No Choice

Argon ran a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as he frowned at the letter. "I won't lie, Brolan, this has all fallen into place too fucking easily."

Brolan nodded in agreement; his eyes narrowed in thought. "And after the assassination attempt... could this just be Eldrige's backup plan?"

A shiver of unease passed through Argon at Brolan's words. It was true - their circumstances were all too convenient. He had been planning to wed Isolde for the power it would bring him, but with this letter, it seemed Eldrige was pushing the match upon him.

And after narrowly escaping death just a day prior, Argon couldn't shake off the nagging suspicion that all was not as it seemed. Perhaps the Baron was not offering his daughter's hand out of respect or admiration... but as a cleverly disguised trap. The thought chilled him, and Argon knew they must tread carefully moving forward.

Argon leaned back in his chair, a grim smile on his face as he spoke. "We're cornered now, no matter how you look at it, Brolan. We have to go. If we don't, we're confirmed traitors, crossing Eldrige for sure. If we do, well, it could be a damned trap. But if that's the case, we'll just have to take as many of those fuckers down with us."

He pounded a fist on the table. "We'll be in full armour, ready for any shit they pull. Assassination at a wedding might be the oldest trick in the book, but we're not idiots."

His smile turned into a smirk as he continued, "Anyway I'm sure Isolde had a hand in convincing her father. I gave her a taste of my metal, she belongs to me now. After gifting me with her virginity she won't dare cross me or risk being the laughing stock of all Horntide." His confidence was unshakable, and Argon knew they had to meet this situation head-on.

Brolan nodded in response, his usually animated features in a grim expression. "Let's hope it was Waleran, master," he muttered, a tension lining his words.

Argon echoed his sentiments with a nod, his gaze hardening as he responded, "Indeed. We'll fortify Blackwood as best as we can today. Tomorrow, we set off for Horntide."

Brolan's brow furrowed slightly, "And who do you propose we bring along?"

Argon mulled over his choices; his lips pursed thoughtfully. "Let's bring the heavy hitters. Both you and Brom possess artefacts. If it is indeed a trap, having more artefacts on our side will tilt the odds slightly. Let's hope that Alric kept his mouth shut about the looted artefacts. We must maintain any edge we have."

Argon looked thoughtful momentarily, "We will need to bring a substantial number, but not so many that it looks like we suspect anything. They should all have fine armour. I don't want us to be laughed at."

Brolan nodded in understanding, "We can bring along Brom, Lark, Dael, and Edrik. Among the slaves, Jorah, Kyros, Jotham, Thalius, Tolvin, and Jarik are the most competent. They all have the best armour as they were the best warriors. The villagers we pressed into service last time are not worth mentioning."

Argon, however, shook his head, "Leave Edrik here. We need someone capable to keep things in order at Blackwood. Replace him with Boyd."

Brolan nodded in response, "As you wish, master." Rising from the table, he left the manor, his mind already calculating the logistics of the journey and ensuring the security of Blackwood in their absence.

Argon lingered longer, his mind caught in thoughts and possibilities. Then, with a resolute nod to himself, he stood and strode out of the manor. It was time to oversee the preparations and ensure everything was in order. Blackwood could not afford any negligence or lapses in the absence of its lord.

"Melvin!" Argon's voice echoed through the crisp morning air, cutting through the usual chatter of the village. His tone was authoritative, a clear command that demanded immediate attention. "Melvin, I need to speak with you now!"

His dependable steward soon materialised, briskly walking to meet his lord. Promptly emerging from around the corner of a nearby building, his features lit by the soft morning sunlight.

"Melvin," Argon said sternly, "I've been called away to Horntide on urgent business. While I'm gone, I'm leaving you to oversee the village affairs. I'm putting Edrik in charge of the soldiers; your focus should be on keeping everything running smoothly here."

Melvin, a sturdy man accustomed to the challenges of his position, nodded in understanding. "Of course, my lord," he replied, his face a picture of focused determination. "We've already begun expanding the mine. The blacksmith is hard at work, our defences are looking strong, and those villagers who've leased land are getting their crops planted. We'll keep everything in order here, you have my word."

"Where is Saera?" Argon queried, his tone softening a bit.

Grateful for the change of topic, Melvin quickly replied, "She's recovering well at the moment, my lord. As you asked, I've put her in one of the guest bedrooms in the manor,."

Argon's brows furrowed, his tone sharpening as he addressed Melvin, "By the way, what the fuck happened to that church I asked for?"

Melvin, taken aback by the sudden question, blinked a few times before responding, "I...I prioritised other more pressing matters, my lord."

"Melvin!" he boomed, the volume of his voice making the man jump slightly. "These people...they are Godless."

Melvin's brows furrowed in confusion as he responded, "My lord, I don't...?"

Argon cut him off with a wave of his hand. "They need to worship the one true God. This...this is of paramount importance. I won't tolerate heathens in my domain."

Argon's words hung heavily in the air as Melvin absorbed the implications. The stern expression on Argon's face left no room for debate.

"Anyone who refuses to acknowledge Seric religion," Argon continued, his eyes flashing dangerously, "they're enemies. My enemies. And we both know what happens to my enemies."

