The point of Vincht's ivory-handled shortblade rested on the exposed neck of the frumpy old woman kneeling in the dirt before him. Though she only whimpered quietly, the handsome soldier imagined her crying, imagined the rivers of briny liquid pouring from too wide eyes as she struggled to find the words necessary to stay the hand of the man holding sway over her life. He pictured lips coated in sticky yellow snot and dripping with frothy saliva, the three mixing together in a revolting river of bodily excretions that drizzled in rubbery strings from the chin and soiled her already grimy frock. He could almost smell the sour stench of fear seeping from her every pore.

As he'd done for much of his life, Vincht's face displayed a mask of calmness to hide his simmering revulsion. The weak are always so ugly, and none more so than those facing their deaths.

Even as a child, with his charcoal plume of hair, chiseled facial features, and piercing eyes, Vincht often enjoyed the admiration of both men and women alike. As he grew up, he began to notice the privileges afforded him by his extraordinary features, but the most surprising source came from his parents.

As the second son born to a politically powerful family in Vadderstrix, Vincht was initially confused when he usurped his brother's position as the favored son shortly after his fourteenth birthday. He eventually grew to realize it was neither love nor pride his parents were showing him, instead coveting his usefulness as a tool in the great political machine of the city, as not even the learnèd arrogance of the aristocracy could withstand his boyish charm and roguish good looks.

With maturity, he grew to recognize the endless attention for what it really was - a natural and necessary consequence of universal law. Within beauty, power. As such, Vincht spent a considerable amount of time grooming and adorning his body in ways that would accentuate his Fate-granted talents.

He ignored the old woman's simpering, turning his attention instead to the muffled shouting and sporadic thudding coming from inside the nearby cabin. He couldn't imagine what was taking so long. Surely the carpenters of Elbin weren't so skilled as to construct an interior door of such fortitude that it stymied the efforts of two determined men? He'd begun to suspect that Baron Lancowl had dredged the absolute bottom of the barrel when he had begrudgingly agreed to honor their organization's alliance and loan him a contingent of soldiers.

Glancing over at the other soldier standing beneath the forest's canopy with him, a fleeting grimace cracked his cool facade. Rowan shuffled back a step under the weight of his glare. The man had already annoyed him once today when he'd allowed his horse to somehow slip away from camp in the darkness of the early morning. Such incompetence from one under his command would normally be punished both swiftly and publicly, but in this case, Vincht had stayed his hand. He needed every resource at his disposal, and punishment could wait until success was assured.

That didn't mean he was going to let the man out of his sight though.

“I t..t..told you,” the wrinkled gammer stuttered, fighting to speak through her paralyzing fear.

Vincht leaned in, cocking his head in mock curiosity. “You told me?” he said, his voice deep and resonant, like thunder winding through a mountain pass.

She jerked her head up and down. “We don't have it. We've never even seen what you're looking for. Please, you have to believe me.”

“Believe you? Well, of course I believe you, my dear.” He lowered the tip of his wide blade and straightened, circling around to stand before her. Vincht bent at the waist to bring his face to her level, fighting the urge to recoil in disgust at the sight of her. “It's Lydia, if I recall correctly?”

Rowan practically choked. “You...you know her?”

“Of course not,” Vincht spat, breaking his composure to glare once again. “Her husband said it when he called for her to answer the door.”

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Rowen blinked. “Oh, right. But you actually remembered it.”

I never forget a name. A lesson my late parents drilled into me with a certain...fervor.

“Never forget a man's name,” his mother would hiss as the little boy rubbed his stinging cheek. “Remembering a person's name is one of the highest compliments you can pay them. It is not something they easily forget.”

“A person's name is the sweetest music to their ears,” his father would bark, raising his voice to be sure he was heard over the sound of the little boy's blubbering. “Remembering someone's name garners their respect, commands their attention, and ultimately, weakens them to your will. In ancient myth, men gain power over spiritual entities through the invocation of their true name, and for good reason. A name is an important piece of a person's identity, despite how utterly meaningless it is to anyone but the named themselves.”

There was a sharp crackle of splintering wood and screams of fear and protest from inside the little cabin. Finally. Vincht turned back to the woman, lifting her chin with the tip of his blade. “Now then, Lydia. One of my cohorts is about to bring your husband out here to join us, and I'd very much like to know what to call him. Can you tell me his name, dear?”

“M-M-Marion,” she said, her wide eyes taking in the full length of lethal steel.

A hunched figure tumbled out the open door, landing hard against the moss-draped cobblestone walkway with a yelp. Clad in a mismatched bundle of moth-bitten clothing, the heap of a man would appear as little more than a pile of discarded fabric if not for the dirt-stained fingers and balding pate poking out. He made no move to rise when a pot-bellied soldier stepped out the door behind him, rotating a shoulder as he dabbed a blood-soaked swatch of cloth at his rapidly purpling nose.

“He clocked you harder than it looked,” Vincht said flatly.

The soldier nodded, spitting out a mixture of blood and saliva toward the old man. “Only reason I didn't grab him before he barricaded himself inside.”

He gestured to the kneeling woman with the head of his cudgel. “See that one didn't give you any problems.”

“She's twice my age, Arik. How much trouble do you think she'd give me?”

Rowan winced at the implied insult, and Arik's already exertion-flushed face bloomed a deeper shade of crimson. He lashed out with a sharp kick to the crumpled pile of old man, catching him somewhere in his ribs.

“Stop it!” Lydia cried. Vincht tapped her shoulder with his sword to remind her not to move.

The old man perked up at her voice. “They broke ma arm, Liddy! Smashed in our door and broke ma arm!”

Vincht frowned. First, the man abandons his wife to the whims of three armed men by barricading himself in their bedroom, then fails to even ensure her well-being before whining about his own injuries. Whatever does she see in this old fool?

“Arik, bring him,” he said. “And don't be gentle.”

The pot-bellied soldier grinned, tossing aside the bloody rag and plunging a meaty hand into the layers of fabric bunched behind the old man's neck. He protested, but weakly so, cradling his broken arm with a hand like twisted roots as Arik dragged him across the cobbles. Rowan made no move to help, having shown little stomach for the 'freedom' Vincht had promised his team of soldiers, despite assurances from the garrison commander in Comelbough that he'd selected for him some of the more troubled and violent men and women under his watch.

Vincht now regretted not personally vetting the commander's selections, having instead fallen victim to the urgency of their mission and his desire to quickly put as much of the countryside behind them as was humanly possible. Had he been aware of Rowan's incompetence and reservations toward violence, Vincht would taken another in his stead, but he had a sneaking suspicion the garrison commander had kept that information to himself for precisely for that reason.

Arik deposited the whimpering old man at Vincht's feet, before once again jerking him aloft and slamming him down onto his knees across from his wife. The pile of cloth groaned, slumping forward and cursing sharply beneath his breath. Lydia started crying again, though she wisely fought the urge to reach out and embrace her husband. Marion merely rocked back and forth, cradling his wounded arm.

A third soldier emerged from behind the house, wiping fresh earth off his hands and shaking his head. Vincht nodded. He pointed at both his eyes, then swept his hand out to indicate the forest. The other soldier brought a fist to his chin in salute, hefting his cudgel and stepping off into the trees to sweep the area.

(Continued in part 2)