Chapter 546.5 - Interlude Tim 4/Devon 7

Driving rain lashed the solar’s windows, blurring the courtyard into a gray wash. Tim sat behind what had become his desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he stared at the scout standing at attention before him.

The young man’s leather armor was soaked through, dripping water onto the floorboards, but Oakenhollow's wood was better than any outsider would suspect and was already taking care of it.

"Repeat what you just said," Tim ordered, his voice flat.

"Sir Armand broke camp at dawn, my Lord," the scout said, shifting nervously on his feet. "The goblins in the crags were routed with minimal losses. Sir Armand fought with his usual brilliance, cutting through their leadership and even easily handling the reinforcements we’d set up. It was only afterward that the madness took him again.”

"Describe this madness.”

The scout swallowed hard. "He began walking through the camp, stopping the men. He asked where Lady Candra had gone and demanded to know why she wasn't preparing the victory feast. When Sergeant Miller reminded him that she was imprisoned in Oakenhollow, Sir Armand struck him. He claimed Miller was lying, that Candra was waiting for him. He has forgotten all that happened, my Lord. His memory is fragmented, and he rarely shows moments of lucidity."

Tim closed his eyes. The cognitive dissonance had won. The truth of Candra’s betrayal and the magical compulsion binding his father to her had waged war inside his skull, and the battlefield lay in ruins. The forged mission to the crags was meant to give his father a focal point, a purpose to anchor his fraying sanity.

His last hope was dashed. Armand Poules was gone, replaced by a violent, unpredictable shell. That he could retain his sanity long enough to fight wasn’t a good indicator if he regressed the moment danger passed. Candra, after all, wouldn’t have dared touch his skills, knowing House Crowley could call on him at any moment. If anything, it was worse, because they would have to face him at full power.

"Where is he now?" Tim asked.

"Riding hard for the manor," the scout replied. "He took a dozen of his most loyal veterans and left the main column behind. One of the men sent word that he is coming to rescue his wife from the usurpers.”

"You are dismissed. Get dry, then report to the quartermaster for your reward.”

The scout bowed and hurried from the room.

Tim opened his eyes and looked at the empty solar. He faced a terrible choice, though the reality of his position meant it was already made. Oakenhollow was a vassal of Floria, and House Crowley demanded unwavering loyalty. An erratic, mad knight commanding the town's forces and raving about saving a traitorous witch was a liability Tim could ill afford. If Armand directed his men to attack Floria's interests, or if the Duke caught wind of the instability, the Crowleys would step in.

Oakenhollow might not survive another cleansing, and even Tim’s friendship with Nick would only go so far. Perhaps he’d be given a chance as a retainer, but his House would be attainted.

The problem was that Armand was their best fighter, a skilled, experienced warrior who had only grown better since going north. Losing him would significantly weaken their military posture. It left them vulnerable to the beasts in the wilds and the political sharks in the neighboring towns.

House Quack couldn’t take advantage of them, not with Baron Crowley breathing down their necks. But many lesser families had decent fighters, just waiting for the chance to serve their new overlord.

Tim pulled a sheet of parchment from the drawer, uncorked the inkwell, and picked up a quill. He needed to shore up his position, and he needed to do it before news of his father’s death spread. He drafted a letter to Eona and Bellamy in Alluria.

My friends. The situation in Oakenhollow is stabilizing, yet I need secure alliances. My father’s health is failing, and the burden of the House falls to me. I require a bride.

I would be eternally grateful if you could reach out to your contacts at the Tower and among the minor nobles. Find a family seeking to secure a foothold in the West, with enough coin to avoid needing immediate help and enough political acumen to understand our fealty to Floria.

Send word swiftly.

Your friend,

Tim

With a heavy heart, he signed the parchment, folded it, and pressed the Poules wax seal into the seam. He set it aside for the courier to take in the morning.

Once that was done, he stood, walked to the door, and pulled it open. Captain Valer stood in the corridor, keeping watch as he had since he’d woken from Nick’s magic.

"Captain," Tim said. "My father is returning to Oakenhollow. He believes Candra is wrongfully imprisoned and intends to free her. His mind is gone.”

Valer’s expression tightened. He had served under Armand for two decades, and while his loyalty was to the House, it pained him to see it. "My Lord, are you certain? A dedicated healer might—"

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“There is nothing anyone can do for him now,” Tim interrupted coldly. "He already struck Sergeant Miller for speaking the truth. And now he rides with a dozen men, intending to take back control of the town. I will not allow him to plunge this town into bloodshed for that woman.”

Strictly speaking, Nick or another Prestige mage could have done something about Armand’s condition, but having seen what it took to free Oakenhollow the first time, Tim knew they couldn’t pay the price.

Valer stared at the stone floor for a long moment, the conflict evident in the set of his jaw. Eventually, he looked up, his eyes hardening. "What are your orders, Lord Timothy?”

"Gather twenty men. Men who saw what she did to us. Men who will not flinch when they cross blades with their former commander. We will meet him on the road before he reaches the town.”

"It will be done.”

Tim returned to the solar and opened the lacquered chest in the corner. He pulled out a ringmail hauberk and slipped it over his tunic. He buckled a breastplate over his chest and fastened a steel sword to his hip, one he’d been enchanting for days, just in case this moment came. The metal felt cold and unforgiving, as if it were judging him, but his resolve held firm.

He walked out into the courtyard. The rain kept falling, turning the dirt into thick mud. Captain Valer waited by the gates with twenty soldiers. They wore long cloaks over their armor, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods. They were hard men, veterans who had survived the witch’s reign and had no desire to see her released, even in her current condition.

Tim mounted his waiting gelding, as his old mentor had. He looked at the men, reading the grim resolve in their postures.

