The guard’s lips trembled as he struggled to speak.
Scrambling to prop himself up, he grabbed the halberd from the ground, its shaft shaking uncontrollably in his hands.
“I…
I’ll go report this.”
He turned and ran, only to stop after two steps and spin back around.
“Wait here.
Don’t move.
Stay right here.”
Then he turned and bolted off again.
Rhoen remained seated on horseback, one hand resting on the haft of his battle axe.
He waited calmly as the sun shone from behind him, casting his long shadow across the muddy ground of Crow’s Perch.
Before long, a soldier wearing a half suit of armor strode out through the castle gates.
After exchanging a few quiet words with the guard at the entrance, he turned and beckoned to Rhoen’s group.
“The baron is waiting for you.”
His gaze swept briefly over the silent horsemen before quickly pulling back.
“You can tie your horses to the posts up ahead.”
Karl swung down from his horse and pulled his lance from its leather boot with one hand, planting its butt firmly on the ground.
The ten Household Knights dismounted almost simultaneously, their armor ringing out in a crisp chorus of clashing steel.
Karl took the lead, lowering the visor of his great helm once more until only his eyes remained visible through the narrow slit.
Rhoen stepped down from his mount, lifting his battle axe in one hand.
The blade sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh.
…
Inside the great hall, logs crackled brightly in the fireplace, their flames casting shifting light and shadow across the room.
The tapestries hanging on the walls had faded so badly their patterns were almost impossible to make out, while moth-eaten edges left them riddled with holes.
A broad-shouldered man with a graying beard sat before the hearth in a high-backed oak chair, a pewter tankard resting at his side.
Several old soldiers stood behind him.
Their breastplates were anything but uniform—some still wore old Temerian half-plate, while others had nothing more than hardened mercenary leather jerkins.
Yet they all stood exactly the same way: their weight leaned subtly forward, their hands resting beside their sword hilts.
They weren’t striking poses—they were ready to draw at a moment’s notice.
The baron didn’t rise.
His gaze moved from Rhoen’s battle axe to Karl’s full plate armor, then to the ten armored cavalrymen standing outside the hall.
His hand paused briefly on the rim of his tankard before he lifted it and took a slow sip.
Rhoen stopped in the center of the hall.
Karl stood half a step behind him, while the ten Household Knights remained outside, facing the baron’s men across the entrance.
Neither side bothered with greetings.
The baron pointed to the empty chair opposite him.
Rhoen sat, resting his battle axe against the armrest.
“The Calradic Mercenary Company.”
The baron repeated the name.
“Never heard of it.”
“You have now.”
The corner of the baron’s mouth twitched.
“You’ve got guts.
The quartermaster reported to me that an armed group had appeared southeast of here.
They seized his ship, intercepted his cargo, killed his men, and asked me to send troops to wipe them out.”
“He wasn’t wrong.
I took the ship.
The cargo’s sitting in my camp warehouse.
And the scouts?
I killed them.”
One of the old soldiers behind the baron slowly ran a finger across the hilt of his sword.
The baron himself didn’t move.
“Hah.
You admit it without the slightest hesitation.
Aren’t you afraid I’ll call in my men and keep you here?”
“When you call for them, I’ll walk out through the front gate.”
Rhoen met his eyes steadily.
“In your letter, you asked whether I wanted to come through the front gate or climb over the wall.
A man who walks in through the front gate doesn’t sneak out through a back window.”
The baron picked up his pewter tankard and took another drink, studying Rhoen over its rim.
When he set it back on the table, it landed with a soft clink.
“The quartermaster says you’re part of the resistance.”
“No.
A resistance movement has banners, slogans, and political goals.
I have none of those.
He raided my camp and took my people.
I took them back…
and picked up a little extra while I was at it.”
Rhoen reached inside the lining of his breastplate, withdrew a neatly folded stack of papers, and laid them gently on the table.
The baron didn’t reach for them immediately.
He first glanced at the papers, then at Rhoen, before pushing his tankard aside and picking up the top sheet.
His lips moved silently as he read through the entries.
By the time he reached the third page, his brows had drawn together.
“Walter…
I remember that name.
Crow’s Perch’s patrols detained one of his ships before.
At the time, a Nilfgaardian military logistics officer personally came to negotiate, claiming the vessel had been requisitioned by the army as a military transport.”
“How many people were aboard that ship?”
The baron didn’t answer.
His eyes remained fixed on the figures recorded on the pages.
Beside every number was the name of a different location.
His fingers tightened around the papers until their edges began to curl.
The old soldier standing behind him tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes flicking across the document.
