"Father Baine will be in trouble this time!"
"Corruption? Smiling Will, corrupt? That man prized honor above his own life."
"What do you know? Corruption is only the excuse. He was caught up in the Klein family's quarrels."
"So he followed the wrong man?"
"No. He followed the right one—he just never realized he was nothing more than a pawn in the game."
"You mean—?"
"Seven hells, must I spell it out? He was used, and when the bargain was struck, he was cast aside."
Among the crowd spilling from the tavern to watch, many were merchants from the roads between Old Oak, Red Lake, and Goldengrove. They were better informed than simple villagers, and their hushed exchanges laid bare the shifting power in Red Lake City.
Linden, with his sharpened hearing, caught every word. From their whispers he pieced together the truth of Smiling Will's fall, and with it, the shape of the trap laid before him.
Yet he had already resolved what to do. Even without Baine's urging, he meant to fight with all his strength. This was no longer about survival alone—it was his chance to carve a name for himself in the noble circles of Red Lake.
He gave Baine a single nod to show he understood. Then, without sparing Ser Crowe a glance, he strode into the open space before the tavern. His voice was calm, steady, carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.
"Come on."
Linden's composure stunned the onlookers. They had expected anger, defiance, or at least fear from a man dragged into the Klein family's quarrels and forced into so lopsided a duel. Yet he stood calm, unshaken, as though the armored soldier before him were no more than a common brawler.
That calm unsettled the crowd. It called to mind every rumor whispered in White Village—that Linden had devoured the spirit of the mountain bear, that he carried its strength within him.
The soldier chosen by Ser Crowe felt it most keenly. Linden's stillness pressed upon him like a weight, as though he faced not a man but some great beast. The tales of the Bear‑Hunter gnawed at his mind, yet retreat was impossible. With Ser Crowe's eyes upon him, he could only grit his teeth and charge.
Impatience flickered across Ser Crowe's face, and at once the soldier drew a sharp breath, tightened his grip on the sword, and rushed forward. His blade came down in a diagonal slash, aimed at Linden's shoulder and neck.
But Linden moved as if strolling through a garden. A single step forward, a slight tilt of the body, and the steel cut nothing but air. In the same instant, Linden surged ahead and crashed into his foe.
The soldier toppled like a felled tree. Before he could even gasp, a heavy boot pressed against his throat. Pain flared white—and then darkness claimed him.
The crowd fell silent. None could say what they had just witnessed. They had seen Linden take two steps, nothing more, and then the soldier lay broken at his feet.
Ser Crowe's mask of arrogance cracked. His face darkened, his jaw tight with fury. With a curt gesture, he summoned another of his men forward. The second soldier stepped out, sword in hand, to take the place of his fallen comrade.
The second soldier wore a grimace as he stepped forward. He knew his own strength was no greater than that of his fallen comrade. If the first had been struck down so easily, what chance did he have? Yet there was no retreat. With Ser Crowe's eyes upon him, he could only grit his teeth and charge.
The result was the same. With a movement as effortless as plucking grass from the roadside, Linden cast him down.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. His strength was too great, his ease too unnatural. There were mercenaries among the onlookers who could have bested such soldiers, but none could have done it so swiftly, so calmly. More unsettling still, Linden's face remained composed, untouched by strain or pity, as though the taking of lives meant nothing to him.
"The spirit of the mountain bear! He truly carries it!" cried one villager. Others nodded, whispering. They had known Linden before—knew his temper, his habits, his weakness. The man before them was not the same. The difference only deepened their belief in the rumors: that he had devoured the essence of the beast he slew.
Linden himself paid no heed to their words. He stooped, lifted the fallen soldiers' swords, and gave them a casual swing, testing their weight. Then he leveled both blades at the young noble.
"Let the rest come together."
The words struck Ser Crowe like a slap. His face twisted, pride curdling into fury. At first, he had thought to make use of this Bear‑Hunter, to bind him as a useful hound. But now, before so many eyes, he felt only the sting of humiliation.
"Enough!" he barked, his voice sharp with rage. "All of you—go! At once!"
The four remaining soldiers tightened their grips on sword and shield, then began to advance as one.
Though it had been Linden himself who demanded they come together, Ser Crowe's order still drew scorn. The crowd muttered and hissed, their hidden boos slipping into the open. The young knight's face flushed with shame, and his humiliation only deepened his loathing for Linden.
The four soldiers hesitated at first, exchanging uneasy glances. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, they slung the small round shields from their backs and locked them together, forming the simplest of shield‑wall formations. Step by step, they advanced.
The sight of four armed men arrayed in battle order against a single unarmored youth only stoked the crowd's contempt. Boos and jeers rang out openly now, filling the square. Even those villagers who had once despised Linden muttered against Ser Crowe, their voices rising with the merchants and travelers who had gathered to watch.
Yet Linden remained as calm as ever. His face betrayed no fear, no anger—only the same quiet composure he had shown from the start.
This time, however, he did not wait. He surged forward, straight at the narrow gap between the two central shields, as though intent on breaking their formation by sheer force.
It was a tactic known to knights: to smash through a shield wall with the weight of horse and armor. But knights wore steel plate, their bodies encased in iron, their charge bolstered by the mass of destriers. Even if they failed, their armor turned aside the blows that followed.
Linden wore only a thin short‑sleeved tunic. To the onlookers, his charge looked like madness—like a man hurling himself headlong into death.
