If I am a monster playing a being human, the man who opens the door is a rabbit playing at being a stoic servant. He’s an elderly man dressed in a nice white skirt, dark pants, and a half apron instead of a jacket. Dark eyes peer at me from a weathered face with wrinkles made more prominent by a deep frown.

At first glance, the old man looks like a disapproving elder ready to scold the misbehaving children on his doorstep. However, that stern demeanor is just a façade to hide the fear churning beneath. His heart is beating so hard I’m afraid it might stop at his age and his hands are shaking. Fear wafts off him like a bad cologne, a stench that thick within the house.

I have the senses of a predator and they are all telling me the same thing. There is prey here. Weakness.

The old man studies me as I study him. What is he trying to find? An in? An out? A man of his age must have contended with all kinds. It isn’t unusual for servants of larger families to have their own connections and means. But before I can figure him out, he drops into a formal bow, hiding the windows to his soul before I can figure him out.

“Lady Tome. The lord awaits you in the parlor,” he says in a grave tone.

I stare at the top of his balding head, the moments stretching as I wait for him to say something else. Do something else. The old man barely breathes, giving me no excuse to act out. Enforcing order on a chaotic situation through sheer will. It would be admirable if it weren’t so utterly pointless. There’s no point trying to control the situation, there’re already dozens of corpses littering the ground.

“Take me,” I say dismissively. No offense to him, but I’m not interested in him. Not in anyone here, truly. I didn’t want them involved in this mess, but they just had to be stubborn bastards.

He lets out a shuddering breath, likely to gather himself, before straightening up. His spine is as straight as an iron rod, and just as tense, as he guides us through the house. My gaze flicks about, taking in the sparse decorations and minimal amount of furniture. It’s not as bad as the James’ estate but not much better. I doubt they have a similar tradition of scarcity and supplementing the human desire for nice things with martial zeal. Has the family fallen on hard times?

The parlor is pleasant enough, with neutral walls and a bright wood floor. There are two plush couches in the middle of the room, a long table between with a flower arrangement atop it. There is a small nook in the left wall just big enough to fit a small circular table, surrounded by large arched windows. It must be beautiful during summer, with plenty of sunlight streaming in and a blooming garden to look out at. A room designed to be full of life.

But there is nothing but gloom and tension in it today, the mood brought down by its occupants. Three women are huddled together on one of the couches. One is noticeably older than the others, a matronly woman wearing a white conservative dress, her light brown hair tied in an updo. In her arms is the youngest woman, barely a teen, while the older looks only a few years older than me. The sight of them angers me. It’s one thing if this dumb bastard wants to risk his own life but he kept his family here when he knew an enemy was preparing to siege his house? Is he that arrogant? That callous? That criminally stupid?

Standing before one of the arched windows is the man himself, or at least I assume so given the situation and that he matches the description I have of him. Victor Raymon Tepin, second of his name, current lord of Quest and its associated territory. A man of few accomplishments, middling authority, and scant reputation.

He strikes a proud figure, with a straight back and his hands clasped behind his back. His blue jacket and dark pants are pristine and wrinkle-free, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and thin frame, show off his wealth but his scuffed and sensible boots speak to a man comfortable with hard work. He still has a head full of lush hair though its graying along the sides and there are deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. With his lips pressed in a thin line and his strong chin held high, a generous might call him handsome. Mayhap distinguished.

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I’m not a generous person and am far from a generous mood. All I see is a tired man putting on pretenses.

“It’s basic courtesy to introduce yourself when entering another’s home,” the man says without deigning to look at me. His self-importance is both impressive and nauseating. Especially given that he’s staring out at what remains of his knights. Doesn’t even bother to look at me.

“I don’t give a flying saint,” I snap as I step further into the room. Before I can say anything else, a soft hand squeezes my shoulder. I turn to find Yulia watching me with a meaningful gaze. I almost refuse the silent quest in her eyes, my annoyance almost ready to overflow and spill onto her, but I only entertain the dark thoughts for a moment.

