The climb up the hill was murder on Zen's calves.
"Why," Zen panted, stopping to lean against a wet tree trunk, "is everything uphill? Did they not invent elevators? Or at least a decent escalator? Cars? Anything?"
Elara, she'd told him her name during the walk, though he hadn't asked, was currently crouching on a tree branch ten feet above him, scouting the area like a hawk.
She dropped down silently, landing without a sound. She wasn't even breathing hard; she still had that golden glow on her and was terrifyingly energetic.
"The high ground is strategically superior, My Lord," she whispered, fixing her eyes on the dark walls ahead. "The Magistrate's fortress is well-defended. Two guards at the gate, archers on the walkway. But fear not, I shall bathe the stones in their blood before they can draw their bows."
Zen rubbed his face. "No. No bathing in blood. I just want a bath in water. Hot water, with soap."
He looked up at the estate. To Elara, it was a fortress. To Zen, it looked like a tacky McMansion built by someone with more money than taste. But it had glass windows, there was smoke rising from chimneys, and the smell of roasting meat drifted over the walls.
"It looks expensive," Zen noted. "I don't have a wallet or my phone. Do they take credit?"
Elara tilted her head. "Credit? You mean... tribute?" She smiled darkly. "Yes. They will offer tribute, or they will perish."
"I'm just going to assume 'tribute' is local currency," Zen muttered. "Fine. Let's check in."
They walked up to the big iron gates. Two guards in shiny breastplates stepped forward and crossed their halberds in front of them.
"Halt!" one barked. "This is private property. Magistrate Vexler's banquet. No beggars. Be off before we…"
Zen stepped into the torchlight. He was soaked and muddy, and he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. But he walked with the specific, annoyed confidence of a CEO arriving at a hotel that had lost his reservation.
He didn't stop walking.
"Open the gate," Zen said without shouting, just exhausted. "Come on, it's raining; I just need to lodge for the night."
The guard opened his mouth to shout a threat…
[Skill Activated: Sovereign's Voice]
The command bypassed logic and went straight to instinct. "Open the gate." It wasn't a request; it was physics. To disobey would hurt; to obey felt... right.
The guards' eyes glazed over, and their aggression melted into dopey, euphoric compliance. "Of... of course," the guard stammered, scrambling for the lock. "Apologies for the delay. Please. Enter."
The gates swung open, and Zen walked through without looking at them. "Finally. Service in this place is terrible."
Elara followed, sheathing her glowing blade with visible disappointment. "You spared them," she whispered, watching the guards bow deeply. "Your mercy is boundless."
"They're door staff, Elara. You don't kill door staff; you just tip them poorly."
—
Inside the manor, the party was in full swing.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and silk paintings added a touch of luxury to the walls. The local elite: merchants, minor nobles, and some shady officials, were mingling, sipping on expensive wine, and laughing.
The double doors swung open with a bang, halting the music. Everyone stopped talking, and fifty pairs of eyes turned to look.
Zen stood there, dripping water onto the expensive velvet carpet. Mud caked his boots, there was a leaf stuck to his collar, and behind him, Elara stood like a guard, hand on her sword, glaring at the room.
Zen looked around the room, not paying attention to the shocked gasps and whispers around him.
His eyes were focused on the long table in the centre. It was filled with delicious food: roast boar, glazed pheasants, stacks of fruit, and wheels of cheese.
"Oh, thank god," Zen sighed. "The buffet's open."
He walked straight to the head of the table, pulled out a high-backed chair, and sat down. He picked up a linen napkin, wiped rain off his face, reached out and tore a drumstick off the nearest baked chicken.
The room went silent except for the sound of Zen chewing.
"A bit dry," Zen mumbled, swallowing. "Pass the wine."
At the other end of the table, Magistrate Vexler turned a deep shade of purple, almost like his velvet doublet. He was a big man, used to giving orders, not to watching dirty vagrants eat his dinner.
"Who..." Vexler spluttered, slamming his goblet down. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!"
Zen paused mid-chew and looked up, feeling annoyed. "I'm the guy trying to eat. Keep it down, will you? I've had a long day."
"Guards!" Vexler shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "Seize this filth! Gut him! And…" his voice softened a bit in mischief. "Take the girl to my chambers, she'll pay for this intrusion!"
The room erupted into chaos. Four house guards drew swords and rushed the table, but Zen didn't move. He reached for the grapes instead. "Elara," he said, sounding bored. "Can you tell them to keep it down?"
Elara's eyes flashed. "With pleasure, My Lord."
She vaulted over the table. She didn't draw her sword… didn't need to.
CRACK.
The first guard took a ceramic wine jug to the face, collapsing like a lawn chair.
THUD.
The second was swept off his feet by a leg sweep. Before he hit the ground, Elara grabbed the third by the collar and threw him into the dessert cart.
The fourth guard froze, watching his comrades dismantled in under three seconds. Elara stepped inside his guard, grabbed his breastplate, and physically tossed him through the window.
CRASH.
Glass rained onto the patio outside.
The nobles screamed, scrambling toward exits, overturning chairs, spilling wine.
Magistrate Vexler stood alone, looking pale. His mouth moved as if he wanted to say something, opening and closing like a fish. Elara walked towards him, grabbing a heavy silver candelabra as she approached.
"You dared threaten the Sovereign?" she hissed with fury. "You dared speak of payment?"
"Elara," Zen called out. He'd moved on to the cheese. "Don't kill him. I need to know where the towels are."
Elara paused, looked at the terrified Magistrate, then back at Zen. "As you command."
She grabbed Vexler by the back of his doublet and dragged him toward Zen like a naughty puppy, then forced him to his knees.
"The towels," she barked. "Speak!"
"L-linen closet!" Vexler squeaked, tears streaming down his face. "Second floor! Third door on the left! Take anything! Just don't kill me!"
Zen nodded, satisfied. He stood up, grabbing the wine bottle.
"See? That wasn't hard," Zen said. He looked down at the Magistrate. "You should really train your staff better. The welcome committee was very aggressive."
He turned toward the stairs. "I'm taking a bath. Elara, make sure nobody disturbs me. If anyone knocks, handle it."
"I shall stand guard, My Lord," Elara vowed. "None shall pass but death itself."
Zen sighed, climbing the stairs. "That's dramatic, but fine. Just keep it quiet."
As Zen disappeared upstairs, Elara turned back to the trembling Magistrate and the wrecked dining hall. She smiled, but it was not a kind smile.
"Now," she whispered, lifting the candelabra. "Let's discuss the tribute you owe for the Sovereign's mercy."