves, Baron Alric owes the central treasury a total of eight thousand, four hundred bushels of grain in back-taxes."
A collective gasp rippled through the few servants standing in the shadows. Alric visibly recoiled, his mouth opening slightly. She hadn't just guessed; she had laid bare his entire three-year conspiracy in the span of a dozen breaths.
"Eight thousand bushels..." Alric swallowed hard, his voice suddenly sounding entirely hollow. "My lord, if you empty my silos of that amount, you won't need to hang us. My people will starve even before the first real frost sets in."
"I am aware," Edric said smoothly, leaning forward. "Which is why you are only required to pay exactly half of that sum, the remaining half will be collected after winter passes."
Alric gripped the edge of the table, his posture turning rigid once more. "And what of my House? If I hand over half my stores today—"
"You will manage," Edric cut him off, his golden eyes narrowing. "Lira has already factored in the keep's winter consumption into the equation, Baron. After the extraction of the owed grain, Crag Keep will be left with exactly enough grain to survive a standard winter, with a twelve percent margin for extreme weather. You will simply have to forgo the luxury of extravagant feasts such as this for a few months."
Alric slumped back into his heavy chair, completely defeated. He had been outmaneuvered and completely stripped of his leverage.
"But as I said," Edric's voice dropped to a low, gravelly whisper, reasserting the iron fist beneath the velvet glove, "your transgression cannot go unpunished. You have proven that you cannot be trusted to manage the wealth of this territory from the comfort of this hall. Therefore, effective tomorrow, I am appointing you as the Warden of Dunmere Mine."
Alric's breath hitched, and he shook his head in blunt confusion. "Dunmere? My lord... the Dunmere mines have been shut down for years. I have people here who have worked there, and they all reported that the mines had flooded after a cave-in."
"Then you had better start digging," Edric countered coldly. "Because as of this morning, I am officially re-opening the Dunmere mine. My territory needs a steady supply of iron and other valuable ores. My engineers have assured us that the mine is not beyond saving."
"But Dunmere is weeks from here," Alric protested, leaning forward, his voice tight with desperation. "It sits deep in the jagged ridges, miles away from Crag Keep's borders. If I am forced to march out there and live in a mining encampment, what will happen to my house? What happens to my territory while its lord is exiled in the mountains?"
Edric stared at him, entirely unbothered. "Your appointment is strictly temporary. Your steward, Harlen, has managed your affairs for decades. He is perfectly capable of handling the daily affairs of your territory. He will run this keep under my guidance, until the Dunmere mine is running smoothly and meeting its quotas. Once the production is stabilized, only then may you return to your seat."
Alric looked down at his rough, calloused hands, realizing the absolute finality in the young lord's voice.
"You will personally relocate to the mining encampment," Edric commanded. "Furthermore, you will commit three-quarters of your personal household guards to Dunmere. They will serve as the heavy security required to clear the lower shafts and secure the transport routes. To stimulate the economy you claim is dying, you will offer fair, paid labor to any able-bodied men in the surrounding territories who wish to work the pickaxes. They will be financed by my house, of course."
Alric swallowed heavily. "And what of the bandits you captured yesterday? The men from the ridge?"
Edric felt a violent, familiar wave of nausea hit his stomach at the mention of the starving men he had written into existence. He forced it down, keeping his face entirely void of emotion.
"They will be sentenced to unpaid penal labor in the Dunmere shafts," Edric decreed. "They surrendered, and their lives belong to the state. However, they are assets of the workforce. They will be given warm barracks, clean well-water, and three full meals a day. They will work until their debt to the blood they spilled is paid, but they will not be paid like the normal workers."
Alric hesitated, his shaggy brows furrowing as he looked at the young Marquess who had completely reordered his domain with cold, calculated precision.
Edric leaned forward slightly, his unblinking stare offering no room for negotiation. "You hesitate, Lord Alric. Let me make this clear: you have no choice. It is either the pickaxe in Dunmere, or the hemp rope on the gallows for high treason. Choose."
The old Baron stood up slowly. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked entirely exhausted, but underneath the fatigue, there was a profound, reluctant respect in his eyes. He bowed deeper than he ever had before, his forehead nearly touching the trestle table.
"I accept the terms, Lord Marquess," Alric whispered. "I will work, till my house's debt is paid in full."