I hate looking up, it was as if the sky were mocking my small stature.
That's why I love heights.
They make people below me look smaller.
Standing from above, you can see who hesitates, who rushes, who pretends not to look up. You can see patterns. You can see habits. You can see fear.
That is why I had the old watchtower converted into an observation deck.
It was so tall it cast a shade over the beautiful patch of roses on the ground.
Now, all that's left are withered roses.
The entire fort used to be a war structure. Stone and iron, built to repel invaders from a war that no one even remembers clearly anymore. Now it is a clean platform with polished railings and a wide view over Carmien’s inner streets and main gate.
From here, my village is not a village.
It is a board.
And every person is a piece.
I rested my hands on the railing and looked down.
Carts moved slowly along the main road. Oxen pulled grain wagons. Workers unloaded crates of dried meat and salted fish. Merchants argued quietly over weight and price. Children ran between the buildings until a parent yelled at them.
Everything worked.
That was the most important thing.
Nothing collapsed.
Nothing protested.
Nothing changed unless I told it to.
Behind me, I heard the familiar sound of parchment being adjusted.
My secretary cleared her throat.
“My lord, if I may report.”
“Yes,” I said.
She stepped closer, careful not to look directly at me. Everyone here learned that habit quickly.
“This week’s imports are slightly lower than last week. Salted fish from the southern marsh villages decreased by three crates. Wool from the western pasture towns remains steady. Grain from Foklunn remains… high.”
I did not turn around.
“How high,” I asked.
“Higher than expected for a border village of that size.”
“Give me the numbers.”
She swallowed.
“Wheat, fourteen carts this week. Rice, eight. Dried grain cakes, three. That does not include private peddler loads that bypass official registration.”
I nodded slowly.
Fourteen.
Eight.
Three.
That was too much.
Not impossible.
But wrong.
I tapped the railing with my finger.
“Exports.”
My aide answered this time.
“Our outgoing trade is stable. Carmien continues to supply processed goods to the interior cities. Smoked meat, cured hides, refined grain flour, and enchanted farm tools. We have sent twelve carts north this week, ten south, and six west.”
“Revenue.”
“Up.”
“Tax intake.”
“Up.”
“Complaints.”
“Minimal.”
I exhaled quietly.
Good.
That meant the system was holding.
I turned slightly and looked at them.
“Now list the carts arriving from the border villages.”
My secretary unfolded another sheet.
“Today alone, my lord, we have five carts expected. Two from Foklunn. One from Marshveil. One from Greypond. One from Lowcrest.”
I frowned.
“Two from Foklunn.”
“Yes.”
“That is more than usual.”
“Yes.”
“And they arrive after I raised the entry fee again.”
“Yes.”
I looked back down at the gate.
The guards were relaxed. They leaned on their spears. They joked with each other. No one expected trouble today.
Good.
I liked it when no one expected anything.
“Raise the fee again,” I said.
My secretary hesitated.
“My lord.”
“Yes.”
“If we raise it again, the smaller villages may stop sending peddlers entirely.”
“That is the point.”
She went still.
I continued calmly.
“The border villages should not grow dependent on Carmien. They should struggle. They should feel pressure. They should be discouraged.”
“Discouraged from what, my lord.”
“From believing they matter.”
Neither of them spoke.
I did not raise my voice.
I never did.
“Raise the fee by another ten Penmark per cart.”
My aide stiffened.
“That is… very high.”
“Yes.”
“That will cut their profit in half.”
“Yes.”
“They will barely survive.”
“Yes.”
I looked back down at the village.
“Survival sharpens behavior.”
I turned fully toward them now.
“Report all carts from border villages directly to me before they enter. No exceptions.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Do not allow any border village cart inside without my approval.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And if any village complains.”
I paused.
“Let them.”
They bowed.
I returned my attention to the gate.
That was when the door behind us opened.
Soft footsteps.
Controlled.
Measured.
Not a servant.
Not a guard.
A masked man stepped inside.
He knelt.
“My lord.”
“Yes.”
“A report from the outer watch.”
