Matthew watched Miro stride off cheerfully with his four new farmers, then closed his eyes again.
Sometimes, you had to feed your subordinates a little sweetness if you wanted them to stay loyal.
As for the risks—those didn't even weigh on his mind.
One cowardly old man and four half‑starved peasants weren't worth worrying about.
He had bigger matters at hand.
Right now, he was waiting—waiting to see how Sir Haven's test turned out.
This wasn't just a recruitment drive; it was an evaluation. A test of Haven's real worth.
Out in the fields, the knight was surrounded by forty angry faces.
They didn't look like soldiers at all. They looked like beggars and shopkeepers demanding alms.
Having seen how much money the first recruits got paid, these newcomers now wanted the same rewards—completely ignoring the rules Matthew had set for ranking.
It was absurd.
Haven's jaw tightened in frustration.
And just as the debate reached its peak, he felt a hand snatch at his belt.
"Oi! What do you think you're doing!" he roared, stepping back with lightning speed as his sword came free of its sheath.
The blade sang, cold and sharp.
Instantly, the mob froze and backed away, trampling the tall grass underfoot.
The knight's glare cut through them like steel. "You thieving fool," he growled. "You've got one choice—join us or die."
His voice carried raw command, sharp as thunder. Even those watching flinched under its weight.
It was the classic knight's answer to defiance—swift, merciless, loud enough to cow the weak.
And it worked.
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. Then the thief collapsed straight to his knees.
"M‑My lord, I'm sorry! I'll join! Please don't kill me!"
Haven said nothing. He stepped forward, pressed his sword tip against the man's forehead, and asked coldly:
"Tell me then—is your life worth a silver stag?"
The man trembled violently. "No, no! A copper star is plenty! Please, my lord—whatever you decide to give, I'll take it!"
"Good," Haven said, lips curling into a thin smile. Then he raised his voice so that all could hear.
"And what about the rest of you? Still think you deserve the same pay as my best men?"
The crowd shrank back like a tide retreating from shore.
The knight seized the wave of fear, turning it into authority.
"Here's your choice!" he shouted, voice booming. "Take the copper I offer, serve our lord with your lives—or crawl back to your mud and hunger like the filth you are!"
It wasn't a question—it was a trap.
And yet every man felt it hit the same nerve.
The truth was, none of them had anywhere else to go.
If they'd been content with misery, they wouldn't be standing here now.
So he began to count.
By the time he reached seven, a single peasant lifted a shaking hand. "I'll serve," he said.
It was enough.
When one man moved, the rest followed.
Soon hands rose everywhere; the will of the crowd shifted, flowing exactly where Haven had driven it.
Down on the slope, the northern mercenaries who had been watching the scene chuckled among themselves.
"Guess he handled it after all."
"Hah, and I was ready for a brawl."
"Relax—he owes us a feast for being ready."
They burst into laughter.
Among them, Matthew sat quietly with eyes closed, listening.
When he smiled, it was small but satisfied.
So, he pulled it off.
That meant those men were Haven's problem now, not his.
Matthew had no interest in dragging useless fighters along just to swell his numbers. That kind of army fell apart faster than it formed.
He'd build something sharper—train the best with his own hands, shape a true core of loyal elites, and let competition drive the rest to improve.
That was how lasting strength grew.
Discipline through rivalry. Structure born from demand.
A commander who couldn't even write his own name could never win a war.
He thought of little Fishy refusing to learn his numbers, and the image only clarified his resolve.
Most men were like that—too foolish to take opportunity even when it knelt before them.
Sadly, that was the real tragedy of the world.
But those who did reach for more—those were the ones worth teaching.
And that, Matthew thought, would be the greatest reward he could ever offer.
A short while later, Haven came swaggering up the path, followed by his newly converted rabble of recruits.
Pride gleamed on his face.
As they passed Miro's group, the older man stepped pointedly out of the way—Haven's loud snort said the rest.
He was giddy with triumph, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.
The five northern soldiers guarding behind him kept laughing, tossing jokes at his back, feeding his mood.
But when Matthew stood, the noise died instantly.
The knight straightened, still smiling proudly.
Matthew's gaze met his for a long beat, then curved into amusement. "Enough grinning. You'll lose the dignity you claim to have."
That only made Haven grin wider. "My lord, did you see that? One show of force and they're tame as dogs."
Matthew ignored the arrogance, glancing past him to the line of trembling recruits.
"They're yours now," he said. "You'll train them. Make them soldiers. I don't want cowards, I want a real fighting unit."
The words set Haven glowing—until he thought to ask, "Does that include the top sixteen? The prize fighters?"
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"
"I think it should," Haven pressed, scratching his head. "Without them, I'll be left with scraps. Hard to polish dirt into iron, my lord."
Matthew didn't even bother replying. He simply waved a hand and walked off, giving a single, cold answer as he moved past.
"No."
The knight blinked, then hurried after him anyway, trying to plead his case.
But by the time they reached the tower, Matthew wasn't listening.
There, Bors and Morty were already loading the last crates onto the wagons.
At the doorway stood old Ser Roger Hog, arms folded, expression sour as spoiled milk.
When he spotted Matthew, he forced a smile—the frustrated kind nobles wear when their profits slip away.
"Ah… leaving already?" he asked, his tone both curious and peeved.
"Urgent business," Matthew said smoothly, stepping forward.
He drew out six silver stags and three golden dragons—settling the wagon fee, room costs, and the hire for the peasant couriers in one gesture.
The heavy coins glittered in Roger's palms.
Instantly, the knight's face brightened again.
"Ah! In that case, travel safely, my friends. The gates of Sow's Ridge will always be open to you!"
Matthew smiled politely. "That's very kind."
He patted Morty's shoulder, nodding toward the wagon. "Let me take that one."
Morty stepped aside as Matthew and Bors lifted the final crate into place. It slid perfectly against the others, leaving enough space to stow smaller items.
From it, Matthew pulled his own tattered bundle—a worn cloth bag holding his loose change—and slung it across his chest.
Then he turned to Morty. "We leave shortly. Thank you for your service these past days. I hope fortune finds you home safely."
They shook hands firmly.
When they parted, Matthew climbed aboard the lead cart.
He didn't want to let the man go—but a lord's word was a bond. Once spoken, it stood.
The road had divided them; that was all.
He exhaled and closed his eyes, sinking back into the jolting rhythm of the seat.
Behind him, Haven barked orders as the warriors dragged down the leftover scrap metal from the tower. Not worth much—but better sold than left behind.
Generosity was a fine virtue, but never at his own expense.
At last, everything was ready.
"Move out!" Haven called.
Bors flicked the reins, and the convoy rolled forward.
As they passed through the gates, Ser Roger stood outside, smiling stiffly.
The carts creaked. The men's boots struck earth. And the young commander sitting tall at the front didn't look back once.
He raised a hand lazily, voice carrying just enough to reach the knight behind him.
"Next time I return," he said with a half‑smile, "I expect to see your smith forging proper armor."
At that, Roger's smile twitched painfully.
He thought of the wasted coal, the broken chainmail, the lost sleep—and swallowed his irritation with forced civility.
"Yes, yes," he called, teeth clenched. "You'll see!"
He stood there until the figures and wagons dwindled into the horizon.
Then the grin fell from his face.
"Strengthen the patrols tonight," he told his guard quietly.
Too many armed strangers passing through his land in too few days. That was reason enough for unease.
Distrust, after all, was the one thing he and Matthew truly had in common.
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