The air inside Baron Vane's manor did not feel like a home; it felt like a tomb.
For a week, Lucius, Cedric and a heavily disguised Conrad had moved through the Northern territories like a phantom army. They hadn't faced armies but something far worse: the rot of a thousand small betrayals. The raid was not just a collection of gold; it was a psychological dismantling of the vassal system. Conrad's ability to read a ledger was frightening—he could spot a forged entry from across a room, pointing out discrepancies that made Vane's steward turn pale and stutter.
But the Baron himself, a bloated man named Malakor, was different. He was not just greedy; he was soulless.
"I have served House Valerius for twenty years!" Malakor shrieked, his voice echoing in his lavish, yet claustrophobic study. He was slumped against his mahogany desk, surrounded by armored guards who had long since surrendered their weapons to Lucius. "This is tyranny! The Duke will hear of this!"
