2 weeks later,

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the tall windows of Count Redwood's manor study.

A middle-aged man with graying temples sat across from Baron Hartfield, his fingers drumming nervously against a leather-bound ledger.

Behind him stood two other men—one thin and weasel-like with ink-stained fingers, the other broad-shouldered with the calculating eyes of a merchant who'd seen both sides of every coin.

"Baron Hartfield," the middle-aged man—Steward Orvil—cleared his throat. "About the northern trade route permissions... the merchants' guild is quite eager to finalize the contract."

Baron Hartfield leaned back in what had once been Count Redwood's chair, a glass of expensive wine swirling in his hand. His lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Eager, you say?" He took a slow sip. "Well, eagerness often comes with... appropriate compensation, wouldn't you agree?"

The tax official—the weasel-faced man named Perrin—stepped forward, adjusting his spectacles. "My lord, the proposed tariff rates are already quite generous. The Count's original agreement was—"

"The Count is indisposed," Baron Hartfield interrupted smoothly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "I'm managing county affairs in his stead. And I believe... given the current situation, given the risks involved in opening that particular route..." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Double the usual rate seems... fair."

Steward Orvil's eyes widened. "Double? But Baron, the treasury allocations were calculated for—"

"The treasury will manage." Baron Hartfield's tone carried a hint of steel beneath the velvet. "After all, Steward Orvil, you've been quite skilled at managing the county's finances all these years. Surely you can find... creative solutions?"

The third man—Trade Master Gowen—shifted his weight. His eyes met Baron Hartfield's, and something unspoken passed between them.

"Baron Hartfield makes a compelling point," Gowen said slowly. "The northern route does require additional... security measures. Bandits have been particularly troublesome lately."

"Exactly." Baron Hartfield smiled wider now. "Security. Infrastructure improvements. Administrative costs." He stood, walking to the window overlooking the manor grounds. "The merchants will pay double for the permit. We'll allocate..." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Twenty percent for the actual route maintenance and security. The remaining funds will be... redistributed appropriately."

Steward Orvil's face had gone pale. "Baron, that's... the treasury records—"

"Will show exactly what they need to show." Baron Hartfield's voice dropped, losing its pleasant facade. "Won't they, Steward?"

The silence was suffocating.

Perrin adjusted his spectacles again, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "The paperwork could be... structured creatively."

"Good." Baron Hartfield turned back to the window. "Trade Master Gowen, I believe an eighty-twenty split would be... equitable. Forty percent for my efforts in securing this arrangement, forty percent for yours in facilitating the merchants' cooperation, and twenty percent for actual expenses."

Gowen's lips twitched into a thin smile. "Most equitable, my lord."

"Then we have an understanding." Baron Hartfield raised his wine glass in a mock toast.

Behind him, servants moved through the hallway outside the study. Their heads bowed as they passed the partially open door—not the respectful deference shown to Count Redwood, but something else. Something that looked more like fear.

One young maid stumbled, nearly dropping the tray she carried.

Her eyes darted to the study door, then away quickly, her shoulders hunched as she hurried past.

The meeting concluded with handshakes and false pleasantries. As Steward Orvil and the others filed out, Baron Hartfield remained by the window, watching the grounds below.

Servants scurried across the courtyard like ants. Some he recognized from before—old retainers who'd served the Redwood family for decades. Others were new faces, people he'd brought in himself.

The old ones needed to go. Too loyal. Too likely to ask questions.

Footsteps approached behind him.

"My lord Baron." The voice was measured, controlled.

Baron Hartfield didn't turn. "Ah, Sebastian. Perfect timing."

Sebastian—the head butler who'd served Count Redwood for thirty years—stood in the doorway. His silver hair was immaculately combed, his posture perfect despite his age. But his eyes... his eyes held questions.

"My lord, I must inquire..." Sebastian's voice remained steady. "The servants you dismissed yesterday. Marta, who managed the kitchens for twenty years. Old Thomas, who tended the stables since before Young Master Viktor was born. Elise, who—"

"Are you questioning my decisions, Sebastian?" Baron Hartfield finally turned, his expression pleasant but his eyes cold.

