Dinner didn't exactly end in peace.
When Matthew bit into the last chicken leg, he caught both of his men glaring daggers at each other across the table.
He hid his satisfaction behind a smirk and said, "What's with those eyes? Relax, before the others start laughing at you."
Sir Haven and Miro immediately dropped their gazes, though their narrowed eyes still burned at the edges of their vision.
Neither man could stomach the other.
Haven thought Miro was a scheming old coward who'd stolen his command.
Miro thought Haven was a loudmouthed fool who made up for lack of brains with volume.
Matthew gave them a dismissive glance. "Whatever I said tonight stays between us. If I hear any tavern gossip about it, you'll both give me headaches—and I don't want headaches."
He stood, paid the bill, handed the wrapped food and bottle of ale to Fishy, then gave a polite nod to the tavern keeper.
"Next time, same place," he said pleasantly.
The man beamed, clutching the silver stag Matthew had dropped. "Of course, my lord! Come again anytime—safe travels!"
As Matthew left, the tavern fell quiet. A moment later, the door shut behind him, and noise returned like a wave.
Miro turned instantly toward Haven, face flushed with anger. "You damned southern peacock," he growled. "Always wagging that tongue of yours—"
Haven slammed his fist on the table before he could finish. "Got something to say, friend? Want to settle it with our fists?"
Miro froze, mouth open, fury colliding with self‑preservation. Not a sound came out.
Haven sneered in triumph, lifting his chin high. "Didn't think so," he muttered and walked away, returning to his table of laughing soldiers.
The men cheered at his swagger. A few even ribbed him for show, asking what the lord had said.
Haven just grinned, puffing his chest. "You? Hearing what the lord says to me? You a knight, then? Hah!"
The mockery was good‑natured. Even the target laughed red‑faced.
From his corner, Miro clenched his fists so tight his knuckles went white.
Idiots, he thought bitterly. The lot of you will come crawling to me soon enough.
He grabbed his cloak and stormed out.
His pride burned, but his purpose stayed firm. He would show his worth tomorrow—recruit more men, work harder, prove that Matthew needed him.
That was the truth of it. Value meant survival.
Still, his temper simmered hotter with every step. No one stopped him at the door. No one even noticed him leaving.
By the time he reached the street, the anger had turned to scalding resentment.
"Stupid pigs," he spat. "They forget who's leading the recruits already."
Meanwhile, further down the same road, Matthew was muttering curses of his own.
"These fools talk too much. One slips, and the whole damn town knows. Spirits save me…"
Walking at his side, Fishy craned his neck up to watch. When Matthew fell silent, the boy asked thoughtfully, "If that's the case, maybe you should let me handle it."
He puffed out his skinny chest, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm very capable, you know."
Matthew laughed and tousled his hair. "You are. But knights like Haven won't take orders from a child. Eat more, grow faster."
"I am!" the boy insisted proudly. "I ate a lot just now."
That earned another chuckle.
Fishy had started to change lately. He wasn't just a stray boy anymore—he watched, listened, worried. Matthew could feel the loyalty in him, the protectiveness. It reminded him of family.
The thought made him soften.
"Don't overthink things," he told him gently. "Grown‑ups do grown‑up work. But you can still help. Keep your eyes open. Watch who hangs around us—especially the other kids."
Fishy blinked. "You mean those… sparrows?"
Matthew smiled faintly. "Exactly. Little birds love listening where they shouldn't. If you spot one, let me know."
"Got it." The boy nodded hard, face suddenly serious.
Matthew kept smiling as they walked. In this world, even children had to grow fast.
Sometimes wits mattered more than muscle.
The night sky hung low and bright, a silver sickle of moonlight curving overhead.
One tall shadow and one small one crossed the courtyard, swaying unevenly as they approached the tower.
After greeting the gate guards, they climbed upstairs.
Bors was waiting when they entered, his grin wide with anticipation. He practically lunged for the wicker basket and jar.
Matthew laughed. "What, starving already?"
The big man rubbed his stomach and grumbled, "Fourth time it's complained tonight."
"That's my fault," Matthew admitted. "I shouldn't have wasted breath on those two idiots."
Bors didn't pry. He just chuckled, lifting the cloth from the basket and inhaling deeply. "Smells good."
Fishy, still standing by the door, sniffed the air too and licked his lips.
Bors noticed and broke off a drumstick, handing it over. "Here, have some."
But the boy shook his head. Instead of eating, he clambered up onto the window ledge and gazed outside toward the quiet streets.
Bors frowned.
Matthew waved him off. "Let him be. Eat."
So Bors did—tearing into the meat with gusto.
When he finished the last scraps, Matthew asked quietly, "Did Ser Roger come by while I was gone?"
Bors froze mid‑bite, thinking for a moment, then shook his head. "No, but one of his guards came. Told us not to speak of what we saw today."
Matthew burst into laughter. "Ah, so that was it. Bold of him."
The big man looked puzzled. "What happened, my lord?"
Matthew pushed his face aside with a playful shove. "Nosy again? Don't start picking up Haven and Miro's bad habits. Ears sharp, mouth shut. That's how you'll stay alive."
Bors ducked his head at once, chastised. "Yes, my lord."
Silence fell between them once more, filled only by the sound of chewing.
After a while, Matthew went to the window beside Fishy and looked out. The crescent moon hung like a thin blade above the rooftops.
"Bors," he said at last, "what do you think of tomorrow's re‑formed company?"
The big man chewed on a bone, shrugged, and said honestly, "I don't know. I just figure, the stronger the better." Then his voice dimmed. "If the last lot were strong enough, we wouldn't have lost so many."
Matthew shook his head. "We're past choosing the best. We need numbers first. Quantity builds backbone; discipline makes the iron."
He turned, the light glinting off his eyes. "This new company—I'll make it into solid steel. Step by step, I'll build something worth fear and respect. Do you believe me?"
Bors looked up, face smeared with grease but eyes sincere. "Of course, my lord. You're smarter than me, stronger than me—you'll lead us straight to glory. But…"
"But what?" Matthew asked, smiling.
Bors hesitated, rubbing his neck. "Do you think… someday… I could earn a title? Maybe even… a knighthood?"
Matthew threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed around the stone room, warm and full.
He clapped the big man's shoulder hard enough to make him rock. "Don't worry. There'll be plenty of gold—and plenty of knights—when we're done."
Bors grinned like a fool, and for once, the future didn't feel so far away.
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