Claude carefully counted the pouches of grains, securing them tightly in his belt. He hoped it would be enough to satisfy Lord Baxter Bahram. That he might return two, maybe three sheep to their depleted farm. As he prepared to leave, Lydia draped an old scarf around his shoulders. It was his brother’s, its fabric worn soft but still carrying the faint scent of hay and lavender from better days.

The chill of the morning air greeted Claude as he stepped into Rothfield proper. The town felt different, its mood heavy. Windows were latched shut, their panes dimmed by a thin layer of grime. Conversations had faded to murmurs that barely rose above the sound of shuffling feet.

He passed the small church adorned with the mark of Saint Edmund, the living Saint-King. The sight of it was unsettling, its weathered stone walls seeming to hold the weight of unheard prayers. Among the gathered townspeople, Claude recognized familiar faces, though their expressions were guarded. Some clutched their own meager offerings, hands gripping bundles of grain or small trinkets as if letting go might invite ruin. Others avoided his gaze entirely, their attention fixed on the ground or the long wooden table ahead.

The bailiff stood at the center of the table, his stern eyes scanning the line of tributes. Claude joined the queue, keeping his focus on the sack in his hands. He felt the weight of the grains shift with every step. Around him, a few townsfolk edged farther away, maintaining a cautious distance.

Claude bowed his head, his grip tightening on the rough burlap. Whatever their fears, he understood them. For now, all he could do was move forward, one step at a time, and hope his offering was enough.

Lord Bahram stood at the head of the procession, his towering presence casting a shadow over the gathered townsfolk in front of the line. His son, Vincent, leaned lazily against a post nearby, sharing an expression of boredom. Claude couldn’t shake the unnatural chill emanating from Bahram.

The only time the lord’s thin lips curled into a smile was when a goose was seized from a weeping couple. The woman’s cries echoed through the square as her husband pulled her away, leaving the bird flapping helplessly in the bailiff’s grip. The scene tightened a knot in Claude’s stomach, but he swallowed his unease, keeping his focus forward.

When his turn came, Claude stepped up to the long wooden table. The bailiff stood impassively, his thick hands resting on the edge, while Bahram and Vincent watched with disinterest. Claude placed his sack of tribute on the table, careful not to meet their eyes. He began to step back, relieved to retreat into the anonymity of the crowd.

“Hold,” Bahram’s voice cut through the murmurs like the snap of a whip.

Claude froze as a chill coiled through his chest. Slowly, he turned back to face the lord, whose sharp gaze now fixed on the sack of grain as though it were prey. Bahram’s hand moved deliberately, drawing a slender knife from his belt. He approached the table with measured steps, the murmurs behind Claude swelling into a wave of unease.

With a precise motion, Bahram sliced open the sack. Grains spilled across the rough wooden surface, a cascade of bright, plump kernels mixed with the duller ones from Claude’s struggling fields. The contrast was stark.

The crowd stirred, their whispers rising like leaves rustling in the wind. Claude’s hands clenched at his sides, his heart pounding in his ears. Bahram’s gaze lingered on the scattered grains, his expression inscrutable.

Claude stood rooted in place.

Even Father Clint, the priest of Saint Edmund’s church, emerged from its arched doorway, drawn by the growing commotion. His stark white robes swayed slightly as he moved, somehow avoiding the dirt and grime of the ground. The murmuring crowd parted to let him pass, their gazes flicking nervously between the priest and Lord Bahram.

Baxter Bahram’s displeasure was palpable. Though his expression barely shifted, the sharp edge in his posture and the cold intensity in his eyes spoke volumes. Claude dared not lift his head, but he could feel the weight of the lord’s gaze pressing down on him. His breathing grew shallow as he stood exposed under their scrutiny.

“What are you playing at, boy?” Bahram’s voice rolled out like distant thunder, low and steady but carrying an unmistakable threat.

Claude’s mouth went dry. The stares from the crowd burned into him like hot irons. When Bahram snapped his fingers, the sound echoed unnaturally in the tense air, compelling Claude to step forward despite the shaking in his knees.

He hated this—hated the way his body betrayed him under the noble’s commanding presence. Monsters, shadow beasts, direwolves, those he could face every night without flinching. But this was different. The might of a noble was something far more crushing, far more inescapable.