The two soldiers bracing their shields thought alike. They pressed their weight forward, ready to blunt Linden's charge. Even if they could not stop him outright, they meant to slow his momentum long enough for their companions to strike from either side.
The other two, reading their intent, raised their blades in unison, poised to slash at the space just before the shields.
But what followed stunned every eye.
Linden closed the distance in a heartbeat, and just as it seemed he would crash headlong into the wall of shields, his momentum vanished. His feet shifted with uncanny grace, his body turning as though he were a dancer upon a hall's polished floor. With steps like a waltz, he spun before the formation, then slipped behind them before they could even react.
As he turned, his blades sang. The twin swords flashed in perfect rhythm with his whirling body, each stroke finding the exposed nape of a soldier's neck.
The force of his rotation, joined with the strength of his arms, was irresistible. Three heads flew free at once, carried by the sweep of his blades. The fourth dangled grotesquely, half‑severed, held by a strip of flesh.
Blood fountained from the wounds, spraying across the dirt and soaking Linden's tunic in crimson.
The jeers that had moments before mocked Ser Crowe and his men died at once. Silence fell, broken only by the hiss and patter of blood upon the ground.
Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice rang out:
"Bear‑Hunter!"
Another took it up. "Bear‑Hunter!"
Soon the chant swelled, voices of merchants and villagers alike, until the square thundered with cheers. Even those of White Village who had once scorned Linden shouted his name, their faces alight as though they themselves had struck the blows.
Though the battle had lasted but a few heartbeats—over almost before the eye could follow—it was, to those who witnessed it, the most astonishing contest they had ever seen. None could recall a man felling four foes so swiftly, so magnificently.
"Don't come near me!"
Ser Crowe's voice cracked as Linden, drenched in blood, turned his gaze upon him. All pretense of noble bearing fled. In a panic, he tore the reins from the hitching post, vaulted into the saddle, and spurred his horse through the crowd. A moment later he was gone, vanishing down the road beyond the village.
The onlookers muttered with disdain at his cowardice, but none dared speak too loudly. For all his shame, Ser Crowe was still of House Crane, still a knight of Red Lake. However far the family had fallen, they remained lords, and lords were not to be trifled with. A few barbed jests were the boldest any dared.
"It's over, it's all over!" Father Baine's voice cut through the murmurs. His face was grave, untouched by triumph. He barked orders to the tavern hands: "Find the one with the slanted eyes. Clear away the bodies. Strip the weapons and armor—keep them safe. The Cranes will send men to claim their dead."
He gestured for Linden to surrender the bloodied blades, then drew him toward the tavern's rear yard.
Yet even as Linden withdrew, the crowd lingered, unable to shake the awe of what they had seen. Some of the bolder caravan mercenaries crept close to the corpses, crouching to examine the wounds. A few even mimicked Linden's movements, testing whether such swordplay was possible for mortal men.
But most spoke in hushed tones of what would come next. Would House Crane let this insult pass? Or would they send riders to seize the Bear‑Hunter, to drag him to Red Lake in chains and see his head struck from his shoulders?
While the villagers speculated about Linden's fate, Father Baine drew him into the tavern's rear yard.
"How did you do it?" Baine demanded, his voice sharp with impatience.
Linden blinked. "Do what?"
Baine mimicked the whirling strike Linden had used to cut down four men. In Linden's hands it had been like a deadly dance; in Baine's, it looked more like a wine barrel rolling off its rack. The sight was almost comical, and Linden had to bite back a laugh.
"You told me to fight with all my strength," he answered simply.
"Yes, I did," Baine admitted with a wry smile. "But I never imagined your full strength would be so fierce… so merciless. Those men may not have been the finest of the lord's guard, but they were still regular soldiers of Red Lake. And you slew six of them as if they were nothing. I see now I underestimated you. Had I known your true power, I would never have gone begging to Will. I would have gone straight to Lord Fortimo himself, and spared us this mess."
Linden's eyes narrowed. "What happened in Red Lake, Father? Why did a noble come here today to trouble me?"
Baine sighed, his expression heavy with guilt. "It is my fault you were dragged into this. I did not expect the Klein family's quarrels to flare again, and it happened just as I went seeking Will's help."
Then, in a low voice, he explained what he had learned.
The Klein family had long been divided into two camps. One faction held that, since House Tyrell of Highgarden were the Lords Paramount of the Reach, Wardens of the South, and liege lords of Red Lake, the Cranes must naturally cleave to them.
But the other faction within House Crane held a different view. They argued that the ties between the Cranes of Red Lake and the Tyrells of Highgarden were distant. No marriages bound their bloodlines, and no lasting benefit had ever come from pledging themselves to Highgarden.
By contrast, the Cranes had long been close to House Florent of Brightwater Keep. The two families had intermarried often, their bloodlines intertwined. Trade and politics bound them as well, and the Florents' strength was not much less than that of the Tyrells. To stand with Brightwater, they believed, was far more advantageous for the Cranes' future.
Before the division could deepen, however, it was abruptly checked by an unexpected reconciliation between House Florent and House Tyrell. Yet the split within House Crane did not heal. On the contrary, it festered, growing sharper with each passing year until, at last, it erupted openly.
The outcome was both expected and startling. The Cranes who had stood with the Tyrells were utterly defeated, stripped of influence and power. All authority within the house fell into the hands of those who had cast their lot with the Florents.
And Ser Crowe—the very man who had come to White Village today—was of that victorious faction.