As Arthur took his first sip, the tavern doors swung open violently, banging against the walls. Two men swaggered in. They were dressed in fine, dark leather coats, but their demeanor was utterly barbaric. They wore heavy riding boots and carried thick riding crops, which they slapped against their palms menacingly.
They took a table right in the center of the room. "Oi, boy! Bring us your best cider, and make it quick! We have to get to the city gates to run errands for the boss!" the older one barked.
The young waiter practically tripped over himself, forcing a terrified smile. "R-right away, sirs! Coming right up!" He dashed to the bar and returned instantly with two massive tankards. "Fresh from the cellar, just for you!"
The two men downed the cider in a matter of seconds, slammed the empty wood mugs onto the table so hard they cracked, and stood up. "Right, we're off," the second man grunted.
"Have a safe journey, milords!" the waiter bowed deeply, trembling slightly.
They marched out of the tavern, leaving absolutely nothing on the table to pay for their drinks.
Simon frowned deeply. He caught the waiter's arm as he walked past. "Excuse me, friend. Why didn't they pay? And why were you bowing to them like they were royalty?"
The waiter shushed Simon frantically, looking toward the door. "Keep your voice down, stranger! You must not be from around here. Those two are Barnaby and Giles. They are the top enforcers for the biggest, most ruthless landlord in the Eastern Shires. A man named William Croft, though everyone calls him 'The Leopard'."
Arthur set his teacup down, his eyes narrowing. "The Leopard? Tell me more."
"He's untouchable, sir," the waiter whispered, wiping the table nervously. "He owns hundreds of acres. He's a master of the blade and bare-knuckle fighting, and he commands an army of thugs. The worst part? He actively funds the highwaymen and bandits in the region. He's the shadow king around here. Today is the great Autumn Festival over at Riverbend Village. The Leopard is hosting a massive feast there right now. If you're heading that way, I beg you, keep your heads down."
"Is that so?" Arthur's voice was dangerously calm. He dropped a silver coin on the table. "We are heading precisely that way, Simon. Let us go see this festival."
They mounted their mules and pushed forward. By early afternoon, they reached the outskirts of Riverbend Village. The festival was in full swing. It was a chaotic, vibrant explosion of color and sound. Banners fluttered in the wind; hawkers yelled out prices for roasted chestnuts, spiced sausages, and trinkets. There were jugglers tossing flaming torches, traveling bards playing lively tunes on the fiddle, and fortune-tellers beckoning from velvet-draped tents. It was a sea of humanity.
Yet, as Arthur and Simon tied their mules near a crowded tea-tent and sat down, the underlying tension in the air was palpable.
Arthur listened intently to the whispers of the locals sitting at the adjacent tables.
"The plays are brilliant this year, but I daren't stay to watch. The crowd is too rough," a middle-aged merchant muttered into his cup.
An elderly man with a walking stick shook his head. "Riverbend has held this festival for centuries, but mark my words, blood will be spilled today."
A younger man leaned in, his eyes darting around. "It's not just William 'The Leopard' Croft and his brutes. Did you see the men from the northern estates? Zachary Vance is here. 'The Viper'. He's the Crown's own grain overseer, but he acts like a warlord. And his nephew, Jack Higgins? That little psychopath is running around with a gang of cutthroats, openly harassing women right in the middle of the street! We have thugs from three different counties converging here today."
"Didn't the last Magistrate of Oakendell get run out of town by The Viper's men?" the elderly man asked grimly.
"Hush, you fool!" the young man hissed. "Do you want to get us killed? Like the old saying goes: Sweep the snow from your own porch, and don't fret about the frost on your neighbor's roof. Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut."
Arthur's grip on his teacup tightened until his knuckles turned white. Sweep your own porch? he thought angrily. When the wolves are allowed to roam the streets, no home is safe. This ends today.
He stood up, tossing a few copper coins onto the table. "Come, Simon. We are taking a walk."
They wove their way through the dense crowds, moving toward the center of the village square. Suddenly, the flow of people bottlenecked.
Marching down the thoroughfare was a pack of men who parted the crowd like Moses parting the sea. There were over twenty of them, radiating malice. They wore cheap, mismatched clothing canvas trousers, scuffed leather boots, and dirty linen shirts—but the weapons strapped to their waists were well-maintained.
