After the snow stopped, a steady drizzle began. The snow piled on the ground left the roads muddy and filthy.

In weather like this, the best thing to do was stay shut up at home. Especially at night.

One tavern in Blacken seemed to have gathered a crowd of people who shared that opinion.

A cozy fire burned in the hearth, and the patrons quietly sipped their drinks or played cards.

Still, it did not look like an ordinary tavern. Nor did its patrons look like ordinary people relaxing after a hard day's work.

Their loose, swaggering postures. The bored-looking barmaid. Daggers stuck into tables, money strewn about, blade marks scored into pillars like claw scratches.

There was something vaguely unsettling about the place. At least, that was how anyone unfamiliar with this sort of atmosphere would have felt.

Then, suddenly, the tavern door rattled open, breaking the quiet tedium. Every eye turned toward the entrance.

SHHHHH...

Out in the rainy night stood a tall, heavily built man in a long, hooded cloak. His heavy footsteps rang out as he entered the tavern.

The floor groaned beneath him, and rainwater streamed from his cloak.

He strode up to the nearest table and spoke without preamble. His low voice was as rough and heavy as his footsteps.

"Where's Raven?"

Raven was a common name among commoners. But here in Blacken, and in this tavern in particular, it could mean only one man.

He was the head of the Wins Brotherhood. Put simply, the leader of Blacken's thieves' guild.

Naturally, it was not a name just anyone could bandy about. Not unless they had more guts than sense, or a death wish.

Yet everyone at the table remained silent. None demanded to know who he was, asked if he wanted to die, or spat out vicious curses as thugs usually did.

One had his feet on the table; another was slouched in his chair with his hips thrust forward. They were silent because the sight of the stranger looming over them had momentarily robbed them of speech.

Beneath the hood, an iron helmet showed in place of the man's face. More precisely, it was a Viking-style helmet, protecting his nose and the area around his eyes, with mail covering everything below.

The two eyes visible through it were impassive, yet held a trace of rage—or madness.

When no one answered, a gloved hand suddenly shot out of his cloak and seized the nearest man by the hair.

The stranger spoke again.

"I asked where he is."

"W-well..."

BANG!

Perhaps deciding the answer would be unsatisfactory, the stranger slammed the man's head into the table before he could finish.

That single blow mangled his face beyond recognition. He lost consciousness and collapsed in a heap.

The man with his feet on the table hastily lowered them in alarm, only for the intruder to grab him by the hair next. The hand was as big as a cauldron lid.

Just then, someone at a nearby table sprang up, drawing a dagger.

"You bastard...!"

THWACK!

THUD.

Without so much as looking his way, the helmeted man struck him with the back of his clenched fist. The blow shattered his jaw, and he too fell unconscious.

Everyone in the tavern rose at once, but just as they were about to act, the man drew the battle-axe at his waist and drove it into the table with a crash.

Dice, coins, and the other objects scattered across the tabletop jumped. A few fell to the floor.

That single display of force froze everyone in the tavern.

All the while, he still held his captive by the hair, his gaze never leaving the man's face.

Only then did the captive begin to tremble. He hurried to answer.

"U-upstairs! He's upstairs...!"

THWACK!

CRASH!

This time the answer seemed good enough, but perhaps the stranger had never intended to spare him. He drove that absurdly large fist straight into the man's face, sending him sprawling backward as though he had been thrown.

His grip on the man's hair had been so tight that a whole handful tore free with a ripping sound.

Head bowed, the man in the sodden cloak spoke in that same heavy voice.

"Bring him."

Who was he talking to? No, it did not matter who fetched Raven. He had given an order, and he looked ready to kill everyone present if it went unfulfilled.

These thugs were no more than a pack of foxes or jackals. However many there were, they could not stand against a lion.

Indeed, with his naturally large frame and powerful muscles, years of training and battle experience, and heavy armor, the man was closer to a beast than a human.

He was, in fact, a knight of House Winslow. His name was Norman, and he was Gidwin's father. Judging by the armor and helmet he had worn here, he meant business tonight.

"What? What is it? Who's—eek!"

Summoned by a subordinate, the boss named Raven was coming downstairs when his eyes met the knight's. He recoiled in terror. Instinct urged him to flee, but the last thin thread of his reason held him back.

Trembling, he approached the knight. He kept what he thought was a safe distance, however, craning his head backward as he spoke.

"W-what brings you here, my lord?"

Safe distance or not, Norman strode forward and seized him by the collar. Raven could offer no resistance as Norman dragged him outside.

The gang members in the tavern could do nothing. Even after the knight had taken their boss away, they remained motionless, as though the axe embedded in the table had pinned them in place.

Rain poured down outside. It was darker than usual, with only the clamor of the rain filling the air, but several armed figures were visible in the darkness. Winslow's soldiers. They had already surrounded the tavern.

A man sat beneath the eaves, his hair and clothes wet as well. An oil lantern stood beside him, illuminating only one side of his body.

It was Earl Æthelred.

Norman dragged Raven over and flung him down before the earl.

"Urgh!"

Raven fell at the earl's feet and naturally settled onto his knees in the mud. His frightened gaze kept darting between the earl and the ground.

Watching the rainwater stream from the eaves, Earl Æthelred spoke.

"Who was it?"

"My lord?"

"Make me ask again, and everyone inside dies."

"Ah, w-well..."

