The hall where Lord Artos received visitors was not built to impress, but to intimidate.
Tall pillars of dark stone lined the chamber, casting long shadows across the floor. Light filtered through narrow windows in thin, cold shafts, illuminating little more than a few inches each.
A row of retainers stood along the walls, knights, clerks, maids, all eyes down with expressions carefully void of emotion. No one sat; the benches were there, but unwritten rule dictated that those who sought audience waited standing until granted permission.
Edric entered through the high doors after getting dressed with a quiet that drew more fear than any dramatic flourish could.
Every head dipped as their breath hitched in anticipation.
Then, with unhurried calm, he took his place on the elevated seat reserved for the lord of the manor.
Gareth stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, voice even.
“Two petitioners seek audience,” he announced. “The first… from the village of Sunspeak.”
A older man stepped forward. His head was balding, while his body was draped in worn furs, his hands rough and cracked from labor.
He knelt, pressing a calloused fist to his chest as he bowed down.
“Lord Artos,” he said, voice restrained. “I am Brenn, village chief of Sunspeak… We’ve come to ask for the winter grain tax to be lowered this season.”
There it was.
Brenn kept his head lowered. “…If we pay the full amount, there won’t be enough left to last us through the winter.”
The hall waited.
In the silence, the air was thick, not with respect, but anticipation of cruelty.
Everyone here waited for the scum noble's reaction.
Humiliation? Degradation? Imprisonment? Or death?
Edric simply leaned back in the high-backed seat, not slouched, nor arrogant, just to make himself comfortable.
“That is quite a request,” he said slowly.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. The kind of tone that made people listen even if they wished they didn’t.
Brenn swallowed. “My lord, the seasons have not been kind, and bandits continue to harass us we--”
Edric lifted a finger.
Brenn went silent instantly.
Edric studied him, then glanced lazily at the clerk by the pillar, one of House Artos' scribes, clutching a ledger like a lifeline.
“You there,” Edric drawled, “how many people reside in Sunspeak?”
The clerk froze.
A simple question.
A lord should know, or at the very least, his record keeper should.
Yet the scribe’s eyes darted down the ledger, flipping through pages with growing panic.
“I…” His voice came out thin. “My lord, I… I do not know.”
The words hung in the air like a stain.
A ripple of unease passed through the hall.
Not because the clerk had failed to answer.
But because Edric had asked something that should have been known, and clearly, it wasn’t.
Edric’s gaze did not harden. He did not glare. He only raised his chin slightly, regarding the scribe as though observing a flaw in a tool he had just now noticed.
“You do not know,” Edric repeated, not as anger, but as a quiet observation.
The clerk bowed immediately, sweat beading on his brow. “F-Forgive me, my lord. The ledgers—”
Edric raised a finger again, halting the clerk immediately, "No need." He interrupted, "We'll speak more about this later."
The clerk's face visibly lost colour, almost as if he'd seen a ghost or beast.
"A-a.." he stammered, "as you wish, my lord."
"My lord, if I may.." Brenn spoke up as he bowed, "there are sixty-two people living in Sunspeak."
In response, the young lord only cupped his chin, as if in deep thought.
In this moment, Edric understood something: his house managed numbers, grains, coins, quotas, but not people. His past rule had been one of extraction and exploitation, not governance.
He realized, with a detached clarity, that he had not gone over the specifics of this territory in his original draft, only that it was struggling and falling apart.
"I really should have fleshed it out more" he thought to himself.
But why would he? This place was not a focal point in the story, this was just some place for Edric to fail at and be despised for.
Edric rested his elbow against the throne’s arm and propped his cheek against a closed fist, expression unreadable.
“Answer me this, then,” he softly addressed the clerk, “How much is the quota of Sunspeak for this year?”
“S–Sunspeak,” he stammered, quickly skimming down the inked columns. “Ten wagons of grain, my lord, same as the previous year.”
Edric hummed, thoughtful, almost bored.
“And last year… did they meet it?”
"No, my lord." The clerk answered almost sorrowfully, "They were 2 wagons short."
The hall shifted, small, almost imperceptible movements. Some servants looked away. Others glanced at the villager with thinly-veiled expectation.
This is where he humiliates him, their eyes seemed to say.
