Faywyn, 3rd Moon, 5th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

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Levi’s host trudged along the broad, dusty road that wound its way toward Faywyn. Their boots, still damp from the river they had crossed earlier in the day, churned up faint clouds of dust with each step. The sun sank behind them, casting long shadows that stretched like skeletal fingers over the surrounding fields and pastures. Though the march had wearied them, the men’s spirits lifted at the sight of the distant town, its silhouette framed by the hazy glow of twilight.

Levi rode at the column’s head, his posture weary but upright. Relief tempered with unease churned in his chest as he regarded the town’s familiar contours. The journey had been grueling, even on horseback, and the prospect of rest was a balm to his aching body. Yet, as they drew nearer, something in the air prickled at the back of his mind. Smoke from chimneys rose faintly in the distance, and the faint smell of woodsmoke was soon overtaken by a more pungent odor—sharp and acrid, emanating from the tannery that stood on the town’s outskirts. Foul.

The tannery was deserted. Shutters hung loose, clattering softly in the chill wind that swept through the clearing. Levi’s gaze narrowed as unease settled deeper in his gut. Something was wrong.

"Halt," Ser Justin called from behind, his voice cutting through the rhythmic tramp of boots. He spurred his horse forward, leaving behind the captive from Towleigh they had been escorting. Reaching Levi’s side, he leaned in, his voice low. "Something is awry, my liege."

Levi nodded once, his face unreadable. "Send men to investigate," he ordered, his voice calm but firm.

As Justin turned to relay the command, Ser Mannon rode up alongside the young lord. Levi gestured toward the empty tannery. "How often do tanners abandon their trade?" he asked, his voice laced with quiet suspicion.

"Rarely, my lord," Mannon replied grimly, his gaze fixed on the sagging structure. "The trade may offend the senses, but no tanner worth his salt would leave his work to rot. Spoiled hides are a costly loss."

"And yet," Levi murmured, watching as a few militiamen dismounted and approached the tannery’s door, "it seems this one has. Strange, that they would forsake three weeks’ worth of labour without reason."

Justin returned, his expression grim. "The building has been ransacked, my lord," he reported. "Yet there are no signs of forced entry. It appears the owners themselves packed their belongings before departing. Even personal items—garments, linens—are gone."

Levi’s frown deepened, his eyes scanning the deserted building and the empty stretch of road ahead. The unease that had tugged at him earlier now pressed more firmly against his thoughts.

"What make you of this?" Levi asked, turning to Mannon and Justin.

Mannon hesitated. "I cannot say, my lord," he admitted, his brow furrowed. Justin, too, shook his head, his unease plain on his face.

Levi pressed his lips into a thin line, his fingers drumming against the pommel of his saddle. A faint rustling in the distance drew his attention, and moments later, the knights he had sent ahead came galloping back. The lead rider reined his horse sharply as he neared.

"My lord!" the knight exclaimed, his voice taut with urgency. "Terrible news!"

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Faywyn, ancient and sprawling, had long embraced a scattering of villages along its borders. These settlements, though small and largely independent in spirit, owed fealty to the lord of Faywyn. A landed knight oversaw each village, levying taxes, dispensing justice, and ensuring tribute reached the greater domain.

The villages nestled in valleys rich with loamy soil or beside rivers that offered life-giving water. At their heart, a manor house often stood—a modest but sturdy seat of local power, home to the village lord and his kin. Surrounding it, cottages and huts of wood and stone clustered tightly together, their thatched roofs leaning precariously over narrow, winding streets. These paths converged at a central market square, where villagers bartered their produce and merchants from Faywyn hawked wares from the larger town. Beyond the houses, fields stretched out, orderly and industrious, while pastures teemed with sheep and cattle. Each family toiled over their allotted plot, the land’s bounty their lifeblood.

One such village had been Longboat. Once flourishing and peaceful, it had sat quietly away from the tumult of Faywyn. But now, as Levi approached its remains, only desolation greeted him.

The young lord rode at the head of his column, his soldiers advancing cautiously into the ruins. Charred timbers jutted skyward like skeletal fingers from the wreckage of homes. The air reeked of smoke and decay, the acrid stench clinging to the back of the throat. Embers still smouldered in piles of ash that marked the sites of structures now gone. Belongings were strewn across the ground—shattered pots, torn clothing, and the twisted remains of tools.

The streets were littered with wreckage: overturned carts, splintered wagons, broken ploughs. But it was the bodies that drew the soldiers’ grim attention. Some lay scattered where they had fallen, others hung grotesquely from trees or spiked upon crude stakes. The most chilling sight stood in the village square: a flayed corpse, its mutilated form left on brutal display. Its eyes had been gouged, its entrails arranged into a crude and taunting message scrawled upon the ground. Levi dismounted, his boots crunching softly on the rubble. Despite the grotesque disfigurement, the victim’s identity was unmistakable.

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“Ser Limmel,” Ser Justin whispered, his voice hoarse as he followed his lord’s gaze. “He fought beside us at Mallowston.”

Levi nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “I remember,” he said quietly. His eyes turned to Viscount Lancelot, who had hastened to join him. “Why have the bodies not been buried? This atrocity occurred four nights past, did it not?”

