“It’s not the cost of the sheep that’s pressin’ ‘em. They’re sayin’—and Declan’s told this to me ‘imself—that if they cull any more sheeps, there won’t be enough wool and meat come the winter.” Bridan, the lord Daithi’s steward, healthy in his old age, stood proudly with his lord as if they were equals.

“That’s a right shame. What of his lambs?” asked Daithi.

“There’ll be no mutton, I’m afraid. But I have heard rumours that there’s a larger herd of elk this season than normal. If a hunt would please ye, my lord, I can have it arranged.”

Daithi surveyed the castle’s meticulously cleaned courtyard before him. Servants, artisans, and decorators from all throughout Gildaun were eagerly redressing the grounds in preparation for the season’s end. Banners were rotated, flowers groomed or harvested, and walls cleaned. Autumn’s cool air had already begun seeping through the lord’s simple, padded clothing, and Daithi basked in it.

“My bein’ there will only spoil the hunt and add a fair bit of cost. Let’s save the people their coin and leave it to our huntsmen. I reckon Oscar and Saoirse have been looking for a challenge.” Daithi smiled. A man in his forties, Daithi was considered handsome by most who met him. His eyes were grey, his cheekbones low-set, his lips thick, and the tip of his strong nose had bifurcated slightly, adding a unique broadness to him. When he smiled, it put those around him at ease, and when he spoke, his soft tone disarmed any who listened.

“I’ll get the word out soon as I can, my lord.” Bridan puffed his chest and strode toward the castle gate.

It had been a rich summer, and the following months seemed to promise the same prosperity as they had in nearly all years previous. If not for the city’s unexpected visitors, Daithi would be at peace, but such is never the case for any lord.

The sound of hooves and metal armour clattered through the gate and over the castle walls. The lilted-voiced captain of Daithi’s guard marched into the courtyard, helmet in hand, his men slowly trickling behind. He and Daithi met halfway. Cian had been the captain of the castle guard for nearly twenty years and his sing-song tone was known and cherished by all. On any other day, Daithi would be happy enough to see him, but not this day.

“My lord, we’ve captured the wicked man who defiled our beloved Fiamór. My men and women made an excellent job of it—if you don’t mind me saying—but it’s been some time since our dungeon doors have been locked, so I figured you’d like a word before we carried on.” Like Bridan, Cian held his head high.

“Is it true, what the fursman said?”

There was no smile with Cian, a rare sight on the man. He did not speak; he merely avoided his lord’s gaze. Daithi understood. The ferment in the courtyard settled, and the jingle of metal chains came to a rest behind the slender captain.

Daithi stayed himself, and prepared to behold a monster. To his surprise, however, no monster stood behind Cian, simply a man. He had black skin, yes, but Daithi had seen men in the sun turn dark. It was no surprise that, given enough time, the skin could darken into black. The man had foreign, tattered robes bleached bone-white, but again, these were merely the clothes of a man.

Shackles rustled at the young man’s extremities, misery and pain painting his square face. This man was reported to have killed an entire village, beating the bodies of men, women, and children into an unrecognizable bloody pulp, yet he appeared tormented beyond his wits. The anguish on the young man’s face sickened Daithi, but strangely intrigued him also.

“Never have I seen a man so burdened by his own actions,” Daithi said, trying to meet the man’s low eyes. “What is it that drives you, I wonder, if not the thrill? Perhaps a sickness of the mind?”

The young man’s structured jaw hung open, as if he lacked the strength to close it. His lips trembled, a line of drool between them.

“… I… I—”

“Come here.” Daithi closed the gap between them, entirely composed. “I don’t believe in killing—truly, it’s not in my heart—but you’ve done a very bad thing. You’ve killed my people, and you’ve hurt the ones still alive. Do you understand that? And we can’t have someone like that around. It’s simply too dangerous. Now, judging by the state of you, I can’t know if you’re truly comprehending this, but just know this: You will die here. You’ll be given a fair and honest trial, aye, as is your right, and as is our traditions, but then you will die.”

The man whimpered; his eyes dry of tears. In another life Daithi would have struck the trembling man into the dirt, but justice was foundational to his fiefdom, and he would not see that foundation weakened by his own fury.

Daithi’s modest clothing rustled in the quiet of the courtyard as he motioned his men to take the prisoner away. He would see to his justice another time, with all the lords of his land in court. A guard yanked the chain secured around the young man’s bindings, and Daithi and Cian watched as the guards led the man into the keep’s dark interior.

