Euron exhaled slowly, raising his staff as he steadied his stance.
Matthew mirrored him and met his eyes.
They nodded once to each other. The duel began.
As always, Matthew disliked waiting. He stepped in first—three long strides, driving his staff forward with assertive force.
Euron had been waiting for that exact move.
The assassin's wrist twisted, his weapon spinning in quick, deceptive arcs like a blur of smoke. It was almost too fast for the eye.
But Matthew didn't flinch. He ignored the feint and struck straight through it with raw power.
The air cracked with the impact.
The wooden staff split clean in two with a sharp snap!
Cheers erupted from the circle.
The five northern mercenaries leapt to their feet, fists pumping, shouting for Matthew to "smash him again!"
He didn't so much as glance their way. His focus stayed locked on Euron.
The assassin's hands trembled slightly with the shock. The short piece of his broken staff fell at his feet. He hissed under his breath, half in pain, half in amazement.
What strength.
But instead of frustration, his grin widened.
A true fighter only felt alive facing someone stronger.
He backed off three steps, holding what remained of his stick, circling to the side. His assassin's instincts guided him, darting and weaving, seeking the angle for a sudden kill strike.
Yet no matter how he shifted—fast, light, cunning—Matthew's stance never broke. His steady staff tracked every movement as if drawn to him by string.
It looked less like combat and more like an elaborate, useless dance.
After ten such feints, Euron finally stopped, chest heaving. Then, with a resigned chuckle, he tossed aside his broken half‑staff and bowed his head.
"I concede, my lord."
Matthew planted the tip of his weapon in the dirt and smiled.
"Your speed's good. Technique's clean. But your strength's lacking." He tapped a finger to his own arm. "You'll need to build that muscle—and eat more meat."
Euron gave a wry smile. "I fear it's a little late for that."
Matthew waved dismissively. "Nonsense. You fix the flaw; you don't excuse it. Never too late for improvement. I won't have a deputy who stops growing after his first victory."
For a moment, the assassin just stared, stunned. Then he sank to one knee, clutching a fist to his chest, voice shaking with earnestness.
"My lord… I understand. I won't disappoint you."
In that instant, something in Euron's face shifted—excitement, loyalty, purpose. After years as a stray, someone had finally claimed him.
Matthew reached out and helped him up.
"Work hard," he said, smiling faintly. "Here, advancement is earned. Strength and results decide your place. Keep proving yourself, and you'll stay on top."
Euron nodded again and again, eyes bright, grin boyish. The northern mercenaries, standing nearby, couldn't hide their irritation.
When Matthew's gaze flicked their way, they froze immediately, straightening as if nothing had happened.
Of course he noticed.
He turned back to Euron, tone soft but pointed. "Looks like trouble's brewing already. Handle it. I expect obedience in my ranks—make them cooperate."
Euron's face hardened. "I will. You have my word."
Matthew squeezed his shoulder once and raised his voice for everyone to hear.
"Until someone defeats Euron, he's your deputy commander. Treat him as such. Understood?"
A hesitant murmur followed. "Understood…"
The response lacked spine.
Matthew's expression darkened. "Louder."
This time the shout shook the trees: "Understood!"
Satisfied, he huffed once and turned away, unwilling to linger on their discomfort. He walked over to Fishy, sitting down beside him, and closed his eyes as he addressed Bors quietly.
"Keep watch."
Euron, meanwhile, turned to face the twenty-odd men left standing, a wolfish smile curling his lips.
"Since I'm your new deputy," he drawled, spinning Matthew's old staff in one hand, "everyone up. We're going for a stroll."
The playful tone didn't disguise the edge underneath.
The five northerners stiffened instantly, ready to protest—but before they could, Bors rose and lumbered forward, scratching his head.
"Deputy," he said simply, "the lord told me to report under you."
Euron's eyes gleamed with something like envy and admiration as he looked at the giant. "Then lead the line."
