Purge

Steven ducked into the first, a low-roofed storehouse that smelled of salt and leather. The guild master, Old Merek, straightened up from a row of curing hides.

"My Lord," Merek said, bowing with respect. "We have finished the straps for the new saddles. The leather is tougher than the last batch."

Steven ran a hand along a row of neatly arranged harnesses. "Good work. Make sure the mounts get fitted by dusk. And those new boots for the scouts?"

Merek barked at an apprentice, who hurried forward with a pair of half-finished boots tucked under one arm.

"Lined with wool, waterproofed with pitch," the apprentice squeaked, eyes darting from Steven to Clinton.

"Keep the soles thin enough for quiet steps," Steven said, turning one boot over in his hands. "Our scouts need to vanish in a forest, not clomp around like cattle."

The boy nodded. "Yes, sire."

They crossed to the far side of the yard, where wagons trundled in through the open gate, iron-shod wheels splashing through muddy ruts.

"Master Frost," Steven greeted. "How fares the timber trade?"

Frost grinned, wiping his brow with a silken handkerchief. He tapped the crates. "The merchant guilds would like to make some contributions, and these arrows were gotten from the North."

Steven flipped the lid of a crate, inspecting a few shafts. The fletching was tight, the heads polished to a deadly point.

"Good," Steven said. "Any rumors from your caravans?"

Frost's grin faded. He lowered his voice. "I heard Atkins tried to bribe some merchants, and he promised double the coin if they provided him with information."

Steven closed the crate. "Send word, anyone caught dealing with Atkins gets their possessions seized."

Frost gave a sharp bow. "Done, my lord."

The moon rode high and cold over Headow, its silver light breaking through the low clouds in pale streaks. 

Beaver bowed deeply, his voice a dry rasp. "My prince."

Clinton leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "You look like a corpse, Beaver. Been scurrying through cellars all night?"

Beaver lifted his hood, revealing the gaunt lines of his face. "Traitors don't sleep, so I don't either."

Steven moved closer, planting both hands on the table. "Report."

Beaver smiled coldly. "I obtained news of the gathering of some traitors planning to set fire to the granaries. If we move tonight, we can catch them at the fishery."

Steven straightened, looking over the maps on the walls. Supply routes, caravan paths, granaries, and hidden forges. All of it balanced on a single truth—one traitor could topple it faster than a battering ram.

He said firmly. "Since they dare, wipe them off the face of the earth."

He blew out the candle, plunging the chamber into shadow.

And in that darkness, Steven and his men headed out to vanquish the traitors before the sun rose again.

Inside the old fishery on the river bend, the drop point Beaver had marked, shadows shifted like hungry wolves.

The traitors gathered near the waterwheel, oil lamps set low, voices a whisper. They thought themselves clever, that their messages would slip past unnoticed, carried by paid boys and drifters, one name passed to another like plague.

But tonight the hounds hunted.

Steven crouched in the dark behind the old barrels, gauntleted fingers tapping the pommel of his new sword. It felt different from any blade this world had known, born from blueprints no smith in this age could dream.

A single flick of his hand. 

Clinton nodded. 

Twyford smiled. 

Beaver faded from view without a sound.

They moved.

A boot crunched on damp gravel. 

One of the traitors, a fat man with an old Talvace crest, noticed too late. The sword came down in a silver arc, the new steel slicing through chainmail. The traitor crumpled without a sound, but the wet thump of bone hitting mud.

One of the others drew a blade, mouth opening for a cry. Twyford slammed into him, and the impact snapped his ribs. 

Steel rasped as Steven stepped into the circle of flickering lamplight. Two more traitors backed toward the river and drew their blades.

He let them swing first. 

A clumsy slash, the shield catching the blow, and the countercut was clean. 

The blade edge kissed the collarbone and parted muscle and sinew in one smooth motion.

The second traitor lunged at Steven, but he pivoted. He slashed low, tendons parted, knee shattered. The traitor fell screaming into the wet stones.

No mercy tonight.