Edric rested his chin against his knuckles.
“So,” he murmured, “you failed once, and now you come to ask a favor.”
The words hung there.
Brenn’s hands clenched against the stone floor. “My lord, last year was also tough. We barely survived that winter...”
"Then you should have planned better.” Edric cut him off, "you already failed before, remediations should have been made to make sure it doesn't happen again, yes?"
The man merely lowered his head.
Several in the hall exhaled, almost relieved. Ah. There he is—the scum lord.
Familiar. Predictable.
Then—
Edric tilted his head just slightly.
“But let us say,” he continued quietly, “for argument’s sake… that I do reduce the tax.”
He paused.
“What do I gain?”
The question sliced the atmosphere clean.
Brenn froze, as did everyone inside the hall.
They weren’t expecting negotiation, they were expecting sadism.
“And be careful,” Edric added, voice almost kind. “If you say your survival or gratitude, I’ll be bored.”
Brenn bowed lower, forehead nearly touching the cold stone.
“My lord… if you grant this mercy, Sunspeak will answer any call. Labor, conscripts, levies, we will swear it before your seal. House Artos will not find us lacking.”
Edric watched him as one might watch a man drowning while holding the rope.
“Hm.”
He tapped a slow rhythm against the armrest.
Behind him, the retainers exchanged the smallest glances. Gareth remained perfectly still.
“You offer labor,” Edric said. “Men, work, loyalty.”
He lifted his gaze to the watching household.
“And yet… House Artos already owns your loyalty, does it not?”
Brenn flinched. “Y-yes, my lord, but—”
“So you are offering,” Edric said quietly, “something that is already mine.”
The hall went still.
It was not a shout, nor an accusation. It was a statement of fact, delivered with almost academic interest.
Brenn’s shoulders trembled, not in outrage, but in fear. The logic was sound, cruelly so.
Edric leaned forward just slightly.
“In that case,” he said, “I will ask for something else.”
The household stiffened.
Brenn slowly lifted his head, confusion piercing through fear.
Edric’s voice remained calm, almost courteous.
He turned to the female knight, lady Serah at his side, "How many household guards do we have?"
She offered a small bow before answering, "200 guards for your household, my lord."
Edric cupped his chin, as if in thought, before turning towards Brenn.
“I will grant your request," he mentioned, "your grain taxes will be lowered to six wagons."
The crowd of people almost gasped at his statement. Eyes widened by the shock. Brenn in particular almost had his jaw drop to the floor.
Six wagons from ten! Isn't that too much? Some seemed to have whispered. But none dared speak.
"Additionally," the young lord continued, "I will dedicate twenty of my own household's guards to patrol those roads for any bandit raids."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
Gareth’s eyes narrowed faintly, seemingly interested in what Edric had just declared. Serah looked at him in shock.
Brenn seemed confused. “M-my lord, I- I don't know what to sa--."
"I'm not finished." Edric declared. “You wanted reduced tax, I've given it to you, now I want something of equal weight.”
He sat back. His lips tugged into a slight, unreadable smile. To him it was just normal, but to everyone else, it looked as if the evil lord had thought of something devious.
“Are there any learned individuals in Sunspeak?”
The question should have been harmless. But it wasn’t, not to the people present.
Brenn hesitated, a few seconds too long.
Edric noticed. His gaze, steady and unblinking, rested on the kneeling man.
“…Is there a problem?” he asked, tone still mild.
Brenn’s fingers tightened against the floor. “No, my lord. It’s just—” He swallowed. “There is someone. My… my daughter, Lira. She can read and write, and she's smarter than anyone else in the village.”
The hall did not stir.
But something shifted, not in sound, but in breath. In posture. In the way people looked at Brenn.
A daughter.
Young, literate, and to be sent to the manor.
The pieces arranged themselves in every mind present, faster than words could be spoken.
So that’s what this was about.
Edric gave no outward reaction beyond a slow nod. “Good,” he simply said. “Then send her over to me within the fortnight. She will assist with records and correspondence in exchange for the lowered tax.”
There was no leer, no indulgent tone.
But no one heard it that way.
To them, it was the same as always, dressed in new words.
A girl taken to the lord’s estate, away from her home, and brought directly to him.
