Matthew watched as Bors cheerfully slammed the door behind him, shaking his head with mild amusement.
The big man still clung to that old "elite" way of thinking—looking down on the ragtag recruits Miro had brought in.
And honestly, Matthew couldn't blame him.
Older fighters always resented the new blood. It was natural to feel contempt for the green and the clumsy.
But time, he knew, dulled everything. Victory covered all divides.
His thoughts drifted hazily in the dim morning light. His sharp-featured face softened, creased with exhaustion.
He was too tired to care. Bors wouldn't wander far, and the others could handle themselves a few hours without him.
He'd rest first.
The moment his eyes closed, he was gone—deep into sleep and the kind of silence that only follows a sleepless night.
Minutes later, the tower echoed with the steady rhythm of snoring—deep, powerful, and strangely thunder‑like.
By midday, sunlight poured hard through the tower windows, bright as hammered brass.
Downstairs, Miro groaned awake.
His room, just beneath Matthew's, was filled with an odd, rhythmic rumble.
He glared at the ceiling, eyes half‑shut, trapped between sleep and consciousness while that noise rolled endlessly above him.
After a long, painful stretch, he gave up with a sigh.
"Old age really is punishment," he grumbled.
His joints cracked as he got up and rubbed his lower back. Age brought different kinds of battles—one of them was insomnia. He didn't dare stomp upstairs and complain, not when the lord's room was directly above him.
That had been a deliberate choice—close enough to serve, not close enough to overstep.
Muttering curses, Miro threw on his outer coat and boots. He'd slept in his clothes, as always—safer that way.
He stepped outside, stretching long under the bright, punishing sun. The heat brushed his skin like the forge fire he used to work by.
Then the snoring upstairs rolled again—loud and perfectly timed.
Miro's lips curled into a crooked grin. "Can't even hate the man for it," he said, chuckling, and headed for his day's work.
Today's task: recruitment. And there was no time to waste.
As he descended, he nearly collided with Sir Haven, who came stumbling through the main hall still stinking of ale.
They froze, trading sharp, mutual glares. Then both snorted and tried to brush past one another.
Miro, halfway through the doorway, turned with feigned innocence. "Hey, Ser Haven," he said slyly. "I'd think twice before knocking on the lord's door right now. He's finally asleep. Wake him, and you'll regret it."
Haven stopped mid‑stride, bristling. "Hah! He wouldn't snap at me over something so small. We're practically friends."
And with that bit of arrogance, he marched off anyway.
Miro watched him go, a wicked little smirk forming. Humming cheerfully, he strolled out into the sun toward the tavern, already plotting how to charm more recruits before nightfall.
The guards at the gate greeted him, teasing about his good mood. He shared jokes freely, laughing harder than he had in days.
---
Meanwhile, Haven climbed the stairs like a man approaching a sleeping bear—loud words but soft feet.
By the time he reached the top floor, he was tiptoeing, practically gliding like a cat toward Matthew's door.
Sure enough, the infamous thunder from inside confirmed it: the lord was very asleep.
Haven grimaced. Best not risk that temper.
So he turned, headed instead for the next room, and knocked lightly.
"Hey, Bors! You awake in there?"
Inside, the blacksmith's apprentice snarled from his bed, every muscle protesting the intrusion.
When Bors yanked the door open, bleary‑eyed with dark rings under his eyes, he looked ready to strangle someone.
"What do you want?" he rasped.
Haven had to cover his mouth to hide a laugh, though the sound still leaked through. "The lord's back, right?"
"Yeah," Bors grunted. "Came in a few hours ago." His tone shifted, softer but serious. "If you've got business, wait till later. He was up all night working—you wake him now, you'll regret that for sure."
The knight waved cheerfully, grinning. "Oh, I know. That's exactly why I'm not going anywhere near his door. I just came to see if you'd join me. I'm heading out for the selection trials."
Bors's answer was short and sharp. "No."
He shoved Haven's hand away from his shoulder. "Piss off."
The knight gave a mock gasp, half offended, half amused, but before he could retort, the door slammed in his face.
A second later, snoring resumed from inside.
Haven sighed, defeated. "Rude, that one," he muttered, scratching his cheek before heading downstairs toward the training grounds.
Up above, the sky shimmered with heat. Inside the tower, though, two out-of-sync snores—one deep, one throaty—battled for dominance.
Between them, a third voice stirred.
Fishy groaned, rubbing his swollen eyes. The noise boxed him in from both sides like dueling saws.
He rolled over, tried to bury his head under a pillow, then gave up entirely.
"Ugh."
Dragging himself up, he shuffled to the door and cracked it open. The noise only got louder.
He scowled, cheeks puffed in frustration, then marched to Bors's door.
"Thump, thump, thump!"
No answer.
Three more knocks—still nothing.
Fishy glared at the door. "How can anyone sleep like a pig?" he muttered and headed instead to the hallway window for some air.
Outside, the noon heat danced off the ground in shimmering waves. But what caught his eye wasn't the weather—it was movement.
Down below, a crowd ran laps around the grassy field.
"Selection day…" he whispered, eyes lighting up.
Without hesitation, he spun and dashed for the stairs.
Servants gasped as the small figure zipped between their skirts, weaving through startled guards, sprinting down the slope behind the tower.
His short legs moved like wheels, carrying him across the field until the training grounds spread before him, loud with shouts, splashes, and laughter.
Men were jumping into a small river nearby, swimming toward a marked finish.
Fishy grinned wide. It was chaos—and he loved it.
Still, he wanted a closer look. So he slipped along the edge of the tall grass toward the riverbank.
That's when he saw it—someone lurking in the weeds, crouched low.
Before he could blink, the shadow bolted.
Fishy's instincts kicked in. He chased.
The figure darted through the grass, quick and deliberate. Fishy stumbled after him, panting, following broken stalks and footprints until the trail led into one of Mother Sow's Ridge's long, quiet streets.
There, the signs vanished.
Fishy slowed, looking around with wide eyes. The street was empty—only a few vendors under shaded stalls, no one suspicious.
"Darn it…" he muttered, scratching his head.
After a minute's indecision, he turned back, jogging toward the training ground as fast as his tired legs would go.
When he arrived, dripping sweat, the contestants were still splashing through the water.
Sir Haven spotted him first. "Oi! What are you doing here, kid?"
Fishy pointed back toward the distant grass, out of breath. "I—saw someone hiding there! Watching us! I chased him to Market Street but—he vanished!"
"What?" Haven's voice exploded. "Everyone—on me!"
The training session shattered instantly. Men leapt from the water, snatching up gear as the knight charged toward the grassland, Fishy hopping after them.
Within minutes, they found the spot: flattened grass, trampled earth, and an unmistakable second set of tracks.
The evidence was clear—Fishy hadn't imagined it.
Haven's expression darkened like thunderclouds.
He turned to the boy, his voice low but steady. "You've done well. This may be nothing—or it may be trouble. Either way, you've earned credit for noticing."
Fishy blinked, unsure how to respond. "Should I… tell Lord Matthew?"
"Yes," Haven said firmly, pointing at the still‑wet recruits and the hourglass on a nearby rock. "I've got business here still. You go ahead, lad, tell him everything."
The boy nodded, puffing out his small chest in pride. "I will!"
He darted off immediately, sprinting back toward the tower with his whole heart, convinced he'd been entrusted with something huge.
Watching him vanish into the distance, Haven's mouth curled into a mischievous grin.
"Go on, then. Waking the lord's the hard part. I'll catch him after, once he's up—and I won't be the one getting yelled at."
He chuckled to himself, turning back toward the river.