The men and women at the head of the Red Oak tribe grimaced and shifted with discomfort. Usually, when this band descended en masse upon the carriages of merchants or peasants, the occupants of those humble vehicles panicked, immediately becoming meek and withdrawn to appease their attackers. As this was clearly a noble’s carriage, they had expected such pampered, soft-handed folk to have an even stronger reaction of cowardice. Yet, how was it that when they had emerged from the treeline to block the road, the carriage drivers appeared entirely unperturbed by the sudden appearance of armed brigands even as they were forced to bring their horses to a sudden halt?

  The drivers themselves seemed unusual. On one side of the wagon’s bench sat a woman with hair of a peculiar cut and hue, and beside her a man with a fresh, youthful face leaned back to murmur something into a slot in the carriage wall, clearly addressing whoever rode within.

  Only after the heavy wooden door of the carriage finally flew open did the northmen finally appreciate just how massive it truly was. Past experience had ingrained on them that Southern nobles were dainty and small of stature, altogether wholly lacking in physical prowess. Yet this vehicle was built large and sturdy enough to house a bear, and even the brawniest of the northlands’ chiefs could have fit inside it comfortably.

  As the occupant inside slowly rose out of the deeply shadowed interior, the members of the Red Oak tribe became filled with a growing unease. Even this gargantuan carriage rocked under the unknown figure’s heavy footfalls. The first part of it they saw in the light was a huge boot that appeared on the top step leading down from the carriage door, and then as this giant leaned their weight forward upon it the whole vehicle swayed like a boat.

  What then stepped out into the muted daylight was, to these Northmen, a being of legend. She stood a full head and shoulders taller than even their mightiest warrior; her long, flowing dark hair fell across a face halfway transformed into a horrific mask of ruin. For these folk every battle scar was a trophy, to be displayed with pride, so her unique, burnt visage appeared like the most enviable badge of honor. Meanwhile, as this mysterious warrior straightened to her full height, she reached up to the luggage strapped atop the carriage and drew out from the pile a blackened, gnarled sword nearly as long as the vehicle itself. She planted it in the dirt with a heavy thud as she stepped down.

  “Who dares bar the path of the Countess of Petrice?!” she demanded of the gathered crowd, her deep voice somehow clearly blistering with anger even while remaining coldly composed.

  The Northmen traded glances with one another, their faces washed over with expressions betraying the same familiar fear and panic they had seen writ upon the faces of humble merchants and peasants countless times—however, this time it was theirs alone.

  Although a bead of cold sweat clung to his temple and a stone of dread had settled in his gut, the man at the front of the hoard grit his teeth and drew his axe from his belt and his round shield from his back. Thus armed, he took a single step forward. Encouraged by his facade of bravery, the rest of his band hastily swallowed back their nerves as they retrieved their weapons and rallied beside him.

  “W-we are the Red Oak clan!” the first warrior stammered out, his voice far meeker than his posture suggested.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Uldred replied dismissively.

  She then drew her sword out of the cold earth and hefted it in both hands. Her solid, unyielding stance made her foes think of a demigod from myth—a larger-than-life figure who shaped mountains with their fists and left lakes behind with their footsteps. Despite their lives of battle and hardship–or, perhaps, because of it–panic seized up their muscles. Their well-honed instincts begged them to flee before such an intimidating predator as she.

  “What is going on here?” a deep voice growled from the back of the terrified band.

  The shackles of dread having been temporarily broken, the crowd of ruffians swiftly parted to reveal a man with a massive beard–which was the same auburn shade of the tribe’s namesake–which had been intricately braided and woven with many dazzling gems and stolen trinkets. He stood as wide as he was tall and his shoulders were covered in old, jagged scars, with more still peeking out from beneath his furs and the well-worn leather of his cuirass.

  The Chieftain of the Red Oak clan strode forward through that rough crowd, moving with the kind of unshakable confidence and authority that would put a seasoned military general to shame, until he finally halted beside the man who had heretofore lead the group. His beady eyes widened at the sight of Uldred towering above them in a ready battle stance. He glanced over from her to the immense, luxurious carriage parked behind her, and then back to surveil his own people—who to a man met his gaze with uncertain, anxious expressions, their shields clutched tight to their body like lifelines, their weapons trembling in their rough, scarred hands.

  After a moment of tense, silent perusal, he drew a slow, steadying breath and returned his gaze to Uldred, one of his huge fists clenching so hard it shook, his bones creaking under the strain.

  And then…

  “ARE YOU LOT OUT OF YOUR DAMN MINDS?!” he roared loud enough to shake the very ground under their feet, his booming voice thick and ragged with a heady mixture of rage and woe.

  He then raised his clenched, white-knuckled fist and brought it down on the back of his second’s skull with such force that Thomas and Nayantara both winced, half expecting the man to collapse dead on the spot. To their surprise, he merely stumbled a few steps forward, rubbing at the growing lump sheepishly. Apparently, he was used to receiving such blows, along with their accompanying reprimands.

