The cold wind outside the tent whistled as Patt led a middle-aged man into the large tent where Allen sat. The man's loose grey cloak draped awkwardly over his thin frame, and his brown breeches were worn, clearly supplied by the convoy for survival in the brutal winter. Despite his attempt to maintain a noble air, his darting eyes betrayed him—nervous, shifty, calculating.
Allen's first impression was poor. This man had the bearing of a merchant or a butler rather than a noble. His constant glances around the tent, as if measuring its value or plotting his next move, only deepened Allen's skepticism.
"I, the heir of Viscount Tebri, Tebri Tim, give you my congratulations on the victory, great sir," the man said with a deep bow.
Allen almost burst into laughter on the spot. Behind him, Hilter's face turned ice-cold. A stickler for aristocratic etiquette, Hilter was visibly appalled. No noble introduced himself as an heir—only their family name and dominion mattered. This man was trying too hard, and it was painfully obvious to anyone with proper noble training.
"I am Allen Styles of the Styles Family from the Northlands," Allen said, his voice carrying mild amusement. "I am the one in charge of this convoy. Now, tell me who you really are."
The middle-aged man flinched. "I—I really am Viscount Tebri's son! If you don't believe me, ask the people you saved. Many of them grew up with me, otherwise, they wouldn't follow my lead…"
Allen remained indifferent.
The man's shoulders sagged, his bravado crumbling. "It's true, sir… I am the eldest son of Viscount Tebri. But my family is gone. They've all perished. I am the only surviving bloodline. That makes me his rightful heir."
Understanding dawned on Allen. So, he's a bastard. A likely illegitimate child, clinging to the remnants of a fallen noble house after Count Cobry's purge. His claim to the title was shaky at best.
Allen leaned forward. "What role did Viscount Tebri assign to you?"
Tim hesitated, then admitted, "I managed the business of three orchards in his domain. I spent most of my life among commoners and had little contact with nobility."
Allen chuckled. A merchant's son, then. A glorified steward at best.
"Alright, let's talk about something more pressing, Mister Tim," Allen said, his voice turning cold. "You requested weapons and equipment from us. For free. Tell me, why do you think we owe you anything? Do I look like a fool?"
Tim paled.
"I—I thought nobles had an obligation to help one another," he stammered. "And… I need to arm my men to fight Count Cobry…"
Hilter stepped forward, his presence suffocating. His sharp eyes bore into Tim, who immediately forgot whatever rehearsed arguments he had prepared.
Hilter emphasized,"First of all, Mister Tim, you are not a noble."
Tim's face twisted in shock.
"Being an illegitimate son doesn't automatically grant you a title. You need recognition from at least three other landed nobles to be officially acknowledged as the viscount's heir. Then, you must travel to the capital and obtain a birthright certificate from the senior noble your family served. That is the proper way to claim nobility."
Hilter let the words sink in before continuing.
"The other way, of course, is to raise an army and force the local lord to surrender his title to you. That seems to be your preferred method, isn't it?"
Tim's throat bobbed as he swallowed.
Hilter pressed further. "That's assuming Viscount Tebri ever registered you in the family records. If he didn't, you'll have even more trouble proving your status. But let's not forget—you were a prisoner of Count Cobry, which means you're part of the spoils of war."
Tim's face went ashen.
"The Styles Family defeated Cobry's forces. That means Lord Allen has full rights over all prisoners, including you. He could sell you to a slave trader or have your head removed. Unless, of course, you pay a proper ransom like any real noble would."
Tim clenched his fists. "That's not—"
"And about this 'noble obligation' you speak of," Hilter interrupted coldly. "Do you even understand what that means?"
Tim opened his mouth, but Hilter didn't let him speak.
"That rule applies only when nobles of the same region face an outside threat—invaders, magical beasts. But My Lord is from an entirely different nation. He owes you nothing. In fact, he has every right to hand your head over to a senior noble for a reward."
Allen raised his hands indicating Hilter to step backwards, Allen leaned back in his chair. "And your excuse about fighting Cobry?" He shook his head. "Laughable. Desperate. Pathetic."
Tim stood frozen, sweat forming on his brow.
Silence stretched in the tent.
Tim knelt on the cold ground, his body drenched in sweat despite the cool night air. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the sheer panic in his eyes. (Image)
He had once imagined himself standing tall before men, a noble in all but name, issuing commands that would shape the destiny of the Tebri dominion. But in this moment, he was reduced to nothing more than a trembling wretch, utterly at the mercy of the man before him.
