Baron Hawthorn's reply arrived by courier late in the night. Alistair broke the seal and scanned the parchment. In it, the Baron agreed to his terms with an alacrity that was, frankly, suspicious. He stressed his desperation—the orc vanguard was already within sight of Sablewood Keep.
That baron had folded so easily set Alistair's teeth on edge. It was too clean, too simple. When a deal seems too good to be true, it usually is. Something was wrong.
Still, he would march at dawn. Whatever scheme Hawthorn was cooking up, it didn't matter. If the old baron tried to cross him, Alistair would simply solve the orc problem and then annex Sablewood Keep for his troubles. A problem and a solution, all in one neat package.
With the next day's strategy settled, he turned his mind to more pressing matters.
A villain quest.
He had to steal a pair of stockings.
"System," he subvocalized, pacing his room. "Are there any specific requirements for these stockings? Worn? Washed? Black? White? Perhaps something with lace?"
The system remained tactfully silent.
Alistair's first thought, the sane and simple one, was to just ask Abby for a pair. But as he imagined the words forming in his mouth, a flush of heat crept up his neck. 'Abby, my dear, could I possibly trouble you for a pair of your used stockings?'
He would sound like a depraved lunatic. She would think he was a pervert—she would be certain of it.
Yet, in the ten minutes he spent wrestling with this dilemma, his feet had, of their own volition, carried him to the door of Abby's chambers.
Huh. How did I get here?
Well, since I'm already here…
He squared his shoulders. Besides, I am a lord. I am taking an item from my own personal maid. How can that possibly be called stealing?
His conscience sufficiently placated, he pushed the door open and slipped inside.
Based on his meticulous calculations, Abby should be in the washroom right now, preparing for her nightly duties. The opportunity was ripe.
A warm, gentle fragrance washed over him—a familiar blend of rose petals and a sweet, milky scent that was uniquely Abby's. He followed his nose toward her bedroom. The door was ajar.
He scanned the room. There, neatly folded on the wide sill of the floor-to-ceiling window, was a row of stockings.
Black ones. White ones. Some with delicate lace trim. A pair of fishnets…
He noted, with some surprise, that most of them were patterned. The cute maid had a more adventurous side than she let on.
"Now, which one…" he murmured.
He picked up a fresh, unworn stocking with one hand and a recently worn one with the other. The moment his fingers closed around the second, he felt it—the faintest trace of residual body heat.
Fresh.
On a bizarre impulse, he brought the stocking closer. Instead of any unpleasant odor, it carried that same sweet, milky fragrance. His mind conjured an unwelcome but vivid image of Abby's long, perfectly proportioned legs.
He couldn't comprehend the physics of it. How could they possibly smell so pleasant?
He didn't linger on the question. He chose the worn pair, a simple set of white stockings.
I'm not a pervert, he told himself firmly. I am simply completing a quest for a shameless system.
With the solemn gravity of a man defusing a bomb, Alistair tucked the stockings into his pocket and crept back to his own chambers.
*****
Knock, knock, knock.
"Master, it's me." Abby's velvety voice came from the hall.
"Ahem. Come in."
Alistair, seated at his desk, hastily shoved his hands into his pockets, adopting an air of nonchalant innocence.
Abby pushed the door open, then turned to retrieve a basin of hot water she had left on the floor. She was here to wash his feet.
She tested the temperature with her fingers before carefully guiding Alistair's feet into the warm water. She looked up, her expression earnest. "Master, is the water temperature alright?"
"Perfect," Alistair said, his gaze softening as he watched her.
He felt a pleasant tingle as her small, soft hands gently rubbed the soles of his feet. She was pressing on certain points with focused intent, a technique she had clearly, and recently, learned from Mrs. Agnes. Her movements were still clumsy and unpracticed.
But Alistair was an Earth Knight, not some pampered fop. He wasn't enjoying the technique; he was enjoying her gentle care. The skill itself was irrelevant.
Sensing his gaze, Abby looked up. She wiped a thin sheen of sweat from her temple with her sleeve, her expression a little bashful. "Master, am I doing it poorly? Are you laughing at me?"
Alistair couldn't help but reach out and stroke one of her fluffy ears. "Not at all," he chuckled. "You're doing wonderfully. I'm smiling because I'm happy. I have the most caring, gentle maid in the world. I've truly hit the jackpot."
When she was finished, Abby carefully lifted his feet from the water and cradled them in her lap, drying them with a soft towel.
Hearing his praise, she shot him a shy glance, and her eyes crinkled into a happy smile. "As long as the Master is pleased."
Afterward, as was her routine, she slipped under the covers of his bed, naked, to warm it for him. But Alistair held to his self-imposed line, sleeping at the opposite end of the bed from her.
*****
In the pre-dawn chill, long before the sun had risen, Alistair stood fully armored before the gates of Snowmantle Citadel.
Assembled before him in neat ranks were fifty knights, over two hundred guards, and ten towering minotaur warriors. Their breath plumed in the cold air.
As an Earl, Alistair was entitled to a personal force of roughly one thousand men—professional soldiers and knights, not counting militia levies. But Frostfell was simply too poor. The taxes barely covered the domain's upkeep; feeding this force of less than three hundred already required him to pay out of his own pocket.
The recent abolition of the tithe, while morally right, meant the territory's income would plummet until he found a new, stable revenue stream. He wasn't concerned. If you don't have money, you take it. From players, from other lords, from orcs. He wouldn't starve.
Besides, he valued quality over quantity. His men were well-trained elites, each worth three of any standard soldier. And that wasn't even factoring in the ten minotaurs.
He looked out at the disciplined, battle-ready army, their eyes sharp with anticipation, and nodded in satisfaction. He swung himself onto his warhorse.
No rousing speech was necessary. The Lord of Frostfell leading them personally was the only motivation they needed.
Against the first hint of morning light, Alistair drew the greatsword from his back. He raised the blade high, his voice a clear, commanding bellow that cut through the morning stillness.
"All forces, advance!"
High atop the bell tower of Snowmantle Citadel, Abby watched the column of soldiers march away. She rubbed her reddened eyes.
She lowered her head, clasped her hands together, and stood in silent, fervent prayer.