Tim ran a hand through his unkempt hair as the frantic energy bled out of him, leaving only exhaustion. “I thought I could break her grip on my own. Claudius, my old mentor, traveled from Oakenhollow in secret weeks ago to warn me that Candra was tightening the noose, replacing the town guard with her sycophants and turning the magistrates. I had grown stronger since the Incursion. I thought my power would be enough.”
He let out a hollow laugh. “I returned home ready for a fight. But you cannot fight a weapon you cannot see. When I walked into the manor, my people greeted me. They looked perfectly healthy. I was smiled at and embraced, and then Candra was there, the light of their life. They looked at her with such devotion that it made my stomach turn, and I knew I couldn’t break her hold on them. I would have had to kill them all to get to her.”
“I imagine you confirmed this,” Nick murmured, his eyes hooded.
“Yes, of course, but I found nothing to dispel. That is the true horror of a high-level Charmer, Nick. Unless you catch them in the act of casting, the magic leaves no lingering trace. It does not control the victim like a puppet on strings but alters the brain itself. The victim genuinely believes the feelings are their own. A dispelling attempt wouldn’t do more than give them a headache, because there is nothing left to affect.”
Nick hummed. The situation was far more delicate than a simple fight, and he had to admit he was stumped about how to handle such magic.
Perhaps the only way to restore them would be to reverse time. I would have considered it a fanciful notion once, but a Great Work empowered by an entire town, with a Prestige conducting it, might be able to do it.
But then again, the variables were uncountable. He’d need the permission and participation of the Lord of the land and be prepared to lose many anyway, for Time was not a force that liked to be meddled with, even in small doses and for limited purposes. And the System might not like it either.
“So in the end, you were forced to retreat, but now that your father is returning, it might be even harder.”
“Exactly,” Tim said, his mouth twisting bitterly. “If I accused her, he would draw steel against his own son. Claudius realized it too late. He tried to slip poison into her wine, but her loyalists caught him. As soon as my father returns, he will confirm Claudius’s banishment from Oakenhollow for attempting to harm his wife. When I tried to intervene, she painted it as a conspiracy. She convinced everyone I was plotting to seize the estate early. I barely slipped out of town before the guards came to place me under house arrest.”
Nick drummed his fingers on the armrest. The political knot was tight. House Poules was a crucial vassal of the Crowleys. Armand was a hardened veteran, marching home with Eugene after a decisive victory. Accusing his wife of such witchcraft without irrefutable proof would fracture the barony. Armand would demand blood for the insult, charm or no charm.
Worse, they were on a tight timetable. Tim’s failed attempt would have alerted Candra, and she’d undoubtedly be prepared for another.
“So, we need actual proof that she is manipulating the estate, or we need to do something to restore your father’s mind to its original state,” Nick said. “I will bring this to my father. He needs to know that one of his chief lieutenants is compromised.”
“Will he act?” Tim asked, desperate hope creeping into his eyes.
“He will,” Nick promised. After all, he had warned Eugene once before, so it wouldn’t be just Tim’s word. “But we cannot move publicly. Not yet. Stay in this room, Tim. Have your meals brought up and let no one see you. I will inform my father, and we will devise a strategy.”
Tim nodded. “I trust you.”
Nick gave him a wan smile, pulled the Stillness over his shoulders, and let his physical form dissolve into the ether's background hum. He slipped out of the rented room, leaving Tim to rest, and navigated the bustling alleys back toward the central thoroughfare.
The mood in Floria was electric, and the closer the army drew, the more people seemed captivated by it.
A lot had happened since Eugene left for the north with most of the fighting force, and Nick wondered whether they’d even recognize the town.
He reached the manor gates just as the distant blast of a war horn echoed across the grassland.
Elena stood at the top of the courtyard steps, flanked by Devon and Sonya. The Lady of Floria had orchestrated the town’s response with ruthless efficiency. In the lower districts, Nick could see the white tents of the Sasharan acolytes, pitched well away from the main celebration routes yet still present.
“The rangers brought us the final numbers, and the grieving families are being informed,” Elena was saying to Devon as Nick materialized beside her, dropping the midnight silk into his ring. “The widows and orphans will receive their compensation in silver and land deeds, kept separate from the celebrations. The main square is reserved for the living, and I won’t have them bring gloom to a celebration.”
It was harsh, but necessary.
Apparently, two hundred men had died in the war. Their families needed space to mourn without the victors’ cheers drowning out their sorrow.
“The new citizens also need to see the Barony’s strength,” Nick noted, surveying the swelling crowds. Floria’s population had exploded over the past year. Thousands of refugees and opportunists had settled within the walls, many of whom had never laid eyes on Eugene Crowley.
“Oh, they will see it,” Elena replied, her gaze fixed on the horizon as a ripple spread through the crowds.
The rumble of thousands of marching boots vibrated through the town. The army crested the final hill, their armor catching the late-afternoon sun.