“Speak.”
“A cart from Foklunn is approaching.”
I raised my eyebrow.
“Already reported.”
“Yes, my lord. But this one is different.”
I waited.
“It is escorted.”
“Escorted by whom.”
“Two village knights. Wearing Foklunn colors.”
I turned.
That made no sense.
“Village knights do not escort trade carts.”
“No, my lord.”
“Why would they.”
“We do not know.”
“Is there a military banner.”
“No.”
“Is there a Jakobster seal.”
“No.”
“Are they armed.”
“Yes.”
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“How.”
“Like guards. Not soldiers.”
That was worse.
That meant this was deliberate.
And political.
And stupid.
I felt something I did not like.
Interest.
I walked toward the stairs.
“Where are they now.”
“Five minutes from the gate.”
I descended the tower.
Each step echoed softly.
The sounds of the village grew louder.
Metal.
Wood.
Voices.
Life.
I moved to the lower gate watchtower.
The guards there straightened immediately.
“My lord.”
I did not look at them.
I looked outward.
Down the road.
And there they were.
A wagon pulled by two horses.
Old.
Reinforced.
Heavy.
Two riders in front.
Both masked.
Both sitting straight.
The peddlers walked beside the wagon.
Not riding.
Walking.
That meant submission.
That meant pressure.
That meant fear.
Good.
But the escort was wrong.
Very wrong.
I leaned forward slightly.
The peddlers looked familiar.
I had seen them before.
Regulars.
Small time.
Desperate.
Useful.
Why were they being escorted.
Why now.
Why after I raised the fees.
One of the guards beside me whispered.
“My lord, should we stop them.”
I watched them approach.
“No.”
“Let them come.”
I felt a quiet thrill in my chest.
Not joy.
Not anger.
Anticipation.
Something had moved.
Something had shifted.
And I did not like being the last to notice.
I watched the cart roll closer.
I watched the masks.
I watched the way they sat.
Not stiff like soldiers.
Not relaxed like villagers.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
The kind of stillness you learn from someone else.
Not the kind you grow naturally.
I smiled.
Very faintly.
Something was happening.
And whatever it may be, it was trying to step onto my board.
```
I knew something was wrong long before Ren said anything.
It was in the way the air felt. Too still. Too quiet. Like the world was holding its breath while pretending it wasn’t.
The wagon creaked beneath us, wood complaining softly with every turn of the wheels. The horses snorted low and uneasy, as if they smelled something none of us could see. The road ahead stretched long and pale through the fields, a dull ribbon of dirt cutting through grass that had not yet recovered from winter.
I kept my hands folded in my lap. I forced myself not to fidget.
Behind us, the two guards rode in silence.
They had not spoken since we left Foklunn.
They had not complained.
They had not joked.
They had not asked questions.
They had not even shifted in their saddles like normal men did.
They were there, and that was all.
Ren leaned closer to me, his voice barely louder than the wind.
“We should be reaching the old watch tower soon.”
I nodded.
We always passed it when we traveled to Carmien. A broken stone thing on a low hill, half-collapsed and overgrown with vines. A reminder of a war none of us had been alive for.
Ren swallowed.
“That means… five minutes. Maybe less.”
Five minutes.
I stared at the road.
Five minutes to doom, or five minutes to something worse.
I glanced back again.
The taller guard sat perfectly straight. His posture was too clean. Too proper. The shorter one leaned slightly forward in his saddle, as if ready to move at any moment.
Their armor bore the colors of Foklunn.
That alone made my stomach twist.
Foklunn guards did not travel this far.
Foklunn guards did not escort peddlers.
Foklunn guards especially did not escort peddlers who were being investigated.
Ren shifted beside me.
“Do you… do you think the Lord is going to use us as bait?”
I let out a breath through my nose.
“I think if we were bait, we would already be dead.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I did not mean it to be.”
We fell silent again.
The old watch tower came into view.
Just as Ren had said, a broken spine of stone rising from the hill, its top split and hollowed like a rotten tooth. Grass grew thick around its base, tall and yellow, swaying gently in the breeze.