"Not questioning, my lord. Seeking to understand." Sebastian took a step into the room. "These servants have been loyal to House Redwood for—"

"House Redwood." Baron Hartfield moved away from the window, circling around Sebastian like a predator. "Tell me, Sebastian, where is Count Redwood right now?"

"In his chambers, my lord. His health—"

"His health is failing." Baron Hartfield stopped directly in front of the butler. "Rapidly. And in times like these, we must be... careful. Vigilant." He placed a hand on Sebastian's shoulder, his grip just a touch too firm. "I have concerns about the old staff. Concerns about their... involvement."

Sebastian's brow furrowed. "Involvement in what, my lord?"

"The Count's illness isn't natural." Baron Hartfield's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Surely you've noticed how suddenly it came on? How severe? I suspect... poison."

'My dear daughter Elena, it seems I will have to reveal some of your plays to handle this fool.'

'!'

The butler's eyes widened fractionally. "Poison?! But who would—"

"That's what I'm trying to determine." Baron Hartfield's hand squeezed Sebastian's shoulder. "Which is why I must be cautious about who remains in this manor. People who've had access to the Count's food, his chambers..." He paused meaningfully. "His trust."

"My lord, I assure you, our staff would never—"

"Can you be certain?" Baron Hartfield's pleasant mask cracked slightly, revealing something darker underneath. "Can you stake your life on their loyalty?"

Sebastian's jaw tightened. "I have served House Redwood faithfully for—"

"Then you'll understand the need for caution." Baron Hartfield released the butler's shoulder, his smile returning like a mask sliding back into place. "I'm simply protecting Count Redwood's interests. Surely you want the same?"

"Of course, my lord, but—"

"Good." Baron Hartfield turned away dismissively. "Then we understand each other. The new servants I've hired have been thoroughly vetted. They're trustworthy." He walked back toward the desk. "Unlike some who've perhaps grown... complacent in their positions."

Sebastian remained still, his face carefully neutral. But his hands—clasped behind his back—clenched into fists.

"Sebastian." Baron Hartfield didn't look at him, instead pouring another glass of wine. "You should be careful. Very careful." His tone was light, almost friendly. "The manor stairs can be treacherous. The hallways dark at night. It would be... unfortunate if you were to suddenly fall—"

His words cut off.

The air in the room changed.

Baron Hartfield's hand froze, wine glass halfway to his lips. His eyes widened.

The sound came first—boots. Heavy boots marching in perfect synchronization. Not the soft padding of servants or the casual stride of merchants.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Military boots.

Baron Hartfield spun toward the study door just as Sebastian stepped aside.

Through the doorway came six knights.

No—not just knights. Elite knights.

Their armor wasn't the standard issue worn by county guards. This was plate mail of the highest quality, polished to a mirror shine. But it was the heraldry that made Baron Hartfield's blood run cold.

Emblazoned across each breastplate—a silver wolf howling beneath three stars.

The crest of the Ktorian Duchy.

"What—" Baron Hartfield's wine glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor. "What is the meaning of this?"

The knights said nothing. They filed into the room with military precision, forming a semicircle. Behind them came more—dozens of soldiers flooding into the manor, their footsteps echoing through the halls.

Shouts erupted from elsewhere in the building. Servants crying out in confusion. The new guards Baron had hired yelling orders that were immediately drowned out.

Baron Hartfield stumbled backward, his hip hitting the desk. "This is Count Redwood's manor! You have no authority—"

The lead knight stepped forward. His helmet obscured his face, but his hand moved to the sword at his hip with practiced ease.

"Baron Hartfield." The voice that emerged was deep, formal, carrying the weight of absolute authority. "And associates present in this manor."

In the hallway beyond, Baron Hartfield could see Trade Master Gowen being grabbed by two soldiers. Perrin the tax official was shoved against a wall, his spectacles knocked askew. Steward Orvil was on his knees, hands raised in surrender.

"What are you doing?!" Baron Hartfield's voice pitched higher. "On whose authority—"

The lead knight drew his sword.

The blade sang as it left the scabbard—a sound like a bell tolling. He didn't raise it threateningly. Instead, he placed the tip against the floor in front of him, both hands resting on the pommel.

His fellow knights mirrored the action.

Six swords. Tips pressed to the stone floor. A stance of formal judgment.

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