Father Clint stopped beside Bahram, his presence no less chilling. His cold, unfeeling gaze swept over Claude as if appraising a servant unworthy of attention. Without a word, the priest approached the table. He pinched a few grains from the spilled tribute between his long fingers, inspecting them with an almost disdainful curiosity. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he scattered them to the ground as though discarding dirt.

The gesture sent a ripple of unease through the crowd, and Claude’s stomach twisted.

Father Clint stepped back to stand beside Bahram, their combined presence towering and oppressive. Even Vincent, usually smug and indifferent, shifted uncomfortably, edging slightly away from his father and the priest.

Under their combined stares, Claude felt himself shrinking, like a bug caught, waiting for the inevitable moment when it would be crushed.

“This is highly unnatural,” Father Clint murmured, his voice frail yet cutting, carried clearly by the stillness of the wind.

Claude’s jaw tightened. He forced himself to keep his voice steady as he replied, “Why does it matter? Doesn’t this please you? To see healthy grains on your land?” He caught himself a moment too late, hastily adding, “Milord.”

Bahram’s gaze darkened, his steps slow as he closed the distance between them. When his hand lashed out, the slap echoed like a gunshot in the silent square. Claude stumbled slightly, the sharp sting blossoming into a dull throb as the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

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“Don’t talk back to me,” Bahram said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned away, wiping his hand on a pristine royal cloth with disdain.

Claude straightened, his face hot with pain and shame. He’d forgotten himself—forgotten his place. The freedom he felt in Rothfield monastery, with Ryne and the others, had lifted his spirit so high he’d dared to speak without thinking. But Ryne was not here, and his monastery rules were not the ones that governed this place. This was Bahram’s domain, where nobility reigned absolute, and peasants knew their place.

The crowd shifted uneasily, but no one met Claude’s eyes. He glanced toward Vincent and was startled to see the lord’s son staring back at him. For once, Vincent wasn’t wearing his usual smug smile. Instead, his expression was unreadable, something like tension flickering behind his dark eyes.

Bahram’s voice, barely more than a whisper, carried a venomous edge as he muttered, “I just can’t seem to get rid of you lot, can I?”

The words struck deep. Claude’s fists clenched at his sides, but he kept his head low, his breath shallow. He swallowed the retort rising in his throat, knowing all too well that any further defiance could end far worse than a public humiliation.

The crowd remained silent, their faces a mix of fear and resignation, as Bahram and his entourage turned their attention to the next tribute. Claude wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes darting to Vincent once more before he stepped away, back into the crowd, his spirit heavy.

Bahram approached the priest, his voice lowering to a near whisper as they exchanged words. Claude wasn’t sure why he noticed. Perhaps it was months of training his ears to catch the faintest sounds of an approaching threat, or maybe Ryne’s influence, urging him to pay closer attention to details others might miss. Whatever the reason, a few words drifted his way, cutting through the dull roar of pain and humiliation still buzzing in his skull.

It was something about his farm. Words like lease or deed slipped between their low tones.

Claude’s fists clenched in his pockets, his nails biting into his palms as he fought to stay still. A hot, twisting rage clawed its way up his chest, but he forced himself to shove it down, burying it deep beneath the wounded, submissive posture he knew he had to maintain. He couldn’t afford to look angry—not here, not now. Anger would only draw more attention, more punishment, and bring danger to his family.

But it simmered inside him, a restless fire that refused to be extinguished. He kept his head low, his lip still throbbing from Bahram’s strike. The man’s arrogance, his casual cruelty, burned in Claude’s mind. His body knew what it wanted to do: lash out, strike Bahram down where he stood. He was a capable fighter; it would be easy.

But he knew better. Monsters turned to ash when defeated. Nobles didn’t. Bahram wouldn’t crumble under a single blow, and even if Claude somehow succeeded, his family would pay the price. The soldiers, the system, the weight of the noble’s power, would all come crashing down on him and everyone he cared about.

So, he swallowed his fury, letting it fester quietly as his eyes darted once more to Bahram and Father Clint. He couldn’t make out the rest of their conversation, but the chill in his gut told him it wasn’t good.

