When Henry returned to his dormitory and lay upon his bed, restlessness plagued him. Ordinarily, slumber came easily, yet today he tossed and turned, unable to quiet his mind.
The face that lingered in his thoughts was none other than Benson—the very youth he had defeated half a month earlier.
Since that duel, Benson had grown uncharacteristically subdued. He no longer provoked Henry openly; when their paths crossed, he avoided him whenever possible. Henry had believed the boy had given up his vendetta. Yet the venomous gaze Benson cast upon him that very day revealed the truth—Benson had not abandoned his hatred. He had merely buried it deeper, biding his time, like a viper lurking in the dark.
What unsettled Henry most was how, at the academy gates, Benson's eyes had lingered maliciously upon the old steward, Pound. That ominous look gnawed at Henry, filling him with the uneasy sense that calamity was about to unfold.
"No… I must see for myself."
At last, Henry sprang to his feet and left the dormitory at a run, heading for the city gates.
There were no lessons that afternoon. He had intended to devote the time to training, but Benson's gaze haunted him too greatly. He resolved instead to visit the inn where the Windsor Trading Company usually lodged. Though the detour would cost him half a day's practice, he deemed it worth the loss—he could even count it as a half-day's reprieve.
Far from the capital, along the trade road, eight wagons traveled in a slow convoy. Over twenty guards flanked them, steel at their sides.
At the head rolled a covered carriage, newer than the rest. Behind it trailed carts laden with goods.
Within that foremost carriage sat an elderly man, brow furrowed—Pound Farel, steward of House Windsor.
The earlier meeting with Henry lingered in his mind. Henry had changed. His words still bore his old cadence, but there was something new in his presence—a quiet confidence, a subtle yet profound shift. Pound, who had watched the boy grow since infancy, was perhaps the only one close enough to notice.
The old steward was deeply satisfied. Once, Henry had seemed frail and unsure of himself. Now, he radiated strength, carrying himself as one worthy to inherit Windsor's mantle.
Yet one detail gnawed at Pound: when Henry heard mention of the Windsor Company's conflict with the Adams Trading House, his expression had betrayed a fleeting disturbance. Henry had swiftly masked it, but the steward's seasoned eyes had not been fooled.
"Could it be… the Adams Trading House has already moved against him?"
A glint of steel flashed in Pound's gaze. If such treachery were true, then even if it cost his life, he would see Adams pay in blood.
Suddenly, the carriage jolted to a violent stop, nearly pitching him forward. His reverie shattered, he scowled and drew back the curtain.
"What is it?"
"Steward Pound—someone has blocked the road!" the young driver stammered, face ashen.
"Blocked the road?"
Pound looked ahead. His expression darkened instantly.
"Protect the goods!" he barked.
There, spread across the road, stood more than forty armed men.
Their weapons were mismatched—swords, axes, hammers—but the murderous aura that clung to them was uniform and unmistakable. These were no common brigands.
"What is the meaning of this?" Pound demanded, his voice hard. "Why do you bar our way?"
At the head of the rabble stood a towering man in grey leather, a greatsword in his grip. The killing intent that radiated from him was palpable. This was a man well-versed in slaughter.
"Only to ask you for a little silver to spend," the man drawled, his eyes mocking.
Pound's heart sank, though his face remained composed.
"You jest, good sir. We are but small merchants—our wagons hold only our livelihood. Whatever we have, we offer as a token of respect."
From his robe, he drew a pouch and tossed it to the bandit leader.
The man poured its contents into his palm. Seven silver coins gleamed dully. His expression hardened.
"This is all?"
"I am but a carter," Pound said with a strained smile. "What wealth could I possess? This is everything."
"Oh? Strange, then," the bandit sneered. "For I have heard you carry far more than this."
At those words, Pound's pulse quickened. So—they had come with intent. This was no chance robbery.
"Perhaps your informant was mistaken," Pound said calmly, though dread tightened his chest.
"We shall see soon enough," the man replied coldly. He raised his sword in signal. His men advanced like wolves closing in for the kill.
The Windsor guards, already drawn up in tense formation, gripped their weapons tighter, their courage faltering at the sight of the enemy's overwhelming numbers.
"What, do you mean to resist us?" the bandit leader sneered, eyes narrowing.
"Do you truly mean to force our hand?" Pound's own voice had grown flinty, though anger glimmered in his eyes. He understood now: even had he offered all their wealth, these men would not have spared them. They had come for the Windsors themselves.
"Attack," the leader said simply.
At his command, a dozen men rushed forth, descending upon Pound and the twenty guards with feral cries.
Meanwhile, Henry had reached the inn only to find that Pound and his convoy had departed more than an hour earlier.
His unease sharpened to dread. Without hesitation, he rented a horse and rode hard out of the city, following the trade road toward Asser.
After several miles, the distant clamor of steel and cries of pain reached his ears. His face paled. He drove his heels into the horse's flanks, spurring it faster.
The battle was fierce—that much was certain from the sounds alone. By timing and distance, Henry knew in his heart that the embattled party ahead could only be the Windsor convoy.
Henry did not hold much attachment to the Windsor family, yet facts were facts: he could not yet sever himself from them. The tuition and living expenses they provided were costs far beyond what he could bear alone. For that reason, if nothing else, he could not allow the Windsor Trading Company to fall.