Pampered

Argon's stern words hang heavy in the air, the tension almost palpable. He studies the man, the contrast between him and the previous captive starkly evident in the way he responds.

The slave's chest heaves with each breath he takes, his gaze darting towards the blood-stained implements that were used on his predecessor.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, probably from a combination of fear and dehydration. "Anything you need to know my lord, I'll sing like a songbird," he pledges, his words filled with an earnest sincerity that wasn't present in the previous captive. The relief in his voice is apparent, but there's also an undercurrent of anxiety, a subtle hint that he's aware of the precariousness of his situation.

"Great," Argon responds, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His cold gaze softens slightly, but there's no mistaking the calculated cruelty that still lingers there. This is a man who's seen and done things that would make most men quake in their boots, and he's not afraid to do them again if necessary. He's ready to hear what this man has to say, hopeful that he won't have to resort to the same methods as before.

Argon narrows his gaze on the second man, an icy coldness seeping into his tone, "Now, tell me, why was the patrol sent out to harass Goldenfield?"

The captive man spills out his knowledge like a desperate waterfall, and each word is punctuated with the raw fear of facing the same fate as the previous man. "I don't know, my lord," he stammers, avoiding Argon's penetrating gaze. "Baron Eldrige is considered weak, and Baron Waleran has always been power-hungry. The patrols were likely a show of force, trying to intimidate Goldenfeild into submission."

"Tell me how Oakshade was a lush village, very different from Horntide, which is barren and a mere ten minutes away", Argon quipped.

Argon's question about dark magic causes the man to visibly flinch, his skin turning an unhealthy shade of white. "I swear, my lord, I know nothing of any dark magic. We're simple folk, we wouldn't dabble in such things," he promises, his tone bordering on pleading.

When asked about the captives, the man's eyes dart to the side as he recalls the familiar faces. "There's no one of real importance among us, my lord. We're mostly farmers and common workers. Apart from Halor, the village guard, most of us make our living from the land. The blacksmith and tailor were captured as well. As for the women, they're all just wives or daughters. There's no one special or significant." His voice trails off as he finishes speaking, hoping that he has given Argon the information he needed.

Brolan's grip on the man's arm is iron-tight, a testament to the steel that runs through his veins. His posture is rigid, every bit the picture of a hardened soldier, his eyes cold and piercing. The man shrinks under his touch, the terror evident in his wide, darting eyes.

Silently, Brolan leads him out of the room. His footsteps echo ominously in the quiet corridor, a reminder of the power he holds. Argon watches them go, his gaze heavy on their retreating backs. The man glances back over his shoulder, his fear-stricken face the last thing Argon sees before the door closes shut behind them.

Brolan doesn't speak as they descend the staircase; the silence is broken only by the soft creaking of wood under their weight. Once they reach the main floor, he loosens his grip slightly, guiding the man towards the door. The sun is high in the sky outside, a stark contrast to the chilling scene that unfolded inside.

With a final shove, Brolan ushers the man out, his stern gaze never leaving him. It's a clear warning - disobey and face the consequences. He watches as the man stumbles away, disappearing amidst the bustling activity of the village.

Turning on his heel, Brolan heads back into the manor, his duty for the moment done. But he knows that there will be more orders to follow, more challenges to face. After all, they are in the throes of building a new order, one where loyalty and obedience are paramount.

With a nonchalant air, Argon breaks the heavy silence in the room. His eyes are still fixated on the blood-stained floor; he addresses Saera and Lyra, "Where were we, ladies?"

His tone is casual as if they had merely been interrupted in the middle of a mundane conversation and not a scene of torture and execution. The stark contrast between his demeanour and the gruesome scene that just took place only highlights his brutal authority more.

Argon continues, gesturing dismissively towards the mess on the floor, "Can you go clean up the blood and fingernails off the floor?"

His order, spoken so casually, makes the chilling scene all the more eerie. There's no remorse or discomfort in his voice, only a simple command to rid the room of the tangible evidence of the grim spectacle that had just occurred. His merciless nature is once again emphasised, his ruthless control leaving no room for weakness.

Saera and Lyra exchange a look, their usual bickering silenced by the chilling scene that had just unfolded. Argon's words hang heavy in the air, his ruthless demeanour a stark reminder of his authority.

Gently, they disentangle themselves from Argon's side and rise from the bed, their movements mechanical. The sight of bloodied fingernails and the lingering smell of fear in the room send chills down their spines. Despite their initial shock, they steel themselves and begin to clean the grisly aftermath; each quietly lost in her thoughts.

Argon watches them; his gaze is unfathomable. His stern visage doesn't betray any signs of remorse, but there's a certain weight in his eyes that wasn't there before. He knows his actions were harsh but necessary. After all, maintaining control often comes at a heavy price.

In the silence of the room, the echo of the executed man's final plea hangs heavy, a grim testament to Argon's unwavering resolve. The realisation that Argon is willing to go to such lengths to uphold his rule settles a new sense of fear in the ladies' hearts. They now understand that their lord's mercy has its limits, and crossing them would yield dire consequences.

In the aftermath of the gruesome spectacle, Argon is left in the room with Saera and Lyra. The tension in the room gradually fades, replaced by the familiar routine of Argon being attended to by his women.

"Ah, that's good," Argon sighs as Saera kneads at the tense muscles in his back. "You have a magic touch, my dear."

Saera giggles, the light sound contrasting starkly with the grim events of the day. "Only the best for you, my lord," she replies, her voice sweet as honey.

Lyra, meanwhile, tends to Argon's culinary needs. She cuts up pieces of a succulent roast duck, a dish Argon particularly favours.

"Try this, my lord," Lyra coaxes, gently offering a morsel of the duck. "Eldrin caught it today. You'll love it."

Argon takes a bite, humming in approval. "Delicious," he murmurs, savouring the flavour.

The women flit about him, a source of comfort amidst the chaos, fulfilling their duties with practised ease. Despite the horrors of the day, the evening falls into a rhythm of tender care and light-hearted banter. The contrast only serves to highlight Argon's strange normality within such a brutal lifestyle.

Lyra and Saera continue to attend to him, their gentle touches and caring words providing a balm to Argon's battered body and spirit. They feed him bite-sized pieces of the tender duck, prepared just the way he likes, and take turns gently sponging his forehead with a damp cloth.

Between bites, Argon manages to engage in light-hearted conversation; his usual stern demeanour softened in the company of the two women. He asks Saera about the latest village gossip, and they share a few laughs over the absurdity of some stories. With Lyra, he discusses more serious matters - how the village is faring, the state of the newly acquired slaves, and potential future plans.

"Tomorrow, we'll start putting things back in order," Argon says at one point, looking determined despite his pain. "We've won a victory, but the real work starts now. I need the village to be ready to face any potential threats."

Lyra nods, understanding the gravity of his words. "We will be, my lord," she assures him. "Everyone's working hard to strengthen the village."

As the evening wears on, their conversation tapers off, replaced by comfortable silence. Saera and Lyra stay by Argon's side, their silent presence a comforting end to a tumultuous day. The sounds of Argon's breathing, slow and steady, fill the room as he finally succumbs to sleep, the strain of the day's events catching up with him. His last thought before drifting off is of the days to come and the challenges they will undoubtedly bring. But with his loyal people by his side, he feels ready to face anything.