Matthew took a deep breath and forced down his anger.
A real leader doesn't get bogged down by small things.
"Relax," he said calmly, lowering his crossbow. "I gave my word—I don't go back on it. Once we're back, I'll bring this up in front of everyone."
Morty blinked, hesitated, but seeing that cold stare fixed on him, he knew the matter wasn't finished.
After thinking it through, he finally nodded. "Fine. I'll stay—but tell me how long before I can go?"
Matthew scratched his chin for a moment, then said, "Seven days. After seven days, you're free to leave. Deal?"
Seven days didn't sound too bad. Morty agreed with a nod. "Deal."
"Good," Matthew said curtly, motioning with his hand. "Now let's head back."
Morty hesitated, then took the lead, constantly glancing back, half-expecting an arrow to take him between the shoulders.
Matthew followed a dozen steps behind, one hand resting on his sword hilt, ready for anything.
But neither made a move.
Before long, Bors and Sir Haven caught up. Seeing the awkward air between the two men, they exchanged uneasy looks.
Haven was surprised Morty even came back alive—he'd assumed Matthew would've killed him.
But somehow, he hadn't.
Once they regrouped, Haven nodded at Morty, then turned to Matthew. "Hey, what happened?"
Matthew shot him a glare. "Why do you care? You should spend that energy deciding whether you're gonna serve under me or not."
Right as he said that, Bors stepped closer, grinning. "Boss, you want me to rough him up a bit? Make sure he doesn't bolt again?"
Matthew frowned, snapping, "Use that thick neck of yours for something better. How'd you feel if I did that to you every time you thought of walking out?"
Bors laughed. "But I'm not going anywhere!"
Matthew groaned, pushed him aside, and marched forward.
Bors scratched his head, confused, and looked at Haven. "What? Did I say something wrong?"
Haven wasn't in the mood to explain. He just sighed and walked off.
Bors blinked, then hurried to catch up.
The group trudged back along the same path, keeping distance between each other.
Even Bors—dense as he was—felt something was off and stayed at the rear, watching in silence.
When they reached the narrow road again, Bernas had already cleaned up the battlefield.
Four captives knelt by the roadside in thin clothes, watched closely by armed mercenaries.
"My lord!" Bernas stepped forward, his old chainmail clinking as the others gathered around.
But the moment his gaze landed on Morty, his face hardened. "What do we do with this traitor?"
At once, mercenaries rested hands on their hilts, eyes sharp, waiting for Matthew's order.
The air tensed. Cold sweat broke down Morty's back as his hand gripped his sword, dread gnawing at him.
Sir Haven took two steps back, bumping into Bors, whose dark face split into a knowing smirk.
Matthew waved impatiently. "Forget it for now. Tell me—how many horses are still fit to run?"
Bernas looked away from Morty and sighed. "Only four."
Matthew winced but didn't linger on it. Losses were losses.
"Bring them around," he said, patting Bernas's shoulder. "Also, get our pack horses and the wagon out. We're heading back to the tavern."
Bernas blinked, then nodded with a grin. "Right away."
He pointed at several older mercenaries. "You—come with me!"
They followed him off toward the trees, moving carefully around the restless horses still spooked by battle.
As they left, Little Fishy approached. "Should we send someone after Sir Davos?"
Matthew watched the horses, shook his head, and said, "No. If they trust me, we'll meet on the road. If not—they're probably miles away by now."
Little Fishy frowned, eyes sharp for someone so young.
Seeing the look, Matthew smiled faintly, rubbing the boy's round head.
"It's alright. Their leaving might not be a bad thing."
The boy nodded and leaned quietly against him, watching the handlers struggle to calm the nervous animals.
It took quite a while before Bernas and the men returned, leading the horses.
The animals still snorted and tossed their heads, eyes wide and red from panic. Even the once-docile wagon horse was now restless.
Matthew eyed them coolly. "Still rideable?"
Bernas stroked one horse's face, then with a practiced motion, swung into the saddle.
"Rideable," he said with a grin, "but it'll take skill."
The horse shifted beneath him, hooves stamping, but under Bernas's hands, it obeyed.
"Good," Matthew said. "Pair up—one horse per two riders. Put the prisoners in the wagon. I want two men guarding them. The rest will stay here and wait for our return."
