"Come on then."
Matthew clapped his hands once, grinning. "Show me what you're made of."
Sixteen newly recruited men had just eaten—it showed. They sagged like lazy cats, half‑reclined on the dirt, letting the evening breeze lull them. None seemed eager to move.
To them, this wasn't worth the bruises. They'd already been paid; why scrap in the dirt like fools for someone else's amusement?
But they weren't entirely stupid either.
When no one volunteered, they started glancing at one another, nudging and joking, hoping to stall. Their plan was simple: if they waited long enough, maybe the young lord would grow bored and let them run free.
Unfortunately, Matthew wasn't the kind to let sloth go unpunished.
After a few moments, he smiled again—slow, dangerous.
"Since nobody's interested," he said, "then Sir Haven—take these men into your unit. Their pay will match yours from now on."
That hit like a spear through pride.
Haven rose, rubbing his hands together with mock friendliness, strolling over as if already collecting his prize. That smug grin of his did the rest.
One of the mercenaries, sitting nearest the edge, shot to his feet. "I'll do it, my lord!"
"Good," said Matthew with an approving smirk. "Anyone else?"
Silence held for an instant. Then, as the knight's shadow crept closer, hands went up everywhere like grass bending before the wind.
Haven let out a low whistle and slung an arm around the first volunteer. "Looks like you've got a line forming to fight you, lad. If you're scared, you can still come with me—"
The mercenary jerked free, lips curling. "Who'd settle for your copper scraps?"
Laughter rippled through the group. Matthew folded his arms, face unreadable.
"Step forward, then," he said. "Pick your opponent."
The first man hurried into the circle and pointed at another roughly his size—thin, pale for a northerner, hair sparse and uneven.
He didn't look dangerous.
When he approached, though, he bowed deeply to Matthew first—polite, even respectful. It was only when he straightened that something about him changed. His eyes sharpened, his posture slid into balance; the air around him grew precise, lethal.
Before anyone could comment, the man asked mildly, "My lord, are weapons allowed?"
Matthew tilted his head, studying him. "You may use them," he said, "but only sticks."
He bent, picked up two pieces of trimmed firewood from beside the pit, and tossed them over. "First to fall, step out, or take a clean hit loses. Understood?"
Both nodded, gripping their makeshift staffs.
The lean man shifted sideways until he faced his opponent—then his entire presence changed again. The air felt heavier, colder.
Even Matthew leaned forward, intrigued.
"All right," he said softly. "Begin."
The words had barely left his lips when the thin man moved.
A single blur—his stick darted like a snake.
In the blink of an eye, its tip hovered at the other fighter's throat.
Silence followed. Then a slow smile. "Seems I win," the man said, lowering his weapon.
Matthew burst into applause, clapping hard. "Excellent! What's your name?"
The man bowed again. "Euron, my lord."
Matthew's eyes gleamed. "Euron, have you ever worked as a swordsman—or perhaps an assassin?"
Euron smiled faintly. "For a time, yes, I did work as an assassin."
He spoke like a man recounting the weather.
His beaten opponent, still rubbing his throat, groaned and muttered as he trudged out, "…Maybe the knight was right."
Haven patted his shoulder consolingly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the victor. He didn't trust the man one bit.
If Matthew so much as hinted, he'd run him through without hesitation.
But the young commander's expression stayed calm. After a brief pause, he waved a hand. "Continue. Let's see if anyone else here knows how to fight."
Euron inclined his head politely and turned back toward the crowd.
And then he proceeded to humiliate every single challenger.
Ten duels, ten single strikes.
Each opponent dropped before a second blow could fall.
By the sixth fight, murmuring had turned to disbelief. By the tenth—exhausted and exhilarated—Matthew could only chuckle.
Of course. There weren't that many strong men wandering as mercenaries. The odds of finding more than one killer by accident were laughable.
He turned his head toward the five northern mercs sitting at the edge, still lounging with smug grins.
"Your turn," he said, walking over. "All five of you—don't let the man steal my thunder."
They blinked, then straightened.
They'd thought their job tonight was watching, maybe drinking, certainly not this.
Still, they laughed, slapping each other's shoulders as they lined up. Their confidence was unshaken.
Northern blood ran thick with pride. Battle was the one thing they knew.
Euron's wins didn't impress them; they saw trickery, speed without strength.
"Lucky blows," one muttered. Another spat into the dirt.
Matthew noticed—and smiled, thinly.
When Euron dropped his last opponent, Matthew leaned closer and whispered, "Give me a show. Teach those five some respect."
The killer turned slightly. "Won't that be… excessive?"
Matthew shrugged. "Would you rather they climb on your back later and crap from above?"
Euron's grin appeared slowly, teeth white in the firelight. "Understood, my lord."
Inside, delight surged. This was his chance—finally, the path to recognition.
Matthew gave him a pat on the shoulder and stepped aside.
Euron walked into the circle again, gesturing politely. "Gentlemen," he said, "shall we?"
The northerners laughed, tossed off their weapons, and strode in one by one.
They didn't laugh for long.
What followed was five swift, brutal lessons in humility.
Euron moved like quicksilver, striking only once each time. His staff cracked mercilessly into kneecaps and joints, twisting balance, dragging every opponent to his knees before finishing with a punch or a shove that sent them sprawling.
It was like watching a father discipline unruly sons—efficient, calm, entirely one‑sided.
By the end, all five were groaning on the ground, faces bruised, lips bloody, pride demolished.
Matthew kept his expression stern even as laughter burned in his chest. He crossed his arms, voice low and serious.
"Pitiful," he said. "Utterly shameful."
Not one of them dared raise their heads.
They had followed him through death and fire—but now they looked like chastened children before a strict parent.
Which was exactly how he wanted it.
To rebuild a unit, first you had to break ego.
These five were too cocky for too long. Humbled now, they might finally listen, might finally learn.
He stepped forward and kicked each one lightly, one after another.
"If you can't best him," he said, gesturing at Euron, "then you'll learn from him. He's your deputy from this day on. Understood?"
A chorus of miserable squeaks followed—somewhere between "yes" and "mmh."
"Good." Matthew's mouth curled briefly, then the smile vanished as fast as it came.
Only one thing remained undone.
He turned back toward the circle, stooping to pick up one of the sticks.
The campfire reflected in his eyes as he looked at Euron.
"Now," he said quietly, "let me see your strength myself."
Euron blinked, caught off guard—but excitement flickered quickly after.
He tightened his grip on his own weapon, bowing slightly. "As you wish, my lord."
The men around the fire straightened, watching as lord and assassin stepped into the circle, shadows stretching long across the dirt.
For the first time since the company had formed, they'd see what their leader could do with his own hands.
And in that small clearing, under the trees and firelight, respect began to root itself in fear—and curiosity.
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