  “Get down. On ‘yer knees. NOW!” the Chieftain barked. He grabbed a man and a woman on either side of him by their shoulders and shoved them to the ground until they knelt upon the icy dirt.

  The Chieftain dropped to one knee as well, a pose of deference befitting a knight come before their liege. Seeing their leader act in this way, the rest of the tribe unsuredly but quickly followed his command. Soon enough the entire Red Oak clan knelt in submission before Uldred.

  “Oh, well this is quite unexpected,” Niklas murmured from his perch at the carriage window where he had watched this scene unfold, peeking from behind the curtain a chipmunk peering out from its burrow.

  Uldred slowly lowered her sword. Her face remained stoically neutral as she looked over the now-submissive crowd, but Niklas could see the way her violet pupils narrowed—a telltale sign to him that her mind was now a frantic chorus of confused, panicked questions. After all, she handled lethal combat far more comfortably than unforeseen social encounters, so to her this event had suddenly transformed from a minor nuisance into an uncertain nightmare scenario.

  A soft pattering of feet marked the arrival of the Count, whose small stature made him appear like a child clambering down the steps of the immense carriage to stand beside his Lady.

  “Your Largeness!” the Chieftain gasped, peering up from his kneel. “My humblest apologies for this unfortunate occurrence! I will have my men clear the way immediately!”

  Uldred’s head snapped toward Niklas, demanding answers.

  The little Count cupped a hand over his mouth to avoid being overheard or lip-read.

  “The nomadic tribes of the Northern Wastes worship frost giants who supposedly shaped the world from their father’s corpse,” he whispered. “To them, you would resemble a descendant of their royal bloodline.”

  “Why?” Uldred whispered back, wide-eyed.

  Niklas stared at her flatly, pointedly flicking his eyes up to the top of her head, down to her boots, and then back to her face.

  “O-oh!” she muttered, glancing down at herself then as if realizing—much-belatedly—just how large she truly was.

  “If I may be so bold, I wish to say it is an immense honor to meet one of the fabled Giantkin!” the Chieftain stammered out. “I did not know any amongst the barbaric Southern folk shared the blood of the mighty North. My short-sightedness has shamed me—please, I beg of you to spare my pack!” He slammed his forehead into the ground, scattering pebbles and chunks of ice as the impact created a sizable crater.

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  “Yes, well, it speaks well of you and yours that you can recognize your own shortcomings,” Niklas said in reply, his voice smooth and professional. “Such wisdom is scarce these days.”

  The Chieftain lifted his head and looked Niklas over. His eyes sparkled with even greater awe.

  “Your servant is a Dwarf, as well? A being of equal legend!”

  Although he maintained his polite smile, a vein pulsed on Niklas’ brow. “…So how about you all start moving out of our way, hmm?”

  “Are you all right, my Lord..?”

  Vicentie van der Leigh snapped out of his stupor at once.

  “What–I… Yes, yes. I’m sorry, there is a lot on my mind.” He replied to the servant.

  The man across from him sighed, the only hint of emotion he would allow to slip through his mask of professionalism, before he straightened his posture once again and renewed his spiel.

  “As I was saying m’Lord, it appears that a toll station has been erected at the small pass between Bastión and the border, just as you predicted. We managed to get the entirety of our latest shipment through that pathway before it was closed, but going forward we will either have to eat the loss from the toll or find another way to export any goods we obtain through Magnate Sargento.”

  Where he sat behind his desk, Vicentie rubbed his forehead and let out a small and humorless chuckle, the bitter kind that one makes when in a state of duress.

  “Yes, as I ‘predicted’. Although it was more like ‘dreaded’... Well, at least we got the whole shipment out. What a disaster it would have been if even a portion of it had gotten stuck within Bastión…”

  He rose to his feet then, turning away from his guest as he reached up and pulled back the curtain that had obscured the large window. Light flooded the formerly dim setting, causing the servant to lift one arm to bulwark his ailing eyes from the sudden illumination.

  “But how did they find out about that little path so soon?” Vicentie wondered aloud, although clearly mostly to himself. “Do we have a leak? It’s not as though we have any particular rivals in this field...” He mused, scratching his chin. “It’s as though someone is going out of their way to mess with my business!”

  Beneath his stringy bangs, Vicentie’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. He could think of many who might wish to drive a stick into the proverbial spokes of his endeavors for the sake of pettiness. But even among that number, those who had the actual business acumen to recognize and target this particular weakness he could count on half of one hand.

  “Che!” He snorted with an irritated bemusement. “Well, whoever it was, they were late to the draw. With the profits we retained by avoiding the tolls for so long we’ll be able to reinforce our investment.”

  “On that note,” The servant spoke up once more, taking a step forward as he did so. “We have hired the additional manpower, just as you asked. Another workshop and warehouse have been added as well, for the new hands. This should result, in even our lowest estimate, in an additional thirty-three percent increase in production.”

  “Good man.” Vicentie nodded at him in approval, even as he still refused to make contact with his eyes.