Raven knew what the earl was asking. Probably about the young master's near abduction.

When something like that happened to the domain's sole heir, trouble was inevitable. Raven understood that perfectly well. What startled and dismayed him was how quickly the earl had come.

One wrong word here could truly get him killed. No, perhaps he was already a dead man. All he could do was try his utmost for that slender chance of survival.

"Th-they arrived two days before the horse market opened. So, so that would be f-five days ago. Yes. That's right, my lord. And, and they spoke with a W-Windale accent, so they must be from that region. When asked if they'd come to s-sell horses, they said yes, but apparently they didn't seem very interested in selling... No insignia or anything else to identify them..."

It was said that the thieves' guild had eyes and ears everywhere. Immediately after Harald's near abduction, Raven had begun making inquiries about the kidnappers.

There was information to be gleaned if any merchant in town or any of his subordinates had spoken to them, traded with them, or gotten into an argument with them.

But perhaps because the earl had arrived so quickly, the only useful information he had so far was that they spoke with a Windale accent.

Windale, however, was none other than Winslow's neighboring domain. Its ruling house was one of Duke Sven's many vassals—in other words, it served the same liege lord as Winslow.

The problem was that relations between the two houses had been poor for a very long time.

Their feud predated the Nords' conquest of Astria. At its root was each house's claim that the other's lands rightfully belonged to it, for both had branched off from the same family.

Raven kept watching the earl's expression. But Æthelred merely continued to watch the rain falling from the eaves, making it impossible to tell whether he was angry.

"I-if you give me a little more time, I'll find out for cer—"

"First, you must answer for this," the earl interrupted.

"My lord?"

"Have you forgotten our agreement? Whatever business you conducted in town, I would leave it alone so long as you caused no major disturbances. In return, you agreed to take full responsibility for any trouble that displeased me. Have you forgotten?"

"..."

"My son was nearly abducted. My son. If you thought you could survive this, you disappoint me, Raven."

Earl Æthelred turned toward Raven and spoke in a calm voice.

In that brief instant, Raven felt a rush of emotions at the earl's words. Anger, resignation, and more.

Æthelred glanced at Norman. At once, Norman raised his foot and stamped Raven's head against the tavern wall.

THUD. CRUNCH. THUD. THUD.

After several stamps, Raven's skull was crushed without his even managing a scream. An eyeball popped out and lodged in the mud.

"Bring me his second-in-command, Norman."

"Yes, my lord."

Norman went back into the tavern.

Earl Æthelred turned his gaze once more to the rain falling from the eaves. Watching the streams of water, he thought.

It was not difficult to guess who was behind the kidnappers. Probably Duke Sven, rather than the Earl of Windale.

The Earl of Windale was neither base enough nor meticulous enough to devise such an underhanded scheme.

Charitably put, he was a hearty, open-handed man. Less charitably, he was an ignorant brute. In that respect, he and Æthelred were opposites.

The widely known tale of the two houses coveting each other's lands belonged to the distant past. These days, it was less a matter of covetousness than a stale old grudge.

And the man most actively fanning the conflict between the two domains was Duke Sven. That was how he ruled his vassals.

He encouraged disputes between them to curb their strength, then intervened as mediator to exercise his influence and consolidate his position. He was meticulous and cunning for a Nord nobleman.

Unpleasant as it was to be on the receiving end, from another perspective, perhaps it was sound governance. Being a liege lord did not make a man immune to falling by a retainer's blade.

As always, even after suffering such an affront, Earl Æthelred had no effective means of retaliation. All he could do was rough people up and keep his own domain in order.

So the matter weighing more heavily on his mind right now was Wid. No, Valeri.

He had received a report from Gidwin, who had been there that day, but all sorts of stories had reached him from countless others as well.

It was like watching a legendary hero. I thought he was a young Einheri (one who fights alone, a one-man army, a member of the king's guard). He had the majesty of a king. Things of that sort.

People always exaggerated, but even the objective facts were beyond belief. Riding an untamed horse without saddle, stirrups, or reins, he had killed two men with two strokes of a sword...

Æthelred felt a peculiar sensation: the exaggerations seemed to make more sense than the facts.

Mounted combat was no easy thing. Becoming a fully fledged knight required at least ten years of training, and learning to kill from horseback demanded varied experience in actual battle.

It was not a matter of luck, much less something talent alone could accomplish.

Yet more unbelievable still was the fact that Valeri had never learned to fight in the first place. As far as Æthelred knew, the boy had never even held a sword.

Was this what it meant to carry the blood of House Vǫlsungr? Were they truly the last divine bloodline?

Being unable to make sense of something that had demonstrably happened was deeply bewildering. Above all, how was he supposed to handle Valeri from now on?

Æthelred realized how little he knew about Valeri. At the same time, he was grateful to the boy for saving Harald. Worry, relief, and unease seemed to circle endlessly through his heart.

And a small measure of guilt...

CRASH!

A noise from inside the tavern broke Earl Æthelred's reverie. A moment later, a man was hurled out of the door.

SPLAT!

"Urgh!"

He looked around in alarm, then went white at the sight of his boss lying dead with his head crushed.

"Eeeeek!"

Watching him, Earl Æthelred spoke. For now, it was time to set his thoughts aside and do what needed to be done.

"Bring me every last member of that Rekton's gang. That is the only way you and your people will live."

Not long afterward, the severed heads of young men were put on public display in Blacken's town square.