The priest’s voice slithered through the air, dripping with smug superiority. “I suppose it makes sense that the holy Saint Edmund blessed your lordship’s farm first, since it would nourish you.” His eyes shifted toward the crowd, scanning over the wary faces of Rothfield’s townsfolk, before adding, “All of you have a responsibility to care for your lord. Without him, Rothfield would fall, like so many other kingdoms and cities. It is this natural order that delights the Saints.”

Claude’s teeth ground together, fighting the retort that bubbled up from his chest. He couldn't keep it in. “And what about the lord’s people? What happens to them while the good noble lord feasts?”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The air thickened, the people pulling back, as if Claude had just started a fire. Some averted their eyes, others whispered between themselves.

Bahram’s face twisted with disdain, and without missing a beat, he lunged toward Claude. He yelled, “You insolent vermin!”

His massive form cut through the air, fists raised and fury crackling in his eyes. As he charged, his hip slammed against the table, knocking it over and sending the remaining grains scattering across the ground like spilled treasure.

Claude’s pulse spiked. So, this is what Ealhstan warned me about. The kind of man who could flatten you with a single move.

Claude’s mind flashed to what Ealhstan had taught him: stand firm, know when to strike, don’t back down. But this wasn’t like facing shadowbeasts, creatures that could be dismissed with holy flame, vanishing when their source was extinguished. This was real. This was a man with power, with influence, and with enough strength to crush him in an instant.

Bahram’s hand shot out, reaching for Claude’s collar. It was closing in, the pressure rising, and Claude’s breath hitched as the moment stretched, preparing for the collision he knew was coming. His body tensed, ready to move, to fight back, but the weight of the situation anchored him in place.

"Milord!" A woman’s voice rang out, cutting through the rising tension like a blade. Claude turned, his chest still heaving, to see Gabriella raising her hand, her face pale. “Mercy, please. The boy didn’t mean it. Take our tribute and be on your way, sir. Don’t pay him any mind.”

Lord Bahram paused mid-stride, his towering frame still radiating menace. The priest, however, turned his cold, appraising gaze on Gabriella, his thin lips curling with disdain. “Aren’t you the one whose sons miraculously recovered? The one who was begging around for medicine?”

Gabriella flinched under his scrutiny but managed to steady herself. “Yes, milord,” she stammered. “Saint Edmund heard our prayers and healed all three of my sons.”

The priest’s expression hardened further, his voice dripping with contempt. “You stink of lies.” He flicked his bony fingers at the bailiff, who immediately began rearranging the toppled tables and scattered grain. The priest’s attention snapped back to Gabriella, his tone sharp and unyielding. “You’ve not been seen in the church since your sons fell ill, and people whisper of you sneaking about at night. Do you deny it?”

Gabriella’s eyes darted to Claude, a silent plea in her gaze. “I was only getting help from Claude,” she said, her voice trembling but firm enough to carry.

Claude picked up on the thread of her story immediately, nodding before the priest could pounce. “We help each other when we can,” he said, his tone as neutral as he could manage. “Sometimes, she brings us leftovers from her home.”

The priest’s pale, cold eyes narrowed. “And yet, your family seems healthier than the rest of the town. Your grains shine brighter, fuller.” His gaze flicked between Claude and Gabriella suspiciously.

“We’ve tried to share what we can with our neighbors,” Gabriella began, her voice cracking with desperation.

The priest silenced her with an icy glare. “Enough.” His words were final, his voice heavy with the authority of his station. “Anyone caught sneaking about past curfew will be tried as a witch or a spy. Consider yourselves warned.”

Then, as if he had merely been waiting to strike, the priest turned back to Claude. His ashen face tilted forward slightly, the sharpness of his features accentuated by the dim light. “There’s a stench wafting from the dark forest,” he said, his voice low but carrying. “It reeks of rot, of things no incense can purge. I pray that it doesn’t creep into Rothfield.”

The priest sniffed once, sharply, then turned on his heel. His robes billowed slightly as he retreated, his thin frame giving Claude a wide berth. The crowd remained still, tension clinging to the air as the priest disappeared back into the shadows of the church, his presence leaving behind a chill that seeped into the bones.