"Where are they now?"
Matthew turned to Bors, voice calm but deliberate.
This time, Fishy stayed quiet.
Bors rubbed the boy's round head before answering, "They're all at the tavern. Miro said he wanted to treat them—give them a taste of what it's like to be on the winning side."
Matthew tapped lightly on the table. His face remained unreadable—neither angry nor pleased.
After six deliberate knocks, he gave a faint nod, eyes narrowing in thought.
"And do they have enough coin for that?" he asked.
"Uh…" Bors froze for a second, then scratched his neck awkwardly. "Miro borrowed money from us just before leaving."
Matthew chuckled softly, unsurprised. "Let me guess—he came to borrow from me first, but since I wasn't around, he turned to you?"
"Yes."
Matthew rose from his seat and pinched Fishy's cheek, smiling. "Come on. Let's go have ourselves something good to eat."
He turned back to Bors. "What about you? Hungry?"
"Anything's fine," the large man said honestly. "As long as it fills me up."
"Fair enough." Matthew snapped his fingers. "Then I'll bring you back two honey‑roasted chickens."
Bors's grin widened.
Matthew pulled the door open, leading Fishy out. Then he turned back once more, pointing from his finger to the chest beside the wall.
"I promised to bring food," he said firmly. "You just make sure everything here stays safe."
Bors nodded like a loyal hound, already settling down by the crates as the door closed behind them.
When silence returned, he didn't mind it.
He took out his favorite hammer and ran his fingers along its surface, searching for imperfections.
Quiet work was honest work. Even without laughter, it brought peace.
Downstairs, the tower was buzzing with servants and guards chatting near the entry.
As Matthew and Fishy passed through, the maids went rigid—one even covered her face and scurried away. The guard beside her suddenly found great interest in staring at the floor.
Fishy tilted his head curiously, but before he could speak, Matthew tugged him along faster.
A few steps away, Matthew sighed and—without looking—rapped his knuckles lightly on the boy's head.
"What are you still staring at?"
Fishy rubbed his scalp and muttered pitifully, "My head hurts…"
He was getting smarter. Now he used gestures instead of excuses.
But it didn't fool Matthew.
"Nice try." He flicked another playful but firm knock atop the boy's head.
Fishy nearly jumped.
"Remember," Matthew said, almost laughing, "don't stare at women. It's rude—and people misunderstand easily."
Fishy nodded miserably. "Yes, sir…"
Matthew eyed him skeptically. Sighing, he gave the boy a light kick on the backside. "Fine, walk on your own then. Keep up."
The moment he let go, Fishy's sulking disappeared. He sprinted after him instantly.
They played their unspoken chase game all the way down the hill. Matthew lengthened his stride, and the boy hurried after him on short legs, giggling despite himself.
Together, they cut across a small slope leading straight to the back of the tavern—a quick shortcut.
Matthew jumped down first, landing soft on the dirt, then caught Fishy as he slid after him, brushing soil off the boy's cloak.
"Careful," he muttered, setting him down.
A narrow alley of tangled weeds opened before them, leading to the tavern's main entrance.
The streets outside were quiet and empty—only stray dogs and half‑starved cats fought noisily near the drains.
Inside, though, the opposite was true.
The moment Matthew opened the door, warmth and laughter burst out like the air from a bellows.
The scent of ale hung thick under the timber beams, sweet and dizzying.
Fishy's stomach let out a loud growl.
He wiped his mouth quickly and tugged Matthew's sleeve. "I want pork pies! And the lamb!"
Matthew hid a grin and scanned the room. The noise had dwindled just enough to feel his presence.
"Two roast chickens," he called to the barkeep. "A plate of pork pies and the lamb."
The tavern keeper, who had been watching the mercenaries warily, turned with instant enthusiasm. "Aye, two roast chickens, pork pies, and lamb coming right up! On the fire now!"
The clatter resumed almost immediately.
A serving boy hurried over to lead them to a table, but Matthew waved him aside and strode straight for the crowded corner where Sir Haven and the old mercenaries sat.
Seeing him approach, Haven sprang to his feet.
So did the others, confused but imitating him on instinct.
The tavern keeper flinched, thinking a fight was about to break out, but before he could intervene, Miro and the others bowed deeply.
"My lord!" Haven greeted.
A beat later, the new recruits echoed him clumsily, a chorus of nervous "My lord!" filling the hall.