At the head of this pack was a man who stood over six feet tall, built like a brick wall. He wore a fine, bleached-white linen shirt, completely unbuttoned to show off his scarred, muscular chest, and a pair of dark breeches. He carried an ornate feathered fan, which looked ridiculously out of place in his massive, calloused hand. His face was a mask of cruelty, with heavy brows and a predatory sneer. This was Jack "The Moth" Higgins, the notorious nephew of Zachary Vance.
Beside him walked a foul-looking brute named Grover, a man whose face was a map of barroom brawls.
The gang was aggressively pushing their way forward, not caring who they shoved into the mud. Arthur and Simon followed closely behind them, watching their every move.
Coming from the opposite direction was a young, striking woman. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five. She was dressed elegantly, but not ostentatiously, in a pale lavender silk gown trimmed with delicate lace. A simple silver hairpin held back her raven hair, and a pair of small pearl earrings caught the afternoon sun. She had the kind of natural, effortless beauty that turned heads skin like porcelain, wide doe-like eyes, and a soft, graceful demeanor.
Clinging tightly to her hand was a little boy, perhaps eight years old, wearing a neat navy-blue sailor suit. The boy was giggling, holding a wooden toy windmill, completely oblivious to the danger approaching them.
The moment Jack Higgins and his pack of wolves laid eyes on her, they stopped. A collective, disgusting leer spread across their faces. They immediately fanned out, forming a semicircle to block the woman's path, intentionally stepping forward to trap her against a vendor's stall.
"Please, watch where you are going! You're pushing us!" the woman cried out, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind as she desperately pulled her son behind her skirts.
Jack Higgins stepped right into her personal space, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over her.
Grover elbowed Jack in the ribs, speaking in their crude, gutter slang. "Oi, Jacko! Look at this prime cut of meat. Ain't no watchdog around her, neither. Bet she'd look right pretty locked up in the estate, eh?"
Jack snapped his fan shut and tapped it against his chin, his eyes roving over the woman's terrified face. "Right you are, Grover. Let's see where the little bird nests."
Jack leaned in closer, feigning innocence as he intentionally backed her further into the stall. "Awfully crowded today, ain't it, sweetheart? A delicate thing like you shouldn't be out here alone. How about me and my boys give you a personal escort home? Where exactly do you live?"
The woman pressed herself against the wooden counter of the stall, her face pale with terror. "Leave us alone! Stop pushing me!" she pleaded, her voice cracking.
"Pushing?" Jack threw his head back and laughed, a cruel, barking sound echoed by his twenty thugs. "If you can't handle a little bump and grind, sweetheart, you should've stayed in your bed! But since you're out here looking so pretty, you can't blame a man for trying to get a taste!"
Simon, standing behind Arthur, was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes wide with fear. But Arthur had seen enough. The righteous fury that had been building inside him since he left the capital finally boiled over.
"A true man," Arthur's voice cut through the laughter like a crack of a whip loud, resonant, and dripping with icy authority, "knows how to carry himself with dignity. Every woman here is someone's daughter, sister, or wife. What you are doing is not only an affront to the law, but a disgrace to basic human decency."
The laughter died instantly. The crowd gasped and instinctively backed away, leaving Arthur standing completely alone in a clearing behind the gang.
Jack Higgins slowly turned around, his eyes narrowing into venomous slits. He looked Arthur up and down, taking in his modest travel coat and lack of visible weapons. He spat a wad of phlegm onto the dirt.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be, mate?" Jack sneered, taking a menacing step toward Arthur. "Is this your woman? Or are you just some fool who's tired of breathing?"
"I have never met this woman in my life," Arthur replied, his voice deadly calm. He didn't flinch, didn't step back. He met Jack's murderous gaze with eyes like polished steel. "But I am telling you to step aside and let her pass. Now."
Jack's face twisted into a mask of pure rage. His pride had been challenged in front of his men and the entire village.
"You self-righteous piece of trash!" Jack roared. He snapped his fingers and pointed directly at Arthur. "Boys! Grab this bastard! Tie him up! We're dragging him back to the manor. I want to see if he can still preach when I'm pulling his teeth out one by one!"
The twenty thugs drew their knives and wooden clubs, a chorus of steel ringing out in the festival air. They advanced on Arthur, entirely unaware that the man they were about to attack was the new iron fist of Oakendell.