“My lord, there was another manner to discuss.” Cian said plainly. “During our capture of the prisoner, we encountered another traveller. A big, strong-looking man. Summoned by the omen-woman if I had to guess. Seemed like an awful grump if I’m honest.”

Daithi replied with a single nod, and Cian left to oversee the imprisonment of the first Gildaun prisoner in years.

A voice called down from the castle walls. “Sir! Someone approaches!” The sun had still barely risen, and already Daithi was faced with yet another challenge. He wanted to huff and retreat. He wanted to close the gate and block the doors. Even after all these years he still felt the tug of his old habits, but Daithi was a lord and needed to act like one. He straightened his back and forced a smile.

“Have them meet me in the great hall!”

Worne stood stoic and unmoving as various servants of Gildaun dressed the great hall around him. In the time he’d waited, the sun’s light had slowly drifted across a decorative carpet that split the room. There were three entryways: the main entrance that flanked him and two smaller doorways near the lord’s table reserved for servants and honoured guests. Worne stared between them both, unsure of which the lord Daithi would finally emerge from.

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From the left, the middle-aged lord finally made his appearance, floating into the room with practice grace.

“I was wondering when the Omeness would finally grace my halls with her presence, but it would seem she’d rather send me her bull.”

“Worne o’ Ursholm.” Worne gave a cursory half-bow.

“Far from Ursholm, aren’t we?”

“Everything’s far from here.”

Daithi opened his hands, “And yet here I am with an Omeness in my humble town. Tell me, Ser Worne—”

“Don’t call me ser,” Worne grumbled.

Daithi contemplated provoking the bull, but continued instead. “Tell me, Worne, why have I been host to an Omeness for over five days, yet have never met her?”

“Madwen said she’s been hard at work.” Worne’s voice was still low, and to Daithi, did not sound terribly apologetic.

“Oh? And what is it that she works so hard towards?”

“She’s not sure.”

“She’s come an awful long way for ‘not sure.’”

Worne blinked slowly. “Ever met an Omeness?”

“I’ve been waiting five days to.” Daithi smiled. Worne did not react.

“They tend to work that way. Go where the magic’s concentrated. So they say. So I’ve come to ask: Notice anything strange?”

“I feel like that’s a better question for an Omeness.”

“Madwen’s stuck in the tavern, and I just got here. Can’t say I’ve noticed anything strange myself.”

“Then there’s your answer.” Daithi was pleased with himself. Three strangers had entered his lands now in less than a decas, a span of ten days. One of them had already wreaked havoc on his people. The bull would need to fight to get any an answer from Daithi, and Daithi was confident the lumbering bull lacked the wits to do so.

“I’ll need to take a look around,” said Worne.

“I can’t say I’m terribly comfortable with the idea.”

“Something to hide?”

“I’ve found that if someone’s looking to find something, whether it’s there or not, they’ll find it. I’ve nothing to hide, no, but I’ve a problem with a sorceress of the High Crown sniffing around my land for something they’re not even sure they’re looking for.”

Worne’s eyes scattered about the room. He’d already studied every aspect of the great hall, but this was for show.

“Quite the city you’ve got here. Expected no more than a small town. Would have expected you’d want it protected at all costs,” said Worne.

“What need of I with a cat if I’ve no mice, nor even a dropping?”

The two studied each other for a moment.

“Geoffren,” Daithi turned to a servant standing patiently near the back entrance. “Could I ask that you fill my cup? Wine for myself, and…?”

“Not when I’m working,” said Worne.

Daithi softened his eyes and shrugged, taking a seat at the lord’s table. The servant quickly returned with a cup and flagon. Any normal chair would have creaked as Daithi leaned into it, but already Worne had come to know that everything in Gildaun was expertly crafted.

“You see all of this?” Daithi gestured around the room with his cup, swirling his wine while doing so. “Every season I open my doors to the people, my people.”

“Generous.”

“Ye may not believe it, but I used to be a working man me'self; slaved every working hour the sun was up. But, my lord was a wretched man. He made an effort to keep us common folk beneath his noble boot. I swore that if I were ever a lord, I'd never let me’self turn into that prick of a man.”

“Lord of the people. Lucky subjects.”

“You jest, but everyone here respects me, and I them.”

A servant entered the great hall from the main entrance, a covered silver platter in hand.

