"Bring me paper and a pen."
Matthew shot Bernas a look.
Bernas nodded immediately and walked toward the counter.
Trying to show cooperation, the tavern keeper quickly called out, "Bottom drawer—back one!"
The mercenaries burst into laughter, taunting him under their breath.
He forced an awkward smile, still asking, "You see it?"
Bernas glanced back, unimpressed, but kept going. A moment later, he found not just paper and ink, but a small stack of scribbled papers buried underneath—old wanted posters.
He brought everything back to Matthew, handing him the pile first before setting out the blank paper and ink in front of the tavern keeper.
The fat man nodded quickly, grinning nervously, clearly hoping Bernas would speak on his behalf.
But the old mercenary ignored him completely.
In Bernas's eyes, old Max the innkeeper was getting exactly what he deserved.
The smile on the tavern keeper's face faltered, but only for a moment. He knew better than to expect sympathy; still, even a doomed man liked to gamble on decency once in a while.
Paper ready, he looked up at Matthew, waiting for instruction.
Matthew, meanwhile, was leafing through the wanted posters—over thirty of them, each with a face and list of crimes.
After flipping through, he tapped the stack with a smile. "Caught any of 'em yet?"
The innkeeper shook his head. "No, most of them belong to other lords. They just vanish once they get home."
Matthew nodded, tossing the posters aside. "So if we hadn't come back, we'd be the next faces on those sheets, huh?"
The tavern keeper froze, stammering, "I—I didn't mean—"
Matthew waved a hand dismissively. He didn't care to hear the excuses. His guess was right anyway.
The innkeeper wiped sweat from his forehead and quickly changed the subject. "What would you like me to write, my lord?"
Arms crossed, Matthew tapped his fingers along his sleeve, eyes sharp.
"Oh? You don't already know?"
The man swallowed hard, mind racing. After a pause, he carefully ventured, "You… want me to explain things to the Haverfield family?"
Matthew chuckled—a dry, amused sound that spilled into laughter.
He turned to his men. "Hey—do we look like we need forgiveness from the Haverfields?"
That got another round of rowdy laughter from the mercenaries.
The innkeeper, face burning, decided silence was safer.
Matthew smirked. "No need for excuses. Just write that we've already been dealt with by your people—and make sure that letter gets sent right away."
The tavern keeper froze but understood soon enough. He chuckled weakly and nodded. "Got it, I'll write that."
He dipped his brush in ink and began hesitantly scratching out the words—slow, uneven, like each letter cost him thought.
Matthew sighed and turned to the captured men. "Loosen up the kid's joints a bit," he said casually.
The four prisoners immediately began slapping the innkeeper's nephew across the face. The scrawny boy's cheeks swelled in moments.
"Stop! Stop! I'll write—it's almost done!" the tavern keeper cried.
Matthew gave a simple nod, and they backed off.
Bernas crouched by the innkeeper's side, his voice mocking but edged. "Better keep it honest. Our boss doesn't like games."
Matthew didn't interfere. He simply watched.
Inside, the tavern keeper wanted to curse the northern brute to hell—but instead, he forced a smile. "Th-thank you."
Bernas raised an eyebrow, relishing the humiliation before pushing himself upright with a grin warped by age and amusement.
Matthew let it slide. A small incident like this—it was good to let the men have their fun sometimes.
Soon, the old innkeeper's hand sped up. In a few minutes, the letter was done.
He blew lightly on the ink before handing it up with both shaky hands.
Bernas took it, glanced at the contents, grimaced, and passed it to Matthew.
Matthew smiled faintly as he read it. The pale brown paper held only four short lines—simple, direct, exactly as ordered.
Still, he read it over several times before nodding in satisfaction.
"Good," he said, handing it back to Bernas. "Take three men and make sure you personally watch him send it out."
Bernas gave a short grunt of acknowledgment and picked three younger mercenaries. "Let's move."
Before leaving, he patted the innkeeper's shoulder and pointed at the trembling nephew still sobbing on the floor. "You know what to do, right?"
The innkeeper sighed, nodding tiredly. "I know… I'll take you there."
He stood, limping toward the kitchen, with Bernas and his men following close behind.
As they disappeared from view, Matthew turned his attention to the remaining paper and ink.
He walked over, sat down, and began writing a letter of his own.
When he finished, he leaned back and smiled at the sight of his words.
He had no doubt—Valis would find this letter a very special surprise.
Once it dried, he placed it inside his breast pocket and looked at the remaining tavern workers, still kneeling pale and trembling.
He wasn't in the mood to torment them further. Instead, he gestured toward them and called to his men. "Take these cooks back to the kitchen. Have them make something extra—we'll bring food back with us."
A few hungry mercenaries grinned wide and dragged the terrified cooks away, probably happier about fresh stew than any loot.
Matthew ignored them and turned to the four former captives.
"Alright," he said with a smile, "now it's time to show me your loyalty."
The men stiffened, caught between fear and confusion.
Matthew placed a reassuring hand on each shoulder. "Don't worry. You're mine now—and I look after my own. Just prove your loyalty, and we'll all get along fine."
His tone was calm yet absolute.
Gradually, the men straightened. Their trembling eased.
Without another word, Matthew drew a sword from one of the older mercenaries and walked up to the innkeeper's nephew.
The young man panicked, struggling, crying for mercy.
A mercenary stepped up and punched him hard, knocking him unconscious.
Silence fell. Matthew smirked and handed the sword to the shortest prisoner.
"Here. Do it—cut him." His eyes gleamed, voice low and coaxing.
"Impress me, and the tavern's yours to manage. I'll even throw in a gold dragon."
The short man swallowed hard. He didn't want to damn himself—but he wanted to live more.
With shaking hands, he raised the sword, looked down at the unconscious boy, and his eyes turned cold.
With a yell, he swung.
The blade bit deep into the back. The boy jerked awake, screaming so loud even the mercenaries flinched and stepped back.
Matthew just covered his ears and looked to the next captive. "Your turn."
The second one—a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek—hesitated, trembling so badly he nearly dropped the blade.
Matthew stepped back and barked, "Do it."
The man flinched, wetting himself again, but the warmth seemed to give him courage. Eyes shut, he slashed.
The blade passed to the next man, and by the final stroke, the two remaining prisoners had found a grim rhythm. Both struck cleanly.
By the end of it, the tavern keeper's nephew was dead.
Matthew smiled, sliding his own sword back into its sheath. The captives were officially bound by blood—and too guilty ever to turn on him.
He even clapped, grinning. "Well done. I've seen your loyalty."
Then he pointed to the two boldest ones. "You two are in charge here. Take turns as captains—run the place, make me money. When I return from Sow's Ridge, we'll move out together."
The taller of the two bowed low, handing over the bloody sword with both hands. "Yes, sir."
Matthew accepted it and glanced at the remaining two, noting the resentment and shame flickering across their faces.
Good.
For now, divided loyalties meant no unified rebellion. Exactly how he wanted it.
He tossed the blade back to its original owner. "The rest of you—turn this place inside out. Find every coin and anything worth selling."
The mercenaries cheered and got to work immediately, eager to loot and equally eager to leave the stench of blood behind.
Matthew watched them roughhousing with an amused shake of his head, then turned away.
Taking a wooden whistle from his pocket, he stepped out through the tavern door.
Only one task remained—sending off his own letter.
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