Across the yard, Beaver moved like mist under moonlight. Twin daggers flickered from sleeve to palm, his footsteps muffled by the new padded boots Ferris had crafted for him alone. The first traitor never saw him — a quick arm around the throat, a dagger pressed just beneath the ear. A wet gurgle. Beaver let him drop and kept moving, eyes black pools of patient hate.

Another traitor broke from the shadows, sword raised high. Beaver dropped low and rolled under the swing. One dagger rammed into the gut, the second slipped behind the knee. The traitor folded backward, his scream never finished. Beaver twisted both blades free and stepped away, letting the blood pool in silence.

Inside the fishery, the fighting thickened. Three traitors fought back to back near the barrels, wielding short spears and clubs. Steven waded in first, shield up. A spear jabbed, but his shield caught it, the steel rim sparking as it deflected the point aside. He answered with a downward chop, the advanced blade edge splitting the shaft in half.

Clinton surged in from the left, sweeping his sword in a brutal horizontal arc. The traitor caught the blade on a wooden club, but the steel carved through the rotten wood. Clinton reversed his blade, buried in the chest, and withdrew with a sucking rasp.

Twyford roared as one traitor tried to flee. He slammed into him shield-first, driving him to the ground. With a practiced twist of the wrist, he switched his grip and drove his sword down through the shoulder. The tip punched through leather and bone, coming out clean on the other side.

Beaver reappeared behind a dazzled traitor, his daggers dancing at the throat. The traitor dropped his spear, clutching at the wound. Beaver leaned in, and the final dagger buried itself between his ribs.

Steven wiped blood from his sword, scanning the yard. Bodies lay crumpled in the mud and reeds. The new blades glinted red in the lantern light, not a single edge nicked or dulled.

The last traitor finally gasped in the mud, his ankle was shattered. Clinton grabbed him by the collar, dragging him upright so Steven could look him in the eyes.

Steven raised his sword, still bright despite the blood drying along its fuller. "You sold our secrets for a handful of silver. See this steel? It is ten years ahead of your blades. Your master never had a chance."

The man spat blood but said nothing. 

Clinton tightened his grip, and he slammed the hilt of his sword into the temple. The traitor sagged, limp as a sack of grain.

Beaver flicked his daggers clean, sheathing them under his cloak. His voice was a low rasp, echoing in the dawn mist. "Atkins knows we have something new, but he doesn't know how good it is."

Twyford leaned on his shield, helmet tucked under his arm. "They won't be the last rats we gut with these. They will keep coming."

By the time the moon dipped behind the hills, the fishery was empty but for the bloodstains soaking into the old stone. 

Not all deserved the blade, Beaver dragged the lesser conspirators into the stone cells beneath the old east tower. Iron bars clanged shut one by one. 

He walked past each cell, twin blades still strapped to his back. He paused at the door to the deepest cell.

"You will talk," Beaver murmured, voice soft as the rustle of dead leaves. "When you do, you will live long enough to see what we do to the next snake."

The traitor only sobbed, cradling his broken jaw.

When dawn broke, Beaver emerged from the keep and gave a single nod. "No rats left. They're all in the ground or the cells."

Steven swept his gaze across the valley, and finally, on the banner fluttering in the wind, its silver hawk stood proud. He pressed a hand to the embroidered crest.

"House Talvace is clean," he said, voice for no one but the ghosts who still lingered in the stones. "Let the storm come now. We stand ready."

The manor slept, its great halls shrouded in candlelit silence while the wind sighed through broken arrow slits and moss-furred stones. The purge was done — the traitors buried, the loyal weary from bloodshed yet sharper than ever.

Steven stood alone in the war room. A single oil lamp flickered over the spread maps and the stained Talvace banner pinned to the far wall. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword — the old blade he'd unearthed beneath the scorched oak. It felt warm against his palm, like an oath half-whispered by the ghosts of his kin.

And a few miles away, an army with three banners marched towards Headow. Baron Atkins read the news of the purge, a single thought lodged in his throat like a splinter of bone: this boy cannot live, else his rise will be unstoppable.