Silence gripped the great hall of Westford as Reynard stepped through its doors.
His robe was loose and slightly damp, the kind worn after battle and a hasty wash. Faint stains of dirt and smoke clung to the fabric, and his black hair—long enough to brush his shoulders—was tied back with a leather cord. His eyes, dark as a starless night, swept the room with cold indifference.
Around him stood twenty of Queen Morganthra's elite guard, warriors who had spilled blood in a dozen wars. Yet not one of them stood relaxed. Not with him in the room.
He walked to the center without waiting for invitation.
Queen Morganthra sat upon her throne, jeweled rings catching the torchlight as her fingers curled around the armrests.
"Did my men show you everything?" she asked. "That's a fortune in gold. Even for you—The King Breaker."
Reynard didn't smile. Didn't blink. Didn't budge.
"That's not what we agreed on."
The queen arched a brow. "Isn't it?"
"We agreed on forty-five percent of Whitecliff's lands. Not gold."
Her laughter was sharp, mocking. "You mean this?" She lifted a scroll between two fingers, then slowly tore it in half. The parchment whispered as it fluttered to the floor.
"Where in this world do mercenaries demand tribute from queens?"
A scarred hand rested on his sword hilt—not to draw it, but to remind them all it was there.
"Morganthra's smile was a blade wrapped in silk. 'A mercenary who forgets his place is no better than a bandit,' she said, her voice dripping honeyed venom. 'Shall I have the scribes draw up a new contract? One with… fewer zeros?'"
Reynard took another step forward. His voice was low, a rumble like distant thunder.
"I remember your face the day you came to me. Desperate. Pleading. You didn't want to lose your kingdom." His gaze flicked to the piled gold. "Keep your pathetic treasure. But if you think I'll walk away with less than what was sworn—"
His black eyes locked onto hers.
"—then you're a fool. And if you still care for this kingdom's peace, you'll honor your word. Or not even your head will cover the cost of what comes next."
The queen shot to her feet.
"Treason!" she shrieked. "Seize him!"
The guards exchanged glances. None moved. None dared be first.
They had all heard the stories. A man who had slaughtered five hundred knights alone, turning battlefields into graveyards with nothing but a sword and a mind sharper than any blade. Men called it exaggeration—until they saw him fight.
Now they circled him, weapons raised, but doubt flickered in their eyes.
Reynard chuckled. The sound was deep, unnatural, like the growl of a beast that had learned human speech. The very air seemed to thicken with the weight of it.
"Steel? From trash like you?" he sneered. "Pathetic."
His voice alone made one guard's gauntlet creak as his grip faltered. The man had faced cavalry charges—yet here, his hands shook.
"I'll give you one chance," Reynard said. "Drop your weapons. Step back."
The queen gave the barest nod.
One by one, the guards' swords clattered to the stone.
Reynard turned and walked away. The crushing pressure in the hall lifted with him.
Reynard didn't look back. He didn't need to. The message was carved into their silence:
This kingdom lives because I allow it."*
No one moved to stop him. Not the guards. Not the queen.
As he reached the doors, a raven's cry echoed from beyond the hall—sharp, mocking, like laughter.
Morganthra's nails drew blood from her palms.
She would remember this.
And so would he.
She turned to the nearest guard. "Summon the generals," she said. "This insult will be paid for in blood."