Bors grunted and moved up front, squeezing into place so tightly that the northerners stumbled back out of the way.
The humiliation steamed in their faces, but they swallowed it. They could sense Matthew's invisible hand behind it all.
When Euron caught their murderous looks, his grin widened.
He hefted Matthew's staff and cracked it against the dirt. "Form ranks! Lord's staff doesn't dodge fools who stand wrong!"
The scattered mercenaries hurried to line up. Each time someone misstepped, the staff whistled through the air—thwack!—and landed squarely across a backside.
By the time they moved out toward the trees, their formation wasn't perfect, but it looked like one.
---
From his seat by the fire, Matthew watched their departure with quiet satisfaction.
Every army needed two faces: the kind one and the cruel one.
He'd planned to play both himself—but now, he didn't have to.
Euron would handle the hard edge perfectly.
An excellent development, he thought.
Still, some worry lingered. The man was a killer by trade—loyalty born overnight rarely stuck. But big gains were never without gamble.
If it worked, he'd gain a leader worth ten ordinary swords. If not, he could afford the loss.
He leaned back as firelight danced across Haven's returning face.
The knight sank down across from him, brow furrowed.
"You're really letting him lead men unsupervised? After admitting what he is?"
Matthew smiled. "We need talent. You cultivate potential, not fear it. Besides"—he gestured toward the darkness—"Bors and the northerners are with him. They'll keep things from getting messy."
Haven shook his head, unconvinced. "I still don't like it. That man's hands are too quick, too precise. Bors might be strong, but he can't block what he doesn't see."
The fire popped loudly, scattering sparks. They drifted into Haven's chestplate before fading to ash.
Matthew brushed them off casually. "You can worry later. Right now, this is what must be done. You want me to climb higher? To stand among players greater than us? Then I need an army with real strength."
The knight fell silent, staring into the flames as they reflected in his eyes.
After a long pause, he muttered, "If only Morty had stayed. At least we knew what to expect from him."
Matthew chuckled dryly. "Knew him, did you? Knew his 'roots and bottom,' as you say? Be careful with assumptions, my friend."
Haven rolled his eyes, not rising to the bait.
The warmth between them faded into thoughtfulness. Silence wrapped the camp again.
Fishy, reading the tension in the air, kept his mouth shut and slowly curled up by the fire to sleep.
Moments later, Haven clapped his hands suddenly. "No. I need to see this myself. Might as well drag my idle men out and make them sweat too."
Matthew didn't stop him. "Watch for beasts."
"Mm." Haven nodded, already heading out into the moonlit woods, shouting at his lazy men to follow.
Fishy cracked one eye open. "You think something's going to happen?"
Matthew shrugged lightly, smiling into the fire. "Who knows? But if anything does, it'll just give me an excuse to straighten them out even more."
He meant it.
But no crisis came.
When the moon hung high over the forest's silver canopy, a rhythmic march echoed through the clearing.
Euron's squad returned in formation, each man carrying something fresh—rabbits, birds, even a small deer slung over Bors's shoulders.
Every face was smeared with sweat and lit with pride.
The earlier resentment had vanished, replaced by the lively energy of shared triumph.
At the sight, Matthew's grin spread freely for the first time that night.
This—this was the beginning of what he wanted to build.
A force with order. Pride. Unity.
He stepped forward to meet them.
Bors spotted him first, heaving up the deer like a trophy. "Dinner, my lord!"
Others followed, holding up their kills for praise.
The clearing buzzed with chatter and laughter—plenty of boasting, plenty of joy.
Only one figure lagged behind, hands embarrassingly empty.
Sir Haven trudged up in silence, cheeks flushed under the moonlight, too proud to explain and too hungry to smile.
Matthew looked at him and chuckled under his breath.
Even knights have off nights, he thought.
And in that moment, he saw what he'd been waiting for from the very start—his men, rough and unpolished, but finally starting to look like what they should be.
The makings of an army.
---