I found myself sitting in the tailor's shop, watching as an old man with a hunched back and hands that trembled slightly worked on patching up my clothes. The place smelled of mothballs and old leather, and I couldn't help but feel like I was in some forgotten corner of the world. The old tailor muttered under his breath as he worked, squinting through thick glasses.

"So, thou didst take quite a tumble, eh?" the tailor asked, threading his needle with what I could only describe as surprising accuracy for someone who looked like he’d crumble to dust if you sneezed too hard.

"Aye," I said, leaning back in the chair. "One could say the forest and I had a bit of a disagreement. I won’t lie, though—I think the trees came out on top."

He let out a wheezing chuckle. "Ah, trees do tend to get the better of young lords. But at least they leave thee alive, unlike some folks around these parts."

"Well, I'd say that's up for debate," I muttered under my breath

"True, true," he said with a grin, his hands working deftly despite the shaking. "Though from the looks of that tear, ‘twas not a tree that gave thee that wound."

"Let’s just say my journey hath been eventful." I smirked, watching as the old man nodded sagely.

"Eventful? Ha! I once had an eventful day, lad. Back when I was young like thee, a goose nearly ran me out of town. Now *that* was an adventure."

I blinked. 'A goose. Right.'

"Sounds like a wild time," I said, trying not to laugh. "Should’ve written a ballad about it."

"Aye! Mayhap I should’ve," the old man cackled, shaking his head. "But no one would’ve believed it."

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After settling up with the tailor and admiring the patch job—'at least now I won’t look like I’ve been dragged through hell backwards'—I made my way to the blacksmith’s shop to pick up the sword cover for Burrak’s massive blade. The blacksmith, a burly man who looked like he spent more time hammering away at his nerves than at steel, handed me the cover with his hands.

I slid the sword into the cover, the weight of it finally hidden from view. "Not the finest work, but at least I won’t be getting all those strange stares," I muttered to myself, inspecting the cover.

The blacksmith looked like he wanted to say something, but I could see the fear in his eyes. I guess the small aura trick earlier had made its rounds. Good. I’d prefer if people kept their distance anyway.

I paid the man quickly, and as I turned to leave, I noticed a noise coming from the village center—raised voices, the kind that told me something was happening.

I adjusted the sword on my back and headed toward the commotion.

The sounds of cheering reached my ears as the caravan finally rolled into the village. It wasn’t massive—nothing like the sprawling merchant trains that traveled the main cities—but it wasn’t small either. A handful of sturdy, horse-drawn wagons trundled down the dirt road, their wooden wheels creaking under the weight of goods and supplies. Brightly colored cloth banners fluttered from the tops of the wagons, and villagers crowded around, excited chatter filling the air. There were crates piled high, stuffed with everything from sacks of grain to bolts of fine cloth. A couple of merchants in simple but well-tailored clothing waved to the villagers, clearly enjoying the attention.

As I made my way closer, I noticed a small group standing near one of the lead wagons. An older man—probably the village elder by the looks of his wrinkled face and worn clothes—was talking animatedly to a young boy, maybe around fifteen or sixteen. The boy, dressed in clothes far too fine for someone his age, was smiling politely, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Oh, young Leonard, ‘tis always a pleasure to see thee again!" the elder said, his voice almost too eager. "This month’s crop hath been most bountiful! I am certain thou shalt find it to thy liking."

The boy, Leonard, nodded with a smile that looked as rehearsed as his response. "Village elder, ‘tis a delight to see thee as well. I trust the crop shall be as excellent as ever."

The two of them launched into a conversation about prices, trading goods, and the caravan’s current offers. Leonard nodded along, occasionally offering a word of praise or two.

'Well, guess it’s time to join the festivities.'

.

.

.

.

.

"As much as I would be happy to take thee to the capital with us, I—"

I cut him off, not with words, but with a flick of my hand. The thing I showed him gleamed in the sunlight: an old, weathered sign, bronze in color, etched with a lion impaled by a trident. It was more than enough to wipe that polite smile off his face.

His expression shifted to one of shock as he stammered, "I... I apologize, my lord... are you... Lord High—?"

"Yes," I interrupted smoothly, enjoying the way his eyes widened in fear. "Wilfred Highcliff, heir to the Highcliff barony."

The name alone was enough to make Leonard’s face drain of color. 'A good lie works better than any blade,' I thought, trying not to smirk as he visibly shook for a moment.

Fear is a wonderful thing in small doses, and right now, Leonard was getting a healthy dose of it.