Matthew smiled and nodded approvingly before resting a hand on the shoulder of one young mercenary who'd risen to give him his seat.
"No need," he said kindly. "Sit. I'm only here for dinner—and to see how everyone's settling in."
Relieved laughter followed as he stood among them, quietly observing the crowd.
Most were rough and half‑starved, faces sunburnt, armor mismatched or non‑existent. A few were plainly farmers: calloused hands, wary posture, eyes used to hard labor.
Too few of them, unfortunately.
In Matthew's mind, what he needed was balance — fighters for the front and farmers for the foundation. Strength and stability, hand in hand.
He smiled lightly. "Since you've all joined us," he said, voice carrying over the crowd, "I expect everyone to show their best at tomorrow's selection. I'll be watching personally — and the top three will earn a special reward."
The murmurs started at once, half excitement, half curiosity.
Before he could continue, Miro loudly clapped his hands.
"You heard the lord! He's generous to a fault. Any of you who've heard the stories here in Sow's Ridge know what kind of man he is. You chose the right banner, my friends!"
Haven shot him a look — half irritated, half amused — then puffed his chest out and added, "He's not exaggerating. Our lord here led barely a dozen of us and wiped out an ambush of over a hundred bandits. His brains and bravery saved us all!"
He said it firmly enough to convince not just the crowd, but maybe even himself.
Matthew pretended not to notice, giving Haven a fond pat on the arm.
The knight beamed and planted his fists on his hips like a hero from an old tale.
The laughter that followed broke the tension instantly.
Within moments, the whole tavern was alive again—men drinking, boasting, exaggerating the details of their survival.
Matthew let it run. Noise built morale, and morale built loyalty.
When Miro and Haven caught his subtle gesture, they slipped away from the table, following him to a quiet corner near the wall.
Matthew sat first, motioning politely for the others to join him.
Haven sat immediately. Miro waited for permission—and received an approving nod before taking the seat opposite.
Matthew observed them both, satisfaction flickering behind his eyes. Obedience and instinct — two very different kinds of loyalty, both useful in their own way.
Then he asked quietly, "You've thought about tomorrow's selection?"
Miro looked uncertain, glancing toward Haven first.
The knight, puffed up as ever, scoffed, "Simple enough. Whoever lasts longest against me in combat wins. The best fighter gets the highest ranking."
Matthew said nothing, his expression unreadable. He turned slightly toward Miro.
The older man cleared his throat. "Straightforward method, yes," he said carefully, "but we should test more than swordplay — archery, horsemanship. We both know how much those matter in battle."
Matthew nodded slowly but didn't comment yet.
He wanted them to disagree—to reveal themselves openly.
And sure enough, Haven glared. "We don't have that kind of time!"
He realized too late that his voice had risen. The nearby mercenaries turned briefly before he lowered it again, grumbling, "Most of these men are wanderers. Test them too long, they'll lose interest and walk."
Miro spread his hands with an easy smile. "They're not walking away from money, Ser Haven. Trust me. No one ever does."
"That's ridiculous," Haven snapped. "Not everyone's eyes are filled with coins."
"Really?" Miro countered, leaning forward. "Then why did you join him, Ser Haven? Coin may not fill your heart, but it keeps your sword sharp."
For a moment, the knight had no answer.
Matthew hid his amusement behind a sip of ale. Miro's cynicism grated at times, but he was competent — precise.
On the road earlier, he had overheard too many absurd rumors about himself: "The great knight blessed by the Seven," "the monster slayer who could call fire from heaven." All well‑meaning exaggerations, but dangerous too.
Haven and Bors had done their best, but they lacked subtlety.
If not for the refugees backing his reputation, his name would've become a laughingstock.
Miro might be shrewd and abrasive, but at least he understood people—the little lies that made coins glitter brighter.
Details decide success or failure, Matthew thought. He wouldn't let foolish pride undo what he'd built.
Some men talked about loyalty; he preferred results.
He looked between the two of them, smiling faintly. "Both of you have good points," he said evenly. "So tomorrow, we'll test all three—sword, bow, and horse. The method's simple enough. Let's show them that working together brings more reward than arguing apart."
The words were smooth, calm—but the message underneath was unmistakable: I decide, and you obey.
And as both men bowed their heads in agreement, Matthew's smile deepened.
Another small piece in place, another step toward control.
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