As we passed, something moved.
A shadow shifted inside the hollowed top.
It was fast. Too fast for a bird. Too slow for falling debris.
Ren sucked in a breath.
“Did you see that?”
I nodded.
“Probably wildlife.”
“That was not wildlife.”
“It was probably wildlife.”
We both knew I was lying.
We both pretended I was not.
Neither of us turned around to ask the guards if they had seen it.
Neither of us wanted to know the answer.
The fields ended.
The walls of Carmien rose ahead.
Carmien always looked wrong.
It was a village built inside the bones of a fortress, stone walls meant for war now holding homes and markets and warehouses. The gate was thick iron and oak, reinforced with metal bands. Watchtowers flanked it on both sides, banners of Carmien hanging limp in the still air.
Today, there were more guards than usual.
Many more.
They stood in lines by the gate. On the walls. In the towers. On the road just outside the gate.
And the Chief himself stood on the near watchtower.
Looking down at us.
Ren went pale.
“He is here.”
“Of course he is,” I muttered. “Of course he is.”
The wagon slowed.
The guards at the gate raised their spears.
“Halt.”
We halted.
A gate officer stepped forward.
“State your business.”
Ren swallowed.
“We are peddlers. From Foklunn.”
His eyes flicked to the guards behind us.
“And them.”
Ren hesitated.
“They are mercenaries.”
The officer frowned.
“Mercenaries wearing Foklunn colors.”
Ren opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“They were… available.”
The officer’s gaze sharpened.
“No mercenary in this region wears that color. Those are village guard colors.”
Ren froze.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
I raised my hands slightly.
“Look, sir, we just needed protection. The road is dangerous.”
The officer did not look at me.
The tall guard lazily raised his hand and lifted his head slightly.
His voice was calm yet curious.
“How much would Carmien pay to know things it should not know?”
Silence fell.
The officer stiffened.
The Chief; Elbien himself, leaned forward on the watchtower railing.
“Explain yourself.”
The tall guard turned his horse so he could look up at the Chief.
“How much would you pay to know who the new Lord of Foklunn really is.”
The Chief’s eyes narrowed.
He knew that Foklunn had recently received a new Lord, though the rumors keep saying that it is someone from the exalted Jakobster dynasty’s line of sons.
Such a thing was too ridiculous to be true
For the equivalent of royalty in the northern territories to send one of their own sons to assume a position as lowly as a border village’s Lord is simply too ridiculous to be true.
Yet, aside from those rumors; no one really knew who the village Lord really was.
Elbien’s eyes narrowed.
“You speak of a drunkard’s rumors.”
The tall guard shrugged.
“Rumors are just truths that have not been confirmed yet.”
Elbien considered what he had to say.
“You know this Lord?”
“I know things about him.”
Elbien smiled thinly.
“What kind of things?”
“Things that could be of use to you.”
Elbien tapped the stone railing with his fingers.
“And you would sell them?”
The tall guard nodded.
“Everything has a price, don't you think?
Elbien studied him longer.
“You claim loyalty to Foklunn, do you not?”
“Haha… I claim loyalty to the highest bidder.”
“And who might that be?” Elbien asked.
“You, obviously.” the guard replied.
Elbien laughed softly.
“I like honesty.”
He gestured downward.
“Come inside.”
The gates began to open.
That was when the tall guard reached up and removed his helmet.
…
“Gotcha.”
Kens Kaelus’ face emerged from the shadows of the removed helmet.
The world almost breathed to a halt.
From the trees.
From the fields.
From the hills.
Men rose from behind them.
Dozens of them.
They surged forward like a tide, bearing the insignia of the Northern Watch.
Screams rang out.
Steel flashed.
Blood sprayed.
Elbien’s scouts fell in a pool of blood where they stood behind the emerging men.
Elbien spun in a daze.
“WHAT IS THIS DEBAUCHERY!”
```
I had never been particularly fond of grand entrances.
Kens Kaeluse stepped forward, removing his helmet with a flourish that bordered on theatrics. “Gotcha.” he said, and his grin somehow made me roll my eyes even while I admired the precision of it.