Allen Styles, seated in his chair with an air of indifference, observed Tim as though he were a worm writhing in the dirt. The silence between them was suffocating, stretching the tension to its breaking point.
Then, in a tone devoid of emotion, Allen spoke. "Mister Tim, personally, I don't care if you're trying to impersonate a noble or whether you're really the viscount's son. It's a good thing to have ambition: it helps motivate one to strive hard for one's goals. But…" He leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto Tim's. "If you think you can take from me without offering anything in return, then I will really have to consider how I should punish a charlatan like you. Should I hang you or behead you? You're free to make the choice."
Tim collapsed fully, his limbs giving out beneath him. The weight of his own arrogance crushed him like an unseen force. He had grown too comfortable with the illusions he spun, using his lineage as a shield, but here… here was a man who would not tolerate deception.
Memories flashed through his mind. His father, Viscount Tebri, smiling as he ordered a man to be beaten to death for a minor slight. His half-brothers, legitimate sons of the Tebri family, casually caning peasants to death for merely startling their horses. Tim had always known how to navigate that world, to manipulate, to survive. Yet, standing before Allen Styles, he felt like a child who had foolishly played at being a ruler.
"Sir, please have mercy on me… I shouldn't have ever dreamed about gaining the title for myself… Please spare this pathetic life of mine!" he wailed, his voice cracking. "To you, I am but an existence that only compares to that of an ant… I'm not worth your attention at all…"
Allen leaned back, shaking his head in disappointment. "Get up, Mister Tim." His voice was calm but carried an undeniable authority. "If you would like to become a noble, you should at least have some degree of self-respect. A noble does not beg. A noble does not humiliate himself. Even in the face of death, a proper noble stands with dignity."
Tim wiped at his tears, struggling to rise, his heart pounding in his chest.
"You misunderstood my intentions," Allen continued. "I've already said I don't care if you are the viscount's son or not. What I want to know is what status you assumed when you made your request of me."
Tim swallowed hard. "I-I only wished to—"
Allen cut him off. "If you came to me as a noble, then I should treat you as one and expect something in return for my aid. However, if you approached me as a fraud, a liar hoping to manipulate me, then you have insulted my name, and I have every right to kill you for it."
A shudder ran through Tim's body. He had seen his father execute a fisherman for trying to hide his catch from taxation. "I don't really care about the fish you were trying to hide," his father had said, "but I can never forgive someone who lies to my face."
Now, Allen Styles was saying the same thing.
Tim forced himself to stand straighter, though his legs still trembled. "I… I understand now," he said hoarsely.
Allen nodded. "Good. Then let's speak as men of reason. If you are not a charlatan but a noble seeking assistance, I can offer you my help. But nobles do not act out of charity. Are you prepared to pay the price for my assistance?"
Tim hesitated. He had dreamed of regaining his father's dominion, of sitting in his father's seat of power, of being hailed as Viscount Tebri's true successor. But he had never considered the cost of achieving that dream.
Allen's voice remained firm. "I can help you form an army. I can help you reclaim your dominion. I can even train you in the customs and traditions of nobility so that you will not embarrass yourself in the courts of lords and kings." He paused. "But none of that will come cheap, Mister Tim."
Tim clenched his fists. "I… I have some money and supplies that I can offer in exchange for your help." His voice was steadier now. Hope flickered in his chest.
Allen smirked slightly. "That's the spirit. Now, tell me, where do you intend to get these funds and resources?"
Taking a deep breath, Tim spoke with absolute honesty. "When Count Cobry's forces launched their attack, my father took me with him to bury a stash of gold coins in a secret location. He told me that if anything happened to him, I would be the last of the Tebri bloodline, and that money would be the key to reclaiming our lands." His eyes darkened as he continued. "Before he sent me away, he also told me about a hidden cache of supplies—food, weapons, essentials—stored in an abandoned bear cave in the western mountains. Only he and I knew of its existence."
Allen's eyes gleamed with interest. "A hidden treasure, is it? Now that's something worth discussing."
Tim nodded quickly. "It's yours… if you help me reclaim what's mine."
Allen studied him for a long moment before finally standing up. "Then we have an agreement, Mister Tim." He extended a hand.
Tim hesitated for only a second before clasping Allen's hand in his own. The grip was firm, unyielding.
For the first time since his capture, Tim Tebri felt a glimmer of something he hadn't dared to hope for—real, tangible power.