The Crowley banners snapped in the wind, dark fabric bearing the flaming sword of their house. Beneath them marched a river of seasoned killers. The soldiers who had survived the dwarves looked fundamentally changed. Their armor bore the marks of long battles, yet they moved with dangerous grace, and it was clear to all that the crucible of war had forged them into proper veterans.
Soon, they reached the gates and began streaming through the streets to the adoring cheers of the crowds.
Sir Quack rode near the front, waving a gauntleted hand to the cheering townsfolk. Beside him, Sir Poules broke into a triumphant smile as flowers rained down from the balconies.
Then came the new recruits—three hundred mercenary swords who had witnessed Eugene’s command and sworn oaths to House Crowley. They marched with surprising discipline, swelling the ranks of the border army beyond what they’d once been, especially given all the watchmen Darien had trained to make up for their absence.
It will take some time to get them all settled, but I suppose our lands are now large and wealthy enough to support them.
At the very front of the column rode Eugene Crowley.
He sat atop a towering bay destrier, clad in red-and-gold plate armor. A dark cloak lined with northern wolf fur draped over his broad shoulders. The Warden of the Western Border looked regal, battle-hardened, and undeniably lethal.
As he rode through the streets, Eugene allowed a fraction of his aura to bleed into the air, a calculated release of intent, as far as Nick could tell.
The pressure of a Prestige warrior washed over the crowds, and the cheering softened for a moment, replaced by instinctual awe. The new immigrants felt the might radiating from the man in the saddle, and any lingering doubts about the borderlands’ stability vanished. This was a Lord who could protect them against anything.
It took almost an hour for the army to make its way through town, what with people lining every step, fighting to get a good look at their triumphant Lord. Eventually, Eugene pulled the destrier to a halt at the base of the manor steps.
He dismounted smoothly.
Elena descended the steps, and for the first time in months, her composure cracked. She threw her arms around her husband’s neck, and Eugene caught her effortlessly, wrapping his armored arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair. A roar of approval erupted from the nearby soldiers.
Devon stepped forward next, gripping his father’s forearm in a warrior’s clasp, his face split by a wide grin. Sonya offered a deep, respectful curtsy.
Nick waited for his turn, as was proper. When Eugene finally looked at his youngest son, his eyes softened, and a moment of understanding passed between them.
They were the true powers of the West, even if, hopefully, Devon would soon swell their ranks. Perhaps even Elena, now that she’d have more time to advance her training.
Then Eugene turned back to his wife, lifting an arm. “I return victorious!”
Another cheer went up, even louder than the last.
“I am pleased to see it, my Lord,” Elena replied, bowing before turning and gesturing toward the manor. “Crowley Hall is yours. I have held it in your name and overseen its interests, as requested of me.”
Eugene made a show of looking around, giving the appearance of inspecting the grounds, before giving her a firm nod. “Your service is unparalleled, and much appreciated, my Lady!”
This time, the cheering came mostly from the locals and the manor staff, as the acknowledgment relieved Elena of her duties with as much honor as possible.
Eugene gave her one last smile. Then he turned back to the assembled troops and the cheering town.
“Be at ease!” Eugene shouted, his voice echoing across the square. “Tonight, we will drink the cellars dry!”
At that, the town erupted into joyous chaos.
By nightfall, the central square was a sea of roaring bonfires, turning roasting spits, and overflowing ale casks. Musicians played driving rhythms on lutes and hand drums, struggling to be heard over the soldiers’ laughter and boasts.
Nick stood on a shadowed balcony overlooking the feast, a goblet of watered wine in his hand, watching people mingle, love, hate, and generally enjoy themselves.
Devon sat at a long wooden table, flanked by army veterans, trading stories about his own fight in the Green Ocean and his time under Xander. Sonya moved gracefully through the crowds, directing the flow of food and drink so it never faltered among the important subjects and commanders, securing her reputation as the capable future Lady of the manor.
Nick’s gaze drifted to a table near the largest bonfire. Sir Armand Poules sat with his lieutenants, a horn of ale clutched in his fist, laughing uproariously at a joke. The man looked the picture of a loyal, victorious knight.
Nick focused his esoteric senses, peering beyond the man’s physical form.
It was no easy feat, for the man felt genuinely and wasn’t one for subterfuge, so few places in his soul were shadowed enough to offer refuge to foreign magic. Yet he was relentless in his search.
As expected, there was no active spell to be found, but he did notice a few curious scars around his emotions, scars that had no memories attached to them, unlike normal trauma.
“You look like a hawk about to dive on its prey.”
Nick turned. His father stepped out onto the balcony, holding a silver goblet of his own. He had stripped off his plate armor, wearing a comfortable tunic of dark blue wool, though the sword at his hip remained.
“Shouldn’t you be with the men? They’ll miss you,” Nick noted, taking a sip of his wine.
“They’ve had their fill of me,” Eugene snorted, leaning against the stone balustrade. “A long campaign makes men appreciate the moments when their commanders aren’t watching over their shoulders. But I doubt that’s what was on your mind. So, what terrible problem has befallen us now?”