Lancelot hesitated, his face lined with weariness. “We cleared the dead from Mells and South Rock two days ago, my lord,” he murmured, leaning close. “But your father gave orders that Longboat remain untouched until your return. He wished you to see this.”

Levi’s gaze lingered on the ruined village. The desolation gnawed at him, but he betrayed no emotion as he surveyed the wreckage. “How many lives were lost?” he asked at last.

“Nearly four hundred souls in the three villages, my lord,” Lancelot replied gravely. “Survivors who fled to Faywyn spoke of horrors visited upon them by the attackers. Your father sent hunters to track the marauders, but they vanished into the depths of the woods. Fearing further attacks, His Grace ordered the pursuit abandoned.”

“And the other villages?” Levi pressed.

“Your father has ordered the remaining villagers to relocate to Faywyn for their safety until the matter is resolved. Most came willingly—the brutality of these attacks left little room for argument. Guards have been posted along the town’s outskirts, and many townsfolk have sought shelter within the heart of the town itself.”

Levi turned back to the grisly message left in the dirt, his eyes narrowing as he read the crude words. He knelt beside it, running a gloved hand across his jaw in thought. “The Forest Wolves,” he murmured, the name an unwelcome whisper on his tongue. He straightened, his gaze sharp as he turned to Lancelot. “My father wished me to see this,” he said, his voice heavy with meaning. “Now I have. See to it that the dead are interred.”

Lancelot bowed deeply. “At once, my lord,” the viscount bowed, "Thank you."

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"You have returned," Aden said, his voice calm and measured as Levi strode into the chamber.

Levi did not answer immediately. Instead, his eyes found Steward Robert, who stood at Aden's side. “Bid the maids prepare suitable chambers for the Timels boy, Lars,” Levi commanded, his tone clipped. “Ensure a guard is stationed at his door at all hours. He is not to leave his chamber without my explicit permission, nor shall he receive visitors unless I decree it. His meals will be delivered by you or Sarah—no others. Do you understand?”

The steward hesitated, glancing at Aden for approval. The grizzled lord offered a faint nod, and Robert inclined his head toward Levi. “Aye, my lord. It shall be done.”

“Leave us,” Levi ordered curtly. “I would speak with my father. Alone.”

Robert hesitated, his gaze darting to Aden once more. At another nod, the steward withdrew, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud.

“You sought me, son?” Aden asked, his tone as steady as ever.

“Who are the Forest Wolves?” Levi inquired.

Aden’s brow furrowed slightly. “I recall them as a band of outlaws. They’ve long haunted the central and southern woods of our realm, preying on less-guarded roads, extorting coin for safe passage. A nuisance to many lords. But this is the first I’ve heard of them raiding villages.”

Levi’s gaze remained sharp. “And you’ve no prior dealings with them? No bargains struck, no grievances sown?”

Aden’s eyes narrowed. “None that I’m aware of,” he replied evenly. “Though the message they left suggests they mean to lay their grievances at my feet.”

Levi exhaled, weariness seeping into his features.

“What do you intend to do, son?” Aden pressed, his tone betraying no emotion.

“Nothing,” Levi growled. “This is your doing. You will set it right.”

Aden shook his head slowly. “Perhaps my past deeds have sown the seeds of this strife,” he admitted. “If so, I accept that blame. But remember this: it is you who now helm Faywyn, not I. If you find yourself in peril, I will counsel you. But I will not coddle you as a child. Those days are gone.”

Levi’s lips curled into a faint, humourless smile. “A trial, then? Is that what this is?” He shook his head. “And what of your claim that I am at the helm? You undermine me at every turn. The knights and stewards seek your approval before obeying my commands. If you mean to reclaim your mantle, do so. But if not, step aside. I will not endure your meddling while I am left to clean the messes you leave behind.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Aden’s gaze did not waver, but a flicker of something—pride, perhaps—crossed his features. “Do this well,” he said finally, “and I will deem you competent enough to be free of my oversight.”

Levi’s expression hardened. “No. I refuse your terms. Either you take back the mantle of rule or you relinquish it entirely. I will not compromise on this, Father. Not now. Not ever.”

Aden studied him for a long moment before he nodded. “Very well. Do as you will.”

Levi inclined his head, stepping forward and lowering himself into Aden’s vacant seat. Reaching for a sheet of parchment, he dipped a quill into the waiting inkwell. “Tell me, Father, what is the state of our relations with the mountain tribes?”

“Civil,” Aden replied. “Though they are a savage folk, quick to hostility.”

Levi tapped the quill against the edge of the inkwell, considering his father’s words. “Ser Justin will parley with them,” he declared after a pause. “He will offer a bounty: one hundred silver thales for each Forest Wolf slain, and a gold royal for each taken alive.”

Aden leaned forward, his expression skeptical. “The tribes have no cause to involve themselves in a conflict that is not their own.”

“They will if the terms are worth their while,” Levi countered. “The Aiga is near impregnable to outsiders. Armies have tried and failed to claim it. The tribesmen are hunters to the bone—warriors who know the woods better than any lord’s soldier. This will not be a battle, Father. It will be a hunt, and the Forest Wolves will be the prey. Of the nine thousand gold royals I extracted from Lord Timel, three hundred shall suffice for the bounty.”

Aden said nothing, watching as Levi bent to his task, his gaze touched with something that might have been approval.