His Adam’s apple bobbed once, but he said nothing.
The baron set the paper back on the table and tapped the serial number on the transfer order with his index finger.
“This serial range is genuine.
I’ve seen this format before.
Temeria’s quartermaster corps used a similar numbering system.
It can’t be forged.”
He paused, then leaned back in his chair.
The wood let out a low groan beneath his weight.
“In the slave trade, frontline officers provide the equipment and protection, while their agents handle the capturing and transport.
Behind every Black Glove stands someone with the authority to sign transfer orders.”
The baron didn’t respond.
He lifted his tankard and took another sip.
Firelight danced across his face, deepening the shadows in his eye sockets.
Of course he’d heard of things like this.
He’d spent too many years in these swamps—so many that he’d thought he’d grown used to them.
But seeing that ugliness laid out on paper, in black and white, every entry backed by figures, every figure tied to a buyer…
that was something else entirely.
He set the tankard back on the table.
Its base struck the wood with a dull thud.
“What do you want from me?”
His voice was noticeably lower than before.
“The legal ownership of the estate, and an appointment as Sergeant.”
The baron tapped the armrest of his chair twice with his fingers but didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze lingered on Rhoen’s face for a moment.
“An abandoned castle and a ceremonial title won’t make you any stronger.
You already have soldiers and equipment.
Why do you want them?”
“For legitimacy.”
“Without them, my camp is nothing more than an abandoned castle occupied by armed brigands.
Anyone who attacks me is simply ‘suppressing bandits.’
“But with your appointment, my camp becomes the official garrison of Velen’s Sergeant under its lord.
If Nilfgaardian officers want to move against me, they’ll first have to consider how you’ll respond.”
The baron’s jaw shifted slightly.
He glanced once more at the top transfer order. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“This evidence is useless in my hands.
In yours, you can use it to pressure the quartermaster into stopping his requisitions in Velen.
You don’t need to turn against him outright—you only need to let him know these documents are in your possession.”
The baron’s finger slowly traced the rim of his tankard.
“I can do more than that.
I have soldiers.
I don’t need your supplies or equipment.
There are jobs you can’t conveniently handle yourself—for example, eliminating slave catchers who cross the line.
I can take care of that.”
“Your patrols can’t cover every swamp.
Mine can fill the gaps.
You don’t need to know the details of every operation.
You only need to know that there’s an armed force out there working on your behalf.”
The baron fell silent.
For a long moment, the air between them was still.
He rested a hand on the table, pinning down the stack of evidence by one corner, then looked up at Rhoen.
“Your camp remains yours.
I’ll give you the deed and the letter of appointment.
If Nilfgaardian officers come looking for trouble, they can come through me first.”
He paused.
“But when I need you, you’ll obey my orders.
You’ll work for me.”
“Deal.”
The baron rose to his feet, took a blank roll of parchment from a rack beside the fireplace, then pulled out parchment and an ink bottle from a drawer in the side table.
His handwriting was large, the wording concise and direct.
When he finished, he turned the documents around for Rhoen to read.
Deed of Ownership for the Estate.
Letter of Appointment as Sergeant.
At the bottom was his seal, stamped in dark crimson—the same color as his broad cloak.
Rhoen reached out and accepted the parchment.
In the upper-right corner of his vision, the system interface flashed.
A line of pale golden text appeared at the bottom of the panel.
[Territory Development feature unlocked.]
The baron tossed the seal back into the drawer.
“One piece of advice.”
Rhoen looked up.
“The quartermaster won’t stop.
Before, he didn’t think Crow’s Perch was worth worrying about.
Now he’s seen you and me sitting at the same table.”
“He won’t back down.
He’ll only become more desperate.
A cornered dog bites.
And when one of Nilfgaard’s black dogs gets desperate, he’ll call in something far more troublesome than scouts.”
“No rush.”
Rhoen stood and tucked the parchments away.
“The first time he made a mistake, I took his equipment.”
“The second time, I took his name.”
“The third time…”
He paused.
“I’ve got patience.”
The baron rested his tankard on his knee.
The corners of his mouth lifted.
It was a smile—a rare expression after spending so many years mired in this swamp.
He found the whole thing rather amusing.
“The Calradic Mercenary Company,” he said.
“The Calradic Mercenary Company,” Rhoen echoed.
Rhoen pushed open the great doors of Crow’s Perch.
The afternoon sunlight flooded in from outside.
The ten Imperial Elite Cataphracts still stood exactly where they’d been.
Rhoen strode out, his boots striking the stone paving with a sharp echo.