A clerk near the pillar closed his eyes, just once, as if in pity.
One of the guards clenched his jaw and looked straight ahead to avoid the urge to glance at Brenn.
Gareth remained stone-still, though his eyes sharpened, watching Edric with a new, unreadable calculation.
Serah merely stayed still. She's been with Edric since they were children, and she had seen this happen again and again.
Brenn’s head lowered further, pressing almost to the very stone.
“…If that is your will, my lord,” he said, voice hoarse.
Edric only inclined his head, as if sealing a contract. “See that she arrives before we collect the grain. I intend to rebuild this land. I require minds, not just bodies.”
Rebuild, they heard, but the word twisted in their minds.
A plaything. Just another one to play with and discard once broken.
“So long as Sunspeak honors this,” Edric finished, “the tax burden will be halved. And the patrols will begin at once.”
Brenn’s shoulders sagged—relief warring with dread.
“…Yes, my lord.”
Edric lifted a hand in dismissive grace, as though the matter bored him now.
“Rise. Your petition is granted.”
Brenn stood slowly, trembling, and stepped back.
He did not thank the lord
Not because he forgot, but because his voice would not come.
Because somewhere in the cold stone of that hall… he felt as though he had sold his daughter to a wolf.
And the wolf had smiled.
After he had left, Edric turned towards Gareth.
"Assemble a team," He stated, "however many clerks or servants it takes, I want you to create a complete census on the population of the entire territory."
The command rippled through the hall like a thrown stone.
A census.
Not of grain, nor quotas, but of people.
Gareth stiffened, not visibly, but in the minute tension of his shoulders, the measured blink of someone recalibrating his understanding of the lord he served.
He bowed, but there was deliberation in the movement. “A full census, my lord… That will require riders, scribes, escorts to every village and hamlet. Weeks, perhaps months of work.”
Edric did not blink. “Then begin today.”
Gareth’s eyes flickered, not in protest, but in acknowledgment of what that meant. This was not the whim of a cruel noble, this was administration, this was control.
“…As you command,” he said, voice lower now.
Serah, standing at the other side of the throne, watched without speaking. Her gauntleted hand flexed once at her side.
A census.
She knew what that meant in war terms: numbers. Mobilization. Knowledge of exactly how many men, how many youths, how many could be trained, taxed, controlled… or uplifted.
Edric was tightening his grip on his lands.
She did not speak aloud, but in her eyes there was the faintest glint of interest.
Gareth signaled discreetly to the clerk. Orders would begin spreading within the hour.
Edric leaned back again.
“Next.”
Three men entered this time, not villagers, but dressed in well-maintained traveling cloaks trimmed with dyed thread. A crest marked their sleeves: Golden Hands Trading co.
Merchants.
Unlike the village chief, they did not kneel fully. They bowed with hands clasped politely, as though speaking to a business partner—careful to show respect, but not submission.
“My lord Artos,” the taller one spoke smoothly. “I am Halvern, representative of the Golden Hands Trading Company. We have come to request to renew our exclusive trading permit within your territories. With your continued favor, we can ensure a stable flow of goods throughout your lands.”
Exclusive trading license.
Edric said nothing.
Halvern continued smoothly, as if reciting something rehearsed, “Under this agreement, no other trading house or caravan may conduct business in your territory without your seal… which, of course, we compensate generously.”
He motioned subtly.
One of the men behind him stepped forward and presented a lacquered chest.
He opened it.
Gold glinted within, stacked in neat rows. Gemstones—rubies, topaz, green-cut peridot—rested among the coins like trophies.
The hall remained deathly still.
Gareth did not shift his posture, but a flicker passed through his eyes. This was not news to him. This was how it had always been done.
Edric looked at the gold, not with greed, but as though examining a corpse.
So this is why House Artos thrived while its people starved.
Not by cunning leadership, not by clever governance.
By selling the land's lifeblood to men like Halvern… and choking every villager beneath a smiling monopoly.
Halvern mistook Edric’s silence for consideration and pressed on.
“As a sign of goodwill,” he said smoothly, “we present this token. A modest offering, in respect to your noble house.”
Modest.
It was enough gold to feed Sunspeak for a year, maybe more.