I step back and she flashes me a grateful smile before turning to the lord. “Manners are a common courtesy but, as this is far from a common situation, I believe a few discourtesies can be excused.”

Having been properly engaged, the lord finally responds. He turns to us, thoughts locked behind a stony expression. Brown eyes bounce between us before focusing on Yulia. Did this bastard just…dismiss me? I have to grit my teeth and push down my surging temper. “And you are?”

“Yulianna James, eldest daughter of Duke Erenhart James. I’ve come to Quest to assist my sister, Alana James, in collecting a debt owed to us by the residents of your city.”

His frown deepens at the mention of the March. “I’ve heard about this fraudulent debt incurred by fools ensnared in a scheme concocted to rob Quest of its wealth. A debt that would cripple this city. Why should we honor it?”

“As a noble, you should very well know that a party agreeing to a contract without fully understanding its clauses does not protect them from penalties should they break them. But decency isn’t why Quest should honor its agreement. That is much simpler. If you persist in this lunacy, what transpired in your home will happen to the rest of the city. Make no mistake, good lord. Victory will have its due. We would prefer it in gold, but blood will suffice.”

A pretty speech but why in the nine hells is she waxing on about things we already know? And why is that bastard still ignoring me? Get on with it.

The lord scoffs and turns back to the window. Ignoring all of us now. Is this some weird power play? Does he not realize that he doesn’t have any power? That this whole conversation is a whim of mine? A mercy?

“I didn’t take the proud knights of the north for bandits.”

“And I didn’t take the lord of the south for fools. If you can’t handle a small group of casters—” What a blatant lie. She knows damn well we’re a lot more than a small group of casters. “—how can you expect to fend off a whole army?”

“An army that may not exist.”

I expect the comment to make Yulia flinch, at the very least, but her expression is just as stoic as his. “Southerners know nothing of Victory. We lose thousands every year. And every year, we march. We are not the guilds and our knights are not hunters.”

For the love of the saints, get to the point!

“There is no need to speak of war. We’ve made it clear to all who bother to listen that we want to settle this peacefully. There is no need to wash your hands in more blood.”

“Oh, come off it!”

I’m not the only one frustrated by the quiet conversation. The woman seated at the end of the couch stands, shrugging off the hand of the matronly woman that tries to drag her back down. It’s clear with one look that she’s his daughter, their frowns are identical. Thankfully, the rest of her features are similar to the matron’s, who I’m guessing is the Teppin matriarch.

She’s dressed in clothes that my knight favors, a loose pair of shirt and pants that look easy to move in. Rather unremarkable, altogether. If I saw her on the street, I’d forget her in the same moment, but her audacity is giving her presence.

“What in the burning Paradise are you fuckers even doing here?!” she yells with righteous indignation. “Aren’t the guilds the ones you have a problem with? Huh? Do you see any guildies around here?”

The affront in her tone is so thick, one would think she had suffered every injustice in the world before we kicked down her door. This whole family is incredible.

“Who are you?” I ask disdainfully, breaking the calm atmosphere carefully crafted by Yulia.

“What do you care?”

“Villarey!” the matronly figure shouts, eyes wide with fear. When I turn to her, she carefully forces the young woman reluctant to leave her arms away and stands, smoothing out the skirts of her dress with nervous gestures. “Her name is Villarey Teppin—”

“Lacor! And it’s Rey,” the audacious woman hisses.

Her mother glares at her before turning back to me. “She’s been attending the training for prospective hunters sponsored by One For All and feels an unwarranted loyalty to hunters.”

“Unwarranted? Are you kidding? This city, saints, our family would be nothing without the guilds. They built this city. We just moved in once the hard work was done,” she sneers. “Besides, I’m not protecting them. I want nothing more than for this crazy, lavender-eyed bitch to get out of our house and kill someone else’s friends. But since we’re the ones about to be slaughtered in our own home, I at least want to know why!”