“My lord,” the servant bowed. “The bakers have prepared a sample for your meal tomorrow, should you wish to test it.”

Still sitting, Daithi returned the bow. The servant placed the platter on the lacquered hardwood table, and lifted the lid. Immediately, Worne recoiled, forcing air out his nose like a skunk-sprayed dog. It was an awkward reaction; one Daithi couldn’t ignore. Daithi knew it could only mean one thing. The servant moved to cover the plate, but Daithi swatted away his hand.

“Quite the sensitive nose you’ve got there.”

Worne shook his head sporadically, continuing to expel the stench from his nostrils while slowly backing away. Finally, he had made enough distance from the platter and attempted to collected himself.

Daithi grinned madly, barely stifling his excited laughter. It had been ages since he’d experienced such intense intrigue.

“Oh, now that’s interesting. That is very interesting,” said Daithi. “I see you’re just like me.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking abou—” Worne coughed.

“You asked me not to call you ‘Ser,’ but I s’pose you never said you weren’t a knight.”

Worne locked his jaw and his mean stare grew meaner. Daithi jumped to his feet and waved his servant away. The others in the great hall followed suit.

“It’s intoxicating, isn’t it? The scent of it.” Daithi dragged a finger across the silver platter. Worne couldn’t look away. “They start you off real slow-like, just a taste here and there, and you absolutely hate the wretched stuff at first. But after a whole season, oh, you come to love it, obsess over it, dream of it. Everything else turns bland and flavourless. No matter the amount of salt or sour you try to stomach, nothing quite tingles the tongue, does it? But a single drop of the good stuff, oh, you'll be thinking about it for weeks. Men will go mad without it, and rightly so.”

“Don’t know whatever nonsense you’re on about.” Worne took another step back, still struggling to restore his composure.

Step by step, Daithi inched closer. “I see it on you, clear as I see the floor beneath our feet. Like a dog to a steak. I bet your mouth's all watery as we speak. You seem to have your head about ye though. I reckon an Omeness can get her hands on quite the pure samples. You made a deal with her then, didn’t you? I wouldn't blame ye if you did. Or perhaps you're just as starved as the rest of them?”

“…What does it matter?”

“I like to know the kind of man I’m dealing with.”

“Sounds like you figured out enough.”

“S’pose I have. The way you’re acting though, maybe there’s something I can do for you.”

Every one of Worne’s senses were entirely overwhelmed. He felt like a creature. He imagined being hunted down by Madwen and stunned by one of her magical powders. The humble lord waited, but Worne had no words.

Daithi turned his back to the dazed bull, stroking and scratching at his stubble. “I want that omen-woman gone. I’ve paid my dues to the High Crown. I don’t want one of their servants swinging around in the dark until they hit something.”

“You serve the High Crown too.”

“Aye, but I’m far enough away to consider this my own kingdom. Even my own lord must stretch to reach here, let alone the High Crown.”

The great hall was quiet. Even the subtle sound of clothing sliding against itself reverberated in the empty stone chamber.

“I’ll tell you what,” Daithi started. “Come to my feast tomorrow as my honoured guests—you and the lady Madwen both. See my town and people as they are: peaceful and happy. If ye don’t find anything by then, I want ye out of this place come the following mornin’.”

“Madwen’s got work to do.”

“Then have a think about this: come tonight, and I’ll pour you a bowl of my personal stew, the one that set your senses ablaze and your heart racing.” Daithi’s smile could not grow any wryer.

Worne tried to respond, but not a word crossed his lips.

“…I need to leave.”

A mass of air brushed Daithi’s cape as Worne’s broad frame spun and left the room. Worne stormed out the castle and past the guards. Seeing such a large man move so quickly instilled a primal fear that had some of the men instinctively palm their scabbards.

The pale castle sat slightly elevated, allowing Worne to see the city below in its full splendor.

A rush of emotions beat against his mind, but one stood out chief amongst them all: loathing. Not for Daithi, but for himself. Never had Worne allowed himself to be so vulnerable in front of anyone. He’d spent years learning to rule his emotions with an iron fist, and yet in a single moment, they all slipped through his fingers. If such an event were to repeat itself in front of the Omeness when she needed him most, it may very well cost her life.

There was one small victory, however. Daithi was given opportunity to mention the prisoner shackled in the forest, and did not. But would Worne confess this? At that moment he could not say.