Lord Harry Reed, the landowner led by Count Reed, patron of the down-and-out writer Murphy, a vanguard of culture from another world, and—the under Seth's deliberate concealment—the grand fool oblivious to the recent farcical events, was lounging on his bedroom rocking chair, deeply engrossed in Murphy’s latest book, the first volume of "The Earl's Second Son."
For the third day in a row, and on his fifth read, the Earl muttered in amazement while flipping through the parchment pages, "What a riveting tale! How come no one else thought to write it this way? And when can I expect the rest?"
Just as the Earl inquired about the remaining part of the manuscript, his butler, Seth, stepped in to report the latest gossip from the estate, chuckling at his master’s query, "The literary advisor assured me it's due any day now, shouldn't be too much longer."
"In a couple of days? That would be impressive, haha," Count Reed said, closing the book with satisfaction, leaning back to listen to the fresh tales from Seth. Reporting such events had become a long-standing tradition in the Reed estate.
Initially a vanity project by the Earl to show off his dedication to his people, Count Reed quickly revealed his lack of actual governance skills.
In fact, Seth even suspected the Earl of having some undiagnosed condition that made him doze off during reports, never making it through a whole story without snoring thunderously.
Thus, with the Earl's tacit permission, these briefings evolved from political affairs to recounting trivial tales like that of a man getting bitten in a delicate spot by a carnivorous fish while skinny-dipping in the river.
It was only during such salacious news that the Earl managed not to nod off.
Having finished his report, a somewhat weary Mr. Seth retreated to his modest quarters for a brief respite before tending to the backlog of logistics work, only to find an unexpected guest waiting in his room.
"What are you doing here?" Seth asked with a frown.
Despite knowing that Murphy was on his side, the intrusion into his private space without notice was still irksome.
"Oh, lighten up," said Murphy, "I'm here with good news. Your chance is coming."
"What do you mean?" Seth replied with a furrowed brow.
"You'll find out soon enough," Murphy said, sealing his lips with a smile.
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As the Earl devoted himself to his reading, City of Gath's northern gate was approached by a less-than-friendly group of forty knights.
The gatekeeper, spotting the black and white streaks racing towards them from a distance, hurriedly called his meanwhile idling comrades to raise the drawbridge.
Being mainly a district of nobles and high society, the guards at the northern gate had familiarised themselves with the usual comings and goings of the elite.
Born and bred within the City of Gath's walls, the guards had never heard the terms "Black Guard of Honour" nor "Keepers of the Faith."
Upon their arrival at the gate, the lead knight in black armor barked upwards, "Why isn’t the drawbridge down?"
Intimidated, the guard answered weakly, "Identify yourselves!"
Silent, the knight simply pulled his lance from beside his horse, aimed at the winch entwined with the drawbridge ropes, and grunted, "Pierce through!"
With a whistling thrust, the lance shattered the winch to pieces. As the drawbridge fell slowly, revealing the unguarded northern gate, the guards stood in shock until finally, one shouted, "Alert the captain! Go, go find the Earl's personal guards!"
The knights galloped unchallenged through the affluent North Quarter, soon arriving at the largest, most ornate building: Earl Reed's castle.
Posted outside the castle were two guards, one old and one young. Just as the younger guard mustered the courage to challenge the arrivals, the older guard clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Do you have a death wish, lad?" hissed the elder guard.
"But Uncle Barrow, those aren't the Earl's men," the young guard murmured, confused.
With a smack, the seasoned guard chided him, "Obvious, isn't it? That's exactly why we can't stop them. Look at the speed they ride with; they have no intention to stop. Would you rather get trampled?"
The young guard, nursing his red cheek, asked, "So what do we do now?"
"We stand guard. What else? Stick to your post, lad. Your measly three silver coins a month won’t cover heroics."
Casually leaning his bent spear against the courtyard gate as if nothing unusual was happening, the older guard stood watch as the cavaliers, forty-strong, recklessly parked their mounts among the meticulously manicured gardens and barged through the doors.
They advanced with silent precision, leaving a man to guard each door they passed, until Generals Doyle and Bernard, along with their guards, barged into the Count's top-floor bedroom.
Bernard, clad in white armor, unfurled a parchment and compared it with the face of the robust man lounging before him, confirming, "It's the Earl himself."
Doyle, striding forth with commanding presence, slapped Harry Reed awake with a gauntlet-clad hand, the smack resonating through the spacious room.
"Whap!"
The stunned Earl, barely forty but still a child in spirit, could scarcely fathom the psychological trauma of such an audacious challenge.
Confusion overshadowed his rage; it had been nearly thirty years since anyone had dared raise their voice to him, much less strike him.
As the Earl eyed the unfamiliar knight, his voice faltered, "Who are you?"
General Doyle, now with the fully awake Earl in hand, tossed him to the floor and addressed his lieutenant, "Sir Bernard, the culprit is conscious."
"Thank you kindly," the knight in white responded.
"A Knight of the Sacred Order?" The Earl, kneeling on the floor, exclaimed as recognition dawned, "I'm no cultist, my piety to the Goddess is for all to witness!"
Bernard approached the Earl, producing another parchment from his white satchel and solemnly reciting, "In the eyes of the Victorious Goddess, I, Knight Bernard Lourdes, hereby pronounce the sentence upon Harry Reed..."