A special guest arrived at Frostcrest’s largest tavern.
He sat alone in a corner, his form hidden within a black robe and a deep cowl, a stark contrast to the boisterous atmosphere around him. Most patrons gave him a curious glance and then looked away. A tavern was a place for all sorts, and the occasional eccentric was hardly cause for alarm.
"Can I get you sothing to drink... sir?" a scantily clad tavern wench asked, swaying her hips as she approached Alistair’s table with a hint of hesitation.
"Your finest ale."
Alistair produced two silver coins and, with a flick of his wrist, sent them spinning neatly into the valley between her breasts.
So, a generous one, and an old hand at this.
A wide smile blood on her face. "Right away, handso. And if you need anything else, just ask for Joyce." She shot him a sultry look as she turned, her hips promising more than just a drink.
The look was wasted on the empty air beneath his cowl.
Having shared his bed with the sweet Abby and kissed the noble, ethereal fox-kin, Lena, the charms of a common tavern wench held no appeal. He had been waiting for so ti, letting the trap set itself. Frank would co.
Alistair had decided to handle this himself. Summoning his knights would risk tipping off his quarry. He still didn’t know which knight was the puppet master, and the last thing he needed was for Frank to be silenced before he could talk.
The minutes ticked by. Alistair nursed his third ale while Joyce fluttered past his table, offering suggestive glances that went unanswered. Just as his patience began to wear thin, his target appeared.
A young man with a cocky swagger strode into the tavern. He wore worn leather armor, a dagger hanging at his hip.
It was Frank.
The mont he laid eyes on him, the calm façade around Alistair shattered. An explosive power erupted from his still form.
He moved like a striking predator, closing the distance in a blur and clamping a hand like an iron vise around Frank’s neck. His imnse Aura flared, making his black robe whip and snap around him. Before anyone could react, the two of them were gone, reappearing in a deserted alleyway outside.
Frank was paralyzed with terror. The man holding him felt less like a man and more like a furious dragon, poised to devour him whole. His pupils dilated in abject fear, and the hot, foul stench of urine filled the air as a dark stain spread down his leather trousers.
"I will ask. You will answer," Alistair’s voice was glacial, almost devoid of emotion, yet the inferno of rage it contained was unmistakable. "Say anything else, and you die."
Frank nodded frantically, a choked whimper escaping his throat. He had the distinct premonition that a single word of pleading or protest would get his neck snapped.
"Did you steal the death stipend from the family of Byrne Kritt?"
"Yes..."
"Who else?"
"And... and the Dicks... the Ables... and the Barrows... that’s... that’s all. They’re the only ones in the shantytown."
"Who ordered you to do it?"
Frank hesitated. He felt the iron grip on his throat tighten instantly, choking off his air. He began to cry, the words tumbling out in a desperate gasp. "It was Ray! Knight Ray! He... he made do it... Please, spare ... G-gurk—!"
The plea died in his throat as Alistair crushed his neck into a ruin of flesh and bone.
Alistair coldly wiped the blood from his hand onto Frank’s leather armor. mories of Knight Ray surfaced in his mind. Ray had been one of his first followers, pledging his service back when Alistair was rely a Great Knight.
Even now, his strength was second only to Thorne. In Alistair’s mory, Ray was a dashing, blond-haired man—humble, a man of his word, the very model of a faithful knight.
He could not fathom how such a man could commit an act so despicable.
He decided he would see for himself. He would go to Ray’s ho and witness firsthand how a once-loyal follower had degenerated into sothing less than an animal.
Ray’s ho, a handso Gothic-style villa, was located in the inner district of Frostcrest, a sign of his favored status.
Alistair had never been miserly with his n—Goodwin’s year of laundry duty was a punishnt he’d brought upon himself, and besides, it had done wonders for building camaraderie with his soldiers.
Standing before Ray’s sturdy door and listening to the heavy panting of a man and won within, Alistair thought of the Kritt family’s suffering. An uncontrollable firestorm of rage ignited in his chest. He drew back his leg and kicked.
The door didn’t just splinter; it exploded inward. With unabated force, it blasted through two interior walls before embedding itself in the far side of the house. The crash cut short the lovers’ activities.
"Quite a party," Alistair sneered, his cold gaze falling on Ray and the two won cowering in his bed. "Two at once?" He briefly wished he’d aid his kick at the bed and ended all three of them at once.
"You know why I’m here."
Ray’s face was a pale, shifting mask of emotions, moving from shock to terror before settling into a dead calm.
"I have betrayed your trust, my lord," Ray said, his voice flat. "Will you execute ?"
"Execute you?" Alistair let out a laugh devoid of all humor. "You think it’s that simple? Do you think a re death can atone for what you’ve done?"
"My lord, I don’t understand!" Ray’s composure finally cracked, his voice rising to a frantic pitch. "They’re just peasants! Dead ones at that! What use do they have for a stipend? Are they even worthy?"
He grew more frenzied. "I am a Great Knight! I earn three gold pieces a month! When one of those common soldiers dies, their family gets ten gold pieces instantly! On what grounds? Is their life worth that much? And their families, those vermin, get to collect five silver every month from the treasury for doing nothing!"
Ray spread his arms wide in a mad gesture, slapping the won beside him. "Look at what ten gold can buy, my lord! A little comfort!" he said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Will you truly kill a knight who has followed you for years over such a trivial matter? Over a few insignificant peasants?"
"I am a Great Knight!"
Ray looked up, his eyes pleading, searching for a glimr of hope in Alistair’s face.
He found none. The lord who was often so mild-mannered and quick to smile was now terrifyingly expressionless. His eyes held only disgust and hatred, as if he were looking at a pile of filth crawling with maggots.
"You think this was just about a stipend?" Alistair’s voice was lethally quiet. "You incited thugs to terrorize my people. This is while I’m still in Frostcrest. If I were gone, would you be trying to sit on my throne next?"
"You dare call yourself a knight."
"If you had robbed the stipends from the inner-city soldiers, I might have at least respected your nerve. But no. You prey on those who are in the direst straits."
"You are finished."
Alistair walked slowly to the bed. He grabbed Ray by the collar and hauled him forward, their faces inches apart.
"I am taking you back to Snowmantle Citadel. This afternoon, when the citadel bells toll, you will be escorted to the public square. There’s a noose waiting for you there. You will atone for your wickedness before all the people of Frostcrest."
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