The dawn had barely broken when the rumble of heavy footsteps and the clanking of armour broke the morning stillness. Stick stirred in the makeshift tent, the chill air biting through his ragged mantle. He could hear the murmur of voices, the commanding tones of knights giving orders.
A shadow fell over him, and a gruff voice barked out: "Get up!"
Stick blinked the sleep from his eyes and stumbled out of the tent. Reacher stood there, looking like he’d pulled an all-nighter. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn with exhaustion. Behind him was the Battleaxe, who led a group of servants. A caravan was loading up logs the miners had painstakingly collected for repairing the shanties. Cadmun supervised some nearby miners, but his gaze was fixed on the knight in silver armor. The bald man had a death stare that sent shivers down Stick’s spine. His muscles were so tensed up that they started to shake. It took every fiber of strength in him to not start pummeling the Battleaxe. There was no discussion, no protest allowed. What is going on?
"If you don’t want it the hard way, you better get out here now," Reacher said, his voice rough. "The Baron invites you for breakfast."
Stick’s heart pounded as he spotted Timothy. He tried to catch his eye, but Timothy’s gaze was fixed firmly on the ground.
“Follow him to the mansion,” Becket said.
A loud wooden thud filled the air. Titor had dropped one of the logs. Reacher rushed over to him and without warning or hesitation, he slapped the former Goblin Hunter across the face.
“You’ve got Parkinson’s, you blockhead? You want to be a support beam instead?” Reacher sounded way more aggressive than usual.
The wood is more valuable than the slave.
Stick had forgotten how cruel the knights could be. The slapped slave glanced over to Stick, as if he was telling him that they were ready to fight back. Stick lowered his hand to signal him to exercise patience. Just a few more days.
“Come on! What are you waiting for?” Becket asked.
Not wanting to cause any more trouble, the two of them set off towards the mansion, Stick casting nervous glances back at the camp as the knights took their supplies without a word. As they walked, Stick leaned in close to Timothy, hoping to get some information.
"What’s this about?” he asked the servant.
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Timothy turned his head slightly, his eyes filled with a mix of fear and regret.
“Do you know what the Baron wants from me?”
Timothy hesitated a bit before opening his mouth, revealing the jagged scar where his tongue had been cut off. The scar seemed to be older. Stick recoiled, a surge of anger and pity washing over him. What the fuck is this?
image [https://i.imgur.com/Cga9i0L.jpeg]
“Did Bonatelli do this to you?”
Timmy’s eyes drifted to the side, and he realised that there wouldn’t be any answers. That son of a bitch! That fucking son of a bitch!
The mansion loomed ahead, its dark silhouette imposing against the early morning light, taking away the wind in his sails. They were ushered inside by two female servants dressed in oversized red garments and no pants like Lydia always has been, and Stick was led through a grand room directly towards the end of the eastern wing. Timmy was ordered to stay outside with the servant girls, as two other very beautiful women surrounded Stick in the steaming room.
“What is going on here?” he asked, with a slight panic rising in his voice.
“You’re invited to the Baron’s breakfast, darling. You can’t arrive as dirty as you are,” a blonde servant explained, her full lips hovering uncomfortably close to his ear.
The bath was set within an opulent chamber adorned with intricate stone carvings and elegant tapestries. At the center of the chamber was a large, sunken marble tub, filled with steaming water infused with aromatic herbs and petals. Nearby, a hearth with a roaring fire ensured the room remained warm and inviting. Rich, plush towels and robes made of fine fabrics were draped over gilded racks.
“Just a quick bath is all we ask,” the other one with the black hair said, tugging him lightly by his collar to loosen the knot on his mantle.
The women started draping their elegant fingers on his body. Their soft clothes, which left little to the imagination, brushed against his skin. It was unclear what the Baron tried to do with this stunt. I have to stop this.
“Well, alright,” he said, trying to gently push the women away from him. “I can take a bath myself. You don’t have to worry about me.”
The blonde grabbed him by his rags. “Don’t be silly, darling. Who’s going to rub your back?”
“Or maybe something else?” the other added, pointing to a small table nearby which held an array of luxurious bathing oils, perfumes, and delicate soaps.
He raised his voice. “That’s enough!”
Stick tried to pull away from the women, but now both of them got a hold of his clothes.
“You’re so tense, darling. Why won’t you let us take care of you?” the blonde giggled, lifting his shirt.
As the women ignored his discomfort more and more, he started to get irritated. What are they trying to achieve here?
“Leave me alone!” he yelled, practically tugging at his shirt.
But the women would not let go. The blonde even tried to remove his trousers.
“The Baron wants us to make you feel good, honey,” one of them, he didn’t know which, said.
With the image of Timothy’s cut tongue still fresh in his mind, he exploded in anger.
“Stop this shit! Leave me alone!”
He abruptly pulled on his clothes, ripping out a huge part of his shirt, which made the black-haired woman lose her step, crash into the nearby table, and fall face first. The glass flasks crashed on the ground near her, spilling perfume and oils all over the stone floor. Oh no!