The unspoken threat hung in the air as Argon held Melvin's gaze, his message clear. The people of Blackwood would need to find their faith quickly, for their lord had spoken, and he would not be denied.

Unsatisfied, Argon narrowed his eyes at his steward, "Get the church done immediately." His command echoed in the air, leaving no room for further excuses or delays.

"Aye, my lord," Melvin replied, bowing his head in acknowledgement. His face held a tinge of worry, realising the implications of Argon's stern tone and the added weight of the new task.

Argon gave a curt nod at Melvin's words before striding away, leaving his steward to continue his work. Taking long strides, Argon meandered his way around the village, his sharp gaze taking in the details of his surroundings. It was a routine he'd gotten into – monitoring the village's progress, ensuring everything was on track.

Villagers quickly exited his path, casting curious and slightly fearful glances, but he paid them no mind. His destination was the barracks, where his men resided and trained. The building was one of the first they had constructed upon securing Blackwood, and he took pride in its robust design.

Upon reaching the barracks, he was greeted by the sight of his soldiers engaged in various activities. Some were sparring, their grunts of effort carrying through the crisp morning air, while others performed maintenance on their weapons and armour.

He moved between the soldiers, inspecting their work. It was a different world within the barracks, one of discipline and camaraderie, and Argon felt a sense of satisfaction as he watched his men diligently hone their skills.

As Argon neared the group of his men, their conversation died down. The soldiers straightened their postures and greeted their lord respectfully, their eyes following him as he joined them.

"Have you all been brought up to speed?" Argon asked, his gaze scrutinising each of them.

In a chorus of unified voices, the response came clear and concise, "Yes, my lord."

"Good." Argon turned and left the barracks

Argon stepped out of the musty interior of the barracks, the sunlight hitting his face as he emerged into the open. The sight of soldiers practising their drills, the sound of metal clashing against metal, and the grunts of exertion were gradually replaced by the relative quiet of the village.

He turned his steps toward the manor, his boots crunching against the gravel path. He took in the sights and sounds of his domain - the workers toiling in the fields, the children playing in the narrow streets, the smoke curling up from the chimneys of the huts. Despite the chaos and hardship, a certain rhythm to life in Blackwood was oddly comforting.

As he approached the manor, the stark contrast between his humble abode and the grandeur of the nobility's homes was not lost on him. The manor, though modest compared to a true lord's residence, still stood as a symbol of power and authority.

Walking up the steps, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The cool interior was a welcome relief from the heat outside. Argon moved through the familiar corridors, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

Argon ascended the creaking wooden stairs to the upper floor of the manor. His boots echoed against the stone walls of the building, which though solidly built, lacked any form of embellishment or elegance. The simplicity and utility of the architecture were evident, a reflection of Argon's austere lifestyle.

Upon reaching the landing, he turned to the left, where the guest rooms were situated. A narrow corridor greeted him, lined with evenly spaced wooden doors. Without hesitation, Argon started knocking on each door systematically. The noise from his knocks pierced the quiet atmosphere, resonating through the otherwise silent manor.

Door after door, the response was the same - silence. But Argon continued his methodical search undeterred. Then, a door creaked open at the end of the corridor, and a frail voice answered, "Yes?" It was Saera. She looked up at Argon, her face a mix of surprise and relief as she realised who stood at her door.

Argon leaned against the frame, knocking gently on the door, peering into the dimly lit room. "Saera," he called softly, his voice imbued with an unusual gentleness.

Her eyes lit up at the sound of his voice, and a weak smile graced her pale lips. "My lord," she responded, trying to sit in bed, her movements hindered by the bandage wrapped tightly around her forearm.

"Easy there," Argon quickly interjected, moving to her side to prevent her from straining her injury. "How's the wound? Is it healing well?" He asked, glancing at the bandaged arm with a concerned look.

Saera nodded, wincing slightly as she tried to move her hand. "It's... it's better than it was. Melvin has been taking good care of it."

Argon sighed, his brow furrowing in concern. "I should have prevented this," he confessed, his tone unusually soft.

Saera shook her head, her expression firm despite the lingering pain. "You couldn't have known, my lord. I don't blame you for what happened."

Silence passed between them, filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. Eventually, Argon nodded, rising from his seat by her side. "Rest up, Saera," he instructed, his voice regaining its authoritative tone. "We need you back on your feet as soon as possible."

With a final nod, Argon turned to leave, leaving Saera to rest and heal in the quiet solitude of her room.

Leaving Saera's room, Argon walked down the corridor, his steps echoing in the silence. As he approached his chambers, he noticed Jory and Eldrin standing guard outside, their forms stiff and attentive.

The sight brought a smirk to his face. He was still getting used to the idea of having personal guards, but the recent assassination attempt had made the necessity of their presence all too clear.

"Eldrin, Jory," Argon greeted, giving a curt nod in their direction. Eldrin, the younger of the two, hurriedly reached out to open the door for him, his face flushed with the eagerness of his new responsibility.

"Thank you," Argon muttered, stepping inside his room. The familiar sight of his quarters welcomed him, a place of solitude and rest in the middle of a tumultuous world.

Closing the door behind him, he cast one last look at his two guards standing diligently outside. Then, shedding his armour, toga and boots, he threw himself onto the bed, allowing the day's fatigue to wash over him.