  The servant waited for a beat of silence before he asked, “...Do you have any further orders, my Lord?”

  “No.” Vicentie replied, shaking his head. “At least, not yet. Let us just see how everything progresses.”

  “Very good sir.” The servant bowed, and then turned to leave. However he halted in his tracks suddenly, as if coming to a sudden realization.

  “By the way, my Lord, you have received another missive from the daughter of Marquis Illund.” And he reached within his jacket pocket to retrieve a small envelope.

  Vicentie finally met the man’s eyes, his face set in a grimace as he replied to the servant with a snarl.

  “Throw it into the fire.” He ordered.

  The servant risked releasing another small sigh before his master. “...As you order, sir.”

  And then the door clicked shut, leaving Vicentie alone with his thoughts.

  A small hand meekly reached up and rapped upon one of the thick wooden double-doors with the large, blackened metal ring of its knocker. As they waited together in silence, the lone woman-at-arms stood behind the small man folded her arms across her tabard as a sorry protection against the cold as she tapped one of her chain-mail boots against the snowcapped soil impatiently.

  Soon enough the faintest sound of approaching footsteps could be heard within, growing steadily louder, before the opposite door creaked open and old Belfort peered out.

  “Ah, my good Lord Borney!” The old man declared pleasantly. “Welcome to Castle Petrice!”

  As the young Lord received the servant’s bow he rubbed the back of his head and gave a shaky smile in return.

  “J-Just ‘Alvin’ is fine,” He replied, a request which he made not just out of courtesy, for until this last year the name “Lord Borney” had haunted him all the rest of his life, and hearing it still brought back many unpleasant memories.

  “Lord Alvin, then.” The butler replied with a respectful nod of his head, before he turned and gestured the two guests inside.

  “Finally..!” Grumbled the woman, kicking first one foot and then the other against the corner of the door to dislodge some of the muddy brown snow which had attached itself to her soles.

  Belfort took a brief but studious glance up and down to take in the woman’s appearance. She was tall and a little lanky, but the broad and angled shape of her shoulders suggested her body was taut with lean muscle rather than anemic. What little of her hair he could see beneath her skullcap helm was short-shorn and looked to be a bright blonde hue, a trait one would normally only find amongst the nobility.

  Unthinkingly, Belfort cocked an eyebrow towards the woman as she passed by him.

  “What?” The young woman snapped, her voice haughty and defensive.

  Belfort did not immediately reply, but pasted on his finest mask of a warm and welcoming smile. In response the possibly-noble woman merely rolled her eyes and continued on down the hall after her timid little Lord.

  Belfort proceeded to take them on the usual tour that he provided to all of the newly-arrived guests: first they visited the Countess’ study, followed by the grand ballroom, and then the dining room, the parlor, the library, and so on. Finally they entered the landing of the third floor where Belfort showed them to the guest room in which Alvin would be staying.

  Although it was surely lacking in opulence in comparison to the abode where the previous ‘Lord Borney’ had stayed every night, this room was doubtlessly more spacious. What’s more, with the continuing reconstruction of Coronton Castle forcing Alvin to stay in one of his few surviving guest rooms, his quarters in Castle Petrice was to all appearances a vast upgrade in every conceivable way.

  “Woah..!” The woman breathed in awe as she looked about the space.

  Belfort then turned towards her. “If you will follow me, I shall take you to your own quarters, miss..?”

  The woman shot him an icy, sky-blue glare. “...Betty.” She finally replied, as if weighing the pros and cons of merely providing him with her name.

  “Miss Betty, right you are.” Belfort said, bowing his head. “Now, right this way.”

  The door clicked shut behind him then, leaving Alvin stood there alone in his coat, still carrying his single, small briefcase that he had brought with him. The young Lord felt a wave of exhaustion rush over him all at once, and he stared longingly at the lush, freshly-prepared beddings which waited for him on the other side of the room.

  He clenched his fists and screwed up his face in determination as he looked towards the nearby wall instead.

  No! I cannot rest, The Count has graciously invited me into his home, entrusted me with the responsibility of acting as his representative to the locals while he is away, and even invited me to study and improve my competency within his grand libraries. I must get to work right away, to prove that I am worthy of his continued aid!

  Gritting his teeth, Alvin then quickly tore off his scarf, gloves, and coat. He unpacked his briefcase and decorated the room with what few personal effects he had brought with him before changing his attire. Then he marched back to the doorway, draped in the noblest regalia he had at his disposal. As the door swung open, and he took a step past it, he turned his head back to look one last time across the large room.

  “Let’s get to work!” He declared to the silent space before he vanished beyond the threshold once more.

  Soon after Alvin’s determined departure, Belfort would inform him that his curriculum was still being prepared, and it would therefore not be possible for him to start his studies immediately. No sooner had he heard this joyous news than did Alvin dash back to his room and leap beneath the warm blankets and sink into the soft mattress of his bed. He barely spent a moment enjoying the comfort of his new bed before slumber claimed him.