He then walked over, untied one of the calmer draft horses, and led it aside.
Once separated, it settled quickly. After a bit of coaxing and a mouthful of fresh grass, it seemed content.
When the wagon rolled out and everyone was mounted, Matthew swung himself into the saddle, clamped his knees, and called out to Bernas, "Move out!"
The three short words stretched on the wind as their small column started down the road.
A dozen riders galloped away, leaving the rest behind to watch in silence as they disappeared into the hill's curve.
Matthew felt the warm rush of wind and couldn't help but grin.
It wasn't his first time on horseback—but it was still exhilarating, like that first time he stole a horse from the royal stables just for a ride.
Of course, selling it later had felt even better.
Pleased with the memory, he urged his horse faster. By sunset, they reached the outskirts of the village.
Farmers were heading home, hoes slung over their shoulders. When they saw a mounted group approaching, they pulled their children aside, clearing the way.
Back at the tavern, Matthew tilted his head toward Bernas.
Bernas nodded and marched his men forward, dragging the prisoners inside.
Within moments, the crash of splintering wood and muffled screams filled the air.
A few passing farmers saw what was happening—and bolted. Bandits, they thought.
Just then, a child darted out from the tavern's back door, trying to slip away.
Matthew was waiting for that. He spurred his horse and charged.
No one on two feet could outrun four.
He caught up in seconds, drew his sword, and slashed.
The child screamed and fell face-first to the dirt.
Matthew dismounted without looking twice, stomped on the boy's head, and drove his sword through his throat.
Exhaling deeply, he wiped the blade clean and muttered, "Missed by an inch. Gotta work on those horseback swings."
Then he flipped the body over and searched it.
The smell was awful, but he didn't care.
After a moment, he found a small wooden whistle hanging around the neck, carved with a black-painted raven.
Matthew recognized it instantly—a signal whistle used by the little bird to summon trained ravens.
When blown, the birds would flock to the caller.
Turning it over in his hand, Matthew glanced toward the west side of the tavern where a patch of forest stood.
A mischievous spark lit his eyes.
"Let's see if Valis can handle a little scare," he said with a smirk, tightening his grip on the whistle.
He already had an idea for a wicked prank—one that might involve his pet spider.
Tucking the whistle away, Matthew dragged the boy's corpse back to the tavern entrance.
"All done in there?" he called out.
Bernas's voice answered from inside, "We've got everyone secured—you can come in."
Matthew stepped through the door, tossed the corpse onto the floor, and said casually, "Caught us a little bird."
Inside, the tavern keeper knelt trembling on the floor.
Matthew's boots thudded across the floorboards—one step, two, three. Each thud made the man's heart shrink further, as though every sound pressed heavier on his chest.
When Matthew stopped in front of him, the innkeeper forced a nervous smile. "Ah, Lord Matthew. What brings you here?"
Matthew raised a finger to his lips and gave a quiet "shh," then motioned for the four prisoners to step forward.
They hesitated, but the mercenaries shoved them ahead. Recognizing Matthew's dark mood, they dropped to their knees again.
"Want to work for me?" he asked evenly, his tone oddly encouraging.
The men nodded like puppets, stammering, "Yes, yes—we'll serve you!"
"Good," Matthew said with a smile. "Now, of these new catches, which one's closest to him?" He nudged the tavern keeper's side with his boot.
The innkeeper paled, looking at the captives in desperation.
They hesitated only a moment before one pointed at a thin, trembling man kneeling behind the innkeeper. "That one. He's the boss's nephew—the only family he's got."
Matthew clapped once, grinning. "Perfect. You're hired. Now bring me the nephew."
The four scrambled to obey, dragging the panicked young man forward as he cried for help.
The innkeeper broke into a sweat, pleading, "My lord, it's all my fault! Please—don't hurt him! Whatever you want, I'll do it! Just tell me!"
Matthew chuckled darkly. He walked over and pressed his boot on the nephew's face.
"You want to save him? Fine. You just need to cooperate."
He ground his heel slightly, smiling. "You're going to write a letter—for me—to Haverfield."
The nephew whimpered, blood running down his cheek.
"Uncle, please!" he cried.
Hearing that, the innkeeper's panic shattered the last of his hesitation. He crawled forward, trembling. "I'll do it—I'll write whatever you tell me to!"
---