Halvern bowed again, just deep enough to feign respect. “We trust that Lord Artos will continue honoring our arrangement. A single company with exclusive rights ensures… order. Control. The peasants—”
He caught himself, smile tightening. “—The commonfolk, of course, benefit from consistency.”
Serah’s eyes flickered, as if she were weighing how many of those coins had been bought with corpses in the snow.
Edric leaned back, fingers drumming idly on the armrest.
“And if I were to refuse,” he said calmly, “and open my borders to competing trade houses?”
The question was like flint against steel.
Halvern’s polished smile held, but his fingers twitched. “My lord jests. Chaos would follow. Prices would become… unpredictable. Coin would flow without regulation. Your people would have choice, yes, but—they do not understand value as we do. They would squander it. Suffer for it.”
Choice.
The word struck Edric more than the bribe.
Gareth’s brow tightened just slightly, as though bracing for a storm he could not yet see, while Serah’s hand had closed slowly, her gauntlet creaking in the silent hall.
This was not a petition.
It was a reminder.
House Artos was rich because House Artos sold its people to a single buyer.
Edric lifted his gaze, expression unreadable.
“I see,” he said simply.
He gestured lazily with two fingers.
Gareth moved forward, inspecting the chest. He nodded once, a silent confirmation that the offering was real and significant.
Edric looked at the gold a moment longer.
Then he spoke.
“…Very well.”
Halvern exhaled slightly, confidence swelling.
“I will accept this, gift of yours." Edric said evenly. “And I will consider your request for renewal.”
Halvern bowed, satisfied. “Of course, my lord. Take all the time you need. We understand the importance of propriety.”
He believed it was done. That the bribe was taken, the deal still intact.
Edric’s gaze did not shift from him.
His tone was polite. Civil. Courtly.
"You will have my answer soon.” he continued.
Halvern’s smile gleamed.
The merchants bowed once more and stepped back, smug in the quiet way only men who thought they still owned the game could be.
As they withdrew, Gareth’s eyes lingered on Serah.
They both had seen it: Edric did not even look at the gold when he accepted it.
And Edric… he simply watched the merchants go, gaze flat and cold as winter stone.
As the doors closed behind them, Gareth stepped forward and addressed him.
“My lord,” he said, bowing slightly, “the Golden Hands were the last to seek audience today. The hearings have concluded.”
Edric did not rise.
The chest of gold still sat there, its contents gleaming like a wound.
"Would there be anything else needed of me before I carry out the preparations for the census?" Gareth continued.
Edric merely looked back at him. "No, there's nothing else." He answered as he stood up and walked towards the door. "Have someone carry the chest to the treasury, and attend to the promised patrol and census. I wish to have the report as soon as possible."
Seeing the young lord walk out followed by the guards, Gareth simply bowed. "As you wish, my lord."
As the door closed behind him, Edric paced slowly through the corridors of the manor while Serah and two other guards followed.
His face seemed stoic, like an unyielding stone. And yet, inside his head.
I did it! I actually pulled it off!
No one had noticed, no one had seen through him. He had spoken, commanded, and judged, just as a lord should. And they obeyed.
A quiet, restrained satisfaction flickered beneath his composed expression, as if a writer who just got his first novel published.
The census was just the first step. The real work will begin after the data is available to him.
Just as his mind was wandering, it suddenly shifted to the girl accused of poisoning him.
Right, I still have to deal with that
He had almost forgotten about that part altogether. Someone had tried to kill him. And they should have succeeded.
Though he didn't know who actually did it, as he hadn't figured it out in the story yet before it got dropped, he still knew that the threat was very much real.
“Serah,” he said without turning.
The knight straightened beside him. “My lord.”
“We’re going to the dungeons,” he said, voice steady. "I wish to speak with the one accused of poisoning me."
Serah’s eyes flickered ever so slightly. "Should I recall Gareth, my lord?" She asked cautiously.
"No need for that," the young lord answered. "He'll be busy with the preparations. I just mean to ask her a few questions."
Though hesitant, Serah offered a slight bow. "As you wish, my lord." She answered before turning to the other guards.
And with that, they continued to walk through the halls of the manor. And somewhere below all that gold and luxury, a girl waited.