"Open the gates," he commanded.

Iron hinges creaked as the wooden doors swung outward. Tim spurred his horse forward, leading the column out of Oakenhollow and onto the muddy road, riding to kill his father.

Devon ducked a horizontal sweep, driving his blade upward, aimed at his father’s ribs.

Eugene pivoted on his heel, redirecting his strike with a casual flick of his wrist. The parry, though simple in form, carried enough force to travel down Devon’s arms, numbing his fingers and breaking his stance.

Before he could recover, the tip of Eugene’s sword lightly tapped against his throat.

"Dead," his father said, easing his stance. Devon let out a long breath, stepped back, and rolled his shoulders.

He was level eighty-five, a warrior of considerable skill. Against any normal opponent, his speed and strength were overwhelming. Against a Prestige-tier combatant, he felt like a child swinging a stick.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Eugene consoled, seeing Devon’s dejected look. “You still tend to focus too much on your form and, when it’s broken, lose sight of your surroundings, but you’ve gotten better. There is only so much that more Aura can do. It’s a matter of experience.”

"I know," Devon replied, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. “But I still think I could do better. Master always says that when your form is broken, you’ve lost the fight, so I should at least try to use all this mana to hold it for a while longer.”

“That sounds like the old man,” Eugene agreed, walking toward a wooden bench and picking up a water skin. He drank deeply, then tossed it to Devon. “But at your level, you cannot force a breakthrough in the sparring ring. To repeat myself, you need more time on the battlefield.”

Though Devon knew his father was telling the truth, he still couldn’t help but feel he shouldn’t need that much time. After all, his brother was younger and had already crossed the boundary.

But comparing himself to Nick was a path to madness, so he purged the thought.

He caught the water skin, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat, and sighed. “Then I should probably find myself a battlefield, huh? The Green Ocean is good for hunting and gaining exp, but I can only push so far on my own before something I cannot handle comes.”

Eugene crossed his arms and looked out over the expanding walls of Floria as he thought. The town was becoming a true stronghold, fueled by the wealth and influence flowing into House Crowley, and it seemed to grow more every day.

That would slow down soon, Devon knew. His mother and Sonya had run the numbers, and with the refugee surge ending, they wouldn’t need to erect new buildings after the last couple of batches. But people would still come, selling wares and seeking fortune, and word of their growth was still spreading, so they expected things to remain ‘interesting’ for at least the next year.

"I brought eighty mercenaries back from the dwarven campaign," Eugene finally said. “They are rough men, sellswords who fought for coin. But they fought well for me in the North, and I promised them steady work here.”

Devon already knew that much, but he could see where his father was headed. "You want me to integrate them into the guard?"

"I want you to lead them," Eugene corrected. “We got word of a bandit coalition forming in a hamlet two days northeast. Deserters, cutthroats, and opportunists preying on the merchant caravans that are beginning to stream down again. Take a few of the sellswords and ride northeast to secure our lands.”

He could do it himself in just a few hours, but this is a good opportunity for me to gain some of that experience and put myself in a good light with our newest force.

An hour later, Devon rode through the outer gates of Floria at the head of a column of a dozen men. The mercenaries rode mismatched horses, their armor a patchwork of boiled leather, chainmail, and plate, but their weapons were well made, forged in the town as part of their reward.

Devon set a steady pace and guided the column along the road. He spent the first day listening. When they stopped to camp for the night, he didn't pitch a separate tent like a normal Heir would; instead, he sat by the largest fire, passing a skin of sour wine and listening to their tales of the dwarven sieges. He learned their names. He learned their fighting styles. He laughed at their crude jokes and offered a few stories of his own adventures in the Green Ocean.

He established his presence naturally, leading through camaraderie and quiet confidence. By the morning of the second day, he still didn’t have their trust, but at least they no longer saw him as a burden.

They reached the hamlet just before dusk. It was a miserable cluster of hovels nestled against a rocky hill, whose villagers peered through shuttered windows, their faces pale and drawn.

Devon halted his group in the center of the muddy square. He signaled for the mercenary lieutenant, a large axeman named Polius, to join him.

"They hold the ruined mill on the hill," an old village elder told them, the only one who had left the false safety of their home. "Two dozen men came to take our grain and our daughters. There might be more.”

And so they rode. "Form a perimeter around the base of the hill," Devon ordered Polius, drawing his dark blade. The metal sang softly as it cleared the scabbard, as if eager. "No one escapes. I will take the center.”

The mercenaries dismounted and fanned out to secure the escape routes.

Devon walked along the muddy path toward the mill. The wooden structure loomed against the twilight sky, its water wheel shattered and rotting in the dry creek bed.

The bandits emerged from the mill's shadows. They were a motley crew, armed with old axes and notched swords. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man in chainmail, stepped forward, a surprisingly sturdy spiked mace resting on his shoulder.

"Look at this," the leader sneered, spitting a glob of phlegm into the dirt. "A pretty lordling thinking himself a hero. We’ll feast well on his ransom.”

The bandits charged down the hill, screaming to build their courage.

Devon felt a calm settle over his mind. He gripped his sword's hilt, his aura flaring to life. Light washed over the steel, condensing into a sharp edge as he assessed the incoming threat.

They were slow. Their footwork was sloppy. They barely used any reinforcement skills.

The bandit leader reached him first, and Devon stepped inside the guard as he activated [Crescent Arc], a basic skill to test his foe.

His blade blurred, and the leader’s head separated from his shoulders, spinning through the air in a spray of dark blood. The body collapsed into the mud, the mace thudding harmlessly against the dirt.

The rest didn’t put up much resistance after that.

It’s going to take a while to build that experience, huh?