Late at night, in the Lord's bedchamber, Evelyn was transcribing the laws Solomon dictated.
She had grown increasingly silent. This boy's knowledge far exceeded that of a minor lord. It surpassed the great lords, the Wardens, perhaps even the Kings.
As she wrote, her sapphire eyes watched him. Occasionally, she offered her own insights. He was decisive, autocratic even, yet he would ask for her understanding and listen to her suggestions.
She became more and more curious about this minor noble named Solomon. Why did the youngest son of a backwater house understand so much?
"Lord Solomon!"
Her thoughts were interrupted. Two burly figures stepped out of the darkness beyond the door, kneeling on one knee. Their leather armor creaked softly.
Solomon shifted his gaze from Evelyn's exquisitely ugly disguise—he had to admire her makeup skills—to Luchen and Lauchlan.
He gave his order.
"Tonight, select twenty of the most reliable veterans. Men with tight lips. Disguise yourselves as wandering bandits. Remove anything that could identify you as my soldiers. Mask your faces. Speak little. I want no rumors."
Evelyn looked up, watching the young lord calmly issue orders to attack his own subjects to achieve his political goals. His methods were terrifyingly experienced.
"Burn a few empty thatched cottages. Steal their chickens, ducks, and livestock. Smash their doors and windows. Hack at their doorframes with your swords so they hear the sound of steel."
"Remember: do not kill anyone. Do not seriously injure any villager. Your goal is to spread fear. They are useful to me; do not break them."
"Finish before dawn. Create enough chaos and terror, then disappear into the mountains with the loot. Leave no trace."
"Remember! Every action is to make them feel unsafe! To make them feel fear!"
"Your command! Lord Solomon!"
Luchen and Lauchlan exchanged a glance. There was no question in their eyes. Lord Solomon's orders were absolute. They had never seen him make a mistake.
The night in Mountain Pass Village was peaceful. You could hear the dew dripping onto the soil, accompanied by the occasional bark of a dog or croak of a frog.
Old Hans, a farmer, had just tucked his youngest son in. He smiled. Since Lord Solomon took over, no one had forced them to give up their grain. The Lord had even returned their taxes. Life was still hard, but compared to the days of House Terry, it was paradise.
Suddenly, a rapid, terrified barking erupted from the village entrance.
Then, a yelp of pain. Then silence.
The dog was dead.
Old Hans's heart clenched. He had a bad feeling. Before he could even sit up, the village exploded with noise. The roar of men, the sound of violence. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Shouts. Curses. The violent crashing of wood splintering. It sounded like the tax collection raids of House Terry, but worse.
Old Hans rushed to the door and peered through a crack in the wood.
Fire!
The sky was alight. The village was as bright as day.
He heard the screams coming from the carpenter's house. He heard the carpenter's wife and children wailing for help.
But no one came out. Not a single door opened to help them.
Hans didn't dare go out either. The firelight cast long, monstrous shadows on the walls—tall men with torches and weapons, setting everything ablaze.
Smashing doors. Cursing. The bleating of panicked livestock. The sobbing of women.
The peace of the village was shattered.
He knew everyone was awake, just like him. But they were all praying the bandits wouldn't choose their house. Just like when the Terry soldiers came.
In that moment, he hated the villagers' weakness. He hated his own weakness.
"Please, Merciful Mother..." Old Hans closed his eyes, his voice trembling uncontrollably. He prayed to the Seven. As the footsteps drew nearer, he started praying to the Old Gods too.
The merciful Lord is here. Life was supposed to get better.
But no god answered. He saw several bandits laughing as they walked toward his home.
Hans's soul nearly left his body. He ran back to the bed, hugging his waking wife and children, clamping his hands over their mouths. Don't make a sound. Don't cry.
His teeth chattered, making a click-click-click sound in the dark. He held his trembling family tight, trying to comfort them while he shook just as hard.
CRASH!
His door was kicked open.
Hans looked at his family one last time. Trembling, he walked out and knelt before the intruders.
"Please. Don't hurt us. Take everything. Just don't hurt my family."
The bandits ignored him. They roughly stuffed his terrified chickens into sacks. They stormed into his pen and dragged away his only goat.
One bandit punched Hans in the face, knocking him down. They ransacked the house while his wife and children screamed in terror. They took everything.
A bandit hauled Hans up by his collar.
"Have your valuables ready next time! Don't make us search!"
"Remember! Have it ready! We will be back!"
"Next time! If what we want isn't ready!! We want your lives!!!"
Hans wept, nodding frantically.
Outside, a brave (or foolish) villager tried to shout a threat. "Our Lord is Solomon the Black Lion! He will bury you all alive!!"
Thud. The villager was punched to the ground and kicked repeatedly.
"By the time the Black Lion comes! We'll be gone! He can't be everywhere at once!!!"
"Next time, I'll hang you!! Take your wife for our pleasure!! Throw your children down the well!!!"
No one else dared to resist.
The entire village hid behind locked doors, extinguishing every candle, shivering in the dark, hoping the bandits would pick a different neighbor.
Then, as suddenly as they arrived, the bandits vanished. Carrying sacks of grain and livestock, they melted into the dark mountains outside the village.
The bandits were gone. But the fear remained.
It hung over Mountain Pass Village like a thick, suffocating smog.
Villagers huddled behind broken doors, clutching their families, shaking until dawn.
No one dared to open a door. No one dared to make a sound. They let the fires burn out. Only when the first light of dawn broke the darkness did they dare to peek outside.
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