I, the guard beside him, pulled back my own helmet to reveal my face.
The face of Jakob Jakobster.
The sunlight hit my face and my family’s staple blonde hair and blue eyes, and I let my gaze sweep across the gathered crowd, the gate guards, the men inside the fortress walls, and most importantly, Elbien himself.
Kens leaned toward him, still grinning. “The Lord of Foklunn, sir. Right here. For your viewing pleasure.”
“Lord Jakob Jakobster of Foklunn Village, in the flesh.”
Elbien’s eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The soldiers behind him shuffled uncertainly.
Something had shifted. Fear, recognition, or perhaps disbelief. All three, probably.
I took a slow step forward. My boots crunched on the gravel and dry grass. Every head turned. Every eye followed. I could feel the weight of history and power in the Jakobster name pressing down behind me.
“I am Lord Jakob Jakobster of Foklunn Village,” I said, voice calm, deliberate. “And I have heard enough.”
Enough of lies. Enough of corruption. Enough of petty despots thinking they can squeeze the weak and shield themselves with walls.
“From the words spoken by Chief Elbien,” I continued, eyes locking on him, “witnessed by many, I declare that he is a criminal and a corrupt official. He is under arrest. Effective immediately.”
The gates trembled as Elbien’s guards hesitated.
Some raised their weapons.
Others shifted nervously.
Their loyalty was fractured.
They didn’t know if they were protecting their Chief or preserving their own lives.
A shout. A swing of a sword. A few of the bolder guards tried to resist.
They fell quickly. Too quickly. The northern Watch emerged from the surrounding trees, silent, methodical.
Their insignia glinting in the sun, their blades slick with the bodies of the scouts left behind.
I didn’t flinch. I simply watched as order, brutal and precise, overtook chaos.
The remaining guards dropped their weapons. They had no other choice. Their strength was insufficient.
Their numbers meaningless against disciplined soldiers. They rushed forward, hands up, surrendering.
I took another step, letting the sound of my boots carry. “Hand him over.”
They moved reluctantly, fear etched on their faces. But before Elbien could even be touched, his secretary appeared from behind a pillar, blade in hand.
It was too fast. Silent. Deadly.
Elbien’s throat was slit from behind. He gasped once. Eyes wide. Then nothing.
Then she spoke.
"...Retribution,"
The secretary did the same to herself. No struggle. No time for screams. Only the finality of the act.
I exhaled slowly.
Kens remained beside me, silent for the first time in what felt like hours. His mischievous grin was gone, replaced with something sharper. Calculating. Professional.
The men of the northern Watch moved to secure the fortress. Every gate. Every tower. Every corridor. Nothing could resist them now.
I took a moment to survey the scene. Bodies lay where they fell. Dust and blood mixed in streaks on the cobblestones. Guards, peddlers, and soldiers alike—witnesses to the collapse of a tyrant’s power.
I did not celebrate. I did not cheer.
I simply adjusted my cloak and watched the wind shift. The Jakobster name carried authority, but it was meaningless without action. Without justice.
Kens nudged me lightly. “You’re scary when you’re quiet,” he muttered, almost like a joke. I did not answer. I did not need to.
The gates of Carmien would never be the same. Neither would the people inside.
I let my gaze drift over the northern Watch soldiers, the captured peddlers now freed, the dust settling into patterns on the roads. Order had returned, but it was a fragile thing.
I would rebuild. I would restructure. I would see to it that power was wielded wisely, that corruption could not fester unchecked.
The fortress stood before me, silent, defeated. Its secrets laid bare. Its Chief gone. Its walls no longer shields for tyranny.
Kens leaned closer. “So… what now, my Lord?”
I turned to him, letting the borrowed Jakobster authority settle into my posture. Calm. Measured. Certain.
“Now,” I said, voice low and clear, “we make sure this never happens again.”
The men of the northern Watch raised their banners.
The prisoners were secured.
And Carmien had fallen right onto my lap on a silver plate.
