She reread the page in front of her, curling her fingers against the polished desk and forced herself to release her breath condensed with her fury.
It had taken weeks for an in-depth underhanded investigation of her region's businesses, and now that the report was laid out, there was a clear underlying issue—Thane Worrow. A man who had seemingly come into a lot of money out of nowhere, pauper turned banker as he became the primary named benefactor of majority of the businesses in both Valewyn and Lockstow—her county regions.
If there was a clearer declaration of war, Rhosyn hadn't seen it, and she'd seen war firsthand.
Caerwyn shifted on the spot, reading her anger and trying to discern the danger. She's sat back and done nothing about this issue for long enough. Now was time for action and hopefully a little blood.
"Sir Caerwyn," she said, rounding the desk marching for the door. "I need a horse, now."
"My Lady—"
"I don't have time to wait for a carriage," Rhosyn cut his caution clean. "Besides, the ride would do me good."
It'll give her time to breathe, calm herself down before she confronts the man who's been twisting her people's arms, and creating a quiet little empire to root his influence into her domain. Her boots clipped against the stone halls, a rhythm she could concentrate on as her mind ran wild.
She could've paced outside the stable for several minutes, but they vanished under the whispers creeping and curling in her mind, cloaking everything and she hardly noticed herself clawing at the skin of her thumb—a nasty habit. Only when the horse was looming next to her did she snap out of her tunnelling.
"My Lady," the stable boy murmured.
Rhosyn was already swinging up onto the horse and encouraging it into a canter. Caerwyn muttered a curse as he grabbed the lacking horse and charged after her.
Her mind narrowed onto the road, wind pulling through her hair and filling her lungs—she's missed riding. She knew it wouldn't last, Caerwyn would restrict her in a carriage again before long and she'd be disgruntled to the point of dejection.
What disappointed her most was that she looked forward to the week's end. As if the north would cast something more for her to tackle, and even though she had her own paper-trail of a hunt to track and execute, it didn't feel the same—and that's what bothered her most.
Dirt turned to cobble, thundering through her mount and drilling into her. Rhosyn slowed her horse, Caerwyn pulling in close and together they trotted through the streets of Vale-on-Tide, the main holding of her region. The famous River Byrn stretched the distance from bank to bank on her right, tide high as noon neared.
A bell towed out, the tang of brass in the air mixed with scents of salt, sweat and something she'd rather not say. Conversations were snatched away by the river wind or drowned out by the ringing alarm.
The Turnspan swing bridge was going to open shortly, and whoever wanted to cross the river had to do it now or risk waiting until after the hour long ship traffic had passed. Vale-on-Tide sat near the mouth of the river, a swing bridge for traffic and a tidal barrier for defence.
The Tidewell tidal barrier was one of Valewyn's early accomplishments. A wall bridging the gap between the wider banks, a structure that had a gate that could close with the use of cogs and a pulley system—to be used in times of flood risk or war. The town was mostly built around these things, replacing the older town further upstream.
Her horse nickered as she neared the centre of town, the ships already rolling in slower than she expected. It was busy today, the sky crowded with masks. At this rate, there'll be a jam in the system backing everything up all the way to the capital, Averlay—if not across the sea to Celandre.
Then all traffic ceased. Ships lingered mid-channel, sails flapping uselessly while smaller boats bobbed in their wake. On the northern quay, a knot of bodies had formed—too tight, too still. No one worked. No one was loading.
The noise reached her over the bells and river-wind: not workman's calls, but shouting. A jeer. A laugh that didn't belong in any civil quarrel. Her mount's ears flicked toward it and, a heartbeat later, so did Caerwyn's head.
A dock master thrust a piece of parchment into the chest of a man, a malicious smirk curling at his mouth, along with words ate up by the river wind. The retaliating men were distinctly different, and with a quick glance at their nearby ship, Rhosyn realised immediately what the issue was—they were northerners.
She could see the escalation before she could dismount. The docks were another link to Thane Worrow. The man had started in the docks before he became a 'found man,' and where there was Worrow, there was corruption.
Rhosyn's feet met the ground and the northern leader grumbled something harsh—or maybe it wasn't, only his accent made it so. Caerwyn yelped after her, but she was already running.
She dove around one dock officer—alarmed by her sudden appearance. A few of the northerner crew spotted her sprint, but it was the dock master her eyes was on.
He sneered a low remark, something cutting and cruel—but she didn't hear it, only the loud drumming of heartbeats and a clamour of shouting.
Steel was drawn. A strike. Then metal soured the air.
Caerwyn called close behind her, but Rhosyn slipped past the dock master, catching the northern leader as he fell. Hand clamping at the wound staining his throat, and his weight dragged her to her knees.
He gargled for breath, a fight he wouldn't win. What blood she prevented from spilling out, churned from the man's mouth and her breath caught. He couldn't die... shouldn't, it was madness. Yet his life slipped through her fingers and his eyes stared blankly at a sky that wouldn't look back.
Her tears quietly washed his cheeks and she realised she was shaking—her breath, her hands, eyes blinking to make sense. It was a terrible sadness. But mostly anger.