The assassins did not realize they had become the prey. Their leader smiled cruelly when Derek charged. Assassination lacked honor, but it had killed enough nobles to prove its effectiveness. Results mattered more than reputation.

He soon saw Derek's killing technique—direct, economical, almost artistic. Several carefully selected swordsmen fell in a single exchange each. Worse, Derek's attendants drove through the other assassins like charging bulls. By the time the rooftop archers discarded their bows to join the melee, the men meant to screen them were already down.

The leader tried to salvage the attack, but several squires as strong as he was quickly pinned him down. Skill being equal, half-plate against an unarmored body was no contest.

He regretted only failing his mission and was ready to die. Then a deerskin boot stepped on his head.

“A small tip,” Derek said. “Next time, hide poison in your collar. You could be free already.”

“Kill me if you want,” the leader said stubbornly. “You will get no information from me.”

Derek was furious. For the first time, death had come so close. If the enemy’s methods had been less crude, one stray arrow could have killed him. He kicked the man in the face, knocking teeth out with blood.

“Bring the survivors. We are leaving.”

Interrogation could wait. For the moment, Derek considered every suspect guilty. Once his anger cooled enough to think, the problem was obvious: estimating his arrival was possible, but the defeated Holy Cross loyalists could not have obtained precise information alone. Someone among the northern nobles or the men from the capital had leaked it, deliberately or otherwise.

His anger demanded an outlet. The response would also warn every rival in the province to think carefully before challenging him.

The gate guards had seen the assassination. Some came to help, while others hurried to report it. Nobles from the royal capital had gathered with Count Perez to await Derek; Saint Miller Province's land and offices could not be divided without him.

On hearing that Derek had been attacked, the capital nobles mostly smiled. The northerners were angry and worried. Count Perez remained calm enough to notice the meaningful smile of Marquis Hussein from the capital.

“Send my guard cavalry to help,” the old count ordered.

“Do you require my aid?” Marquis Hussein asked without sincerity.

“No. Derek is not so easily harmed.” Perez knew the fierceness of Derek’s men.

The capital nobles were disdainful. Few could avoid a prepared assassination. Nobles hated assassination precisely because it threatened their lives. In the capital, hidden blades struck far more often than in the north; in their eyes, three or five assassins could kill even a powerful knight.

Then another soldier brought news. “Viscount Derek has wiped out the assassins and is coming here.”

Silence fell. A capital officer blurted, “Impossible. Did he know of the assassination beforehand?”

The reporting soldier could not bear the insult. “The Viscount brought only a dozen attendants, all northern knights. They put down the assassins in a dozen breaths.”

Count Perez burst out laughing. “Our northern knights know how to fight. I understand if the gentlemen from the capital find that difficult to imagine.”

The capital officers flushed. Marquis Hussein gave a false smile, rebuked his loose-tongued subordinate, and apologized. “Forgive him, my lord Count. They are young men untested by war, and have not seen true knights.”

“Then come with me and see them,” Perez replied proudly.

Hussein never confronted anyone directly. He yielded with practiced ease, but Perez knew he was a venomous snake. No man who climbed out of the capital's mire was simple. Their apparent harmony concealed constant contests; whoever established dominance now would claim more land and influence later.

Yet they only received several Augusta squires escorting captured assassins. “Where is your Viscount?” Perez asked nervously, fearing Derek was injured.

“His Excellency will arrive shortly,” a squire answered.

Where was Derek? On the road, the more he thought, the angrier he became. When he lacked strength, he could endure it. But this was practically his own territory, and someone still dared use such tricks?

Halfway there, he stopped. “Damn it. Better to be a brute than suffer a loss. Northern knights already have that reputation.”

He sent his few attendants in different directions and deliberately delayed meeting those unpleasant faces. Strength was the least important reason Derek had chosen these men. Birth and loyalty mattered more. Some carried blood from cadet branches of House Ferreira and owed their rise entirely to Derek; their lives and fortunes were tied to his. Whatever their personal feelings, self-interest alone made them hate the assassins.

Their first task was to gather help. Guard cavalry were camped outside the city, and House Augusta had local allies who knew Pran. The knights split into two groups. One took lists supplied by friendly nobles and rode into the city at speed.

Derek soon received records on the owners of the buildings used in the attack. As expected, they had all belonged to merchants of the Holy Cross. The enemy was unlikely to leave an obvious flaw there.

“Use the lists. Smash one shop from each house connected to the Holy Cross. Smash every shop that has traded with them.”

With local guides, information was easy to obtain. Derek moved so fast that no one knew what he intended. The gate guards did not dare stop Augusta’s private soldiers; they had just watched the Viscount attacked. They assumed the knights were protecting him.

Instead, at Derek’s order, they rushed like wolves into Pran’s busy streets.

“What are you doing? This is a shop of House Oss! Do you not know that?” a manager demanded, relying on his noble patrons.

The answer was a sword scabbard across the face. “What are we doing? To hell with you. Smash it.”

The helpless manager was knocked down, iron boots trampling across his face. The other clerks trembled, nearly ready to help smash their own shop. Anything that did not break was cut with swords. The knights came and left quickly, stepping on the manager’s face once more as they went.

The same scene repeated again and again.

Count Perez soon heard. Several northern nobles whose shops had been wrecked came angrily to complain. “Count, Viscount Derek has gone mad. He cannot blame us without proof merely because he was attacked. Our relationship with the Holy Cross is only trade.”

Even among northerners, they could not tolerate an attack on their interests. If shop-smashing were accepted now, would their homes be next?

Perez had a headache. Derek was too bold; did the young man not know he would offend people? But Derek was the grandson-in-law he had chosen, and he would protect him.

“What are you shouting about? You are suspects as well. Go back and find out whether someone leaked something. If you find the leaker, I will bring Derek to apologize personally. Otherwise, swallow this anger.”

With curses and reassurance, he barely calmed them. Then he saw Marquis Hussein enjoying the spectacle and grew still angrier. “That boy Derek needs a hard lesson.”

If Hussein had known what was happening elsewhere, he would not have been smiling. Derek's knights had fought for half a year and had not yet shed the habits of war. Simon, who never feared disorder, took the harder task.

Smashing shops was courtesy for fellow northerners. The other suspect—no, the criminal—would not receive courtesy. Simon ordered the cavalry to armor themselves fully and storm the camp of the First Northern Expedition Legion.

The camp was completely unprepared and offered no organized resistance. “Take prisoners,” Simon ordered. “One hundred of them.”

An officer tried to intervene. “This is the First Northern Expedition Legion. Who are you?”

Simon did not care. These were opportunists come to take spoils. The officer was knocked down and trampled.

“Listen well. We are knights of House Augusta. The Viscount is angry. Behave yourselves, or do not blame us for being rough.”

Nearby soldiers froze and watched their comrades, including several junior officers, carried away. Simon had not expected it to be so easy. In two months, Marquis Hussein—a military amateur—had failed to turn noble private troops and conscripted farmers into a single force. With the senior officers absent, no one in camp dared take responsibility.

Whatever the reasons, it was cowardice. Simon and the knights did not hide their contempt. “A pack of trash.” Then they rode off.

Derek received the gift he wanted. “Come. Let us meet the lords from the capital.”

Half a day had passed. Count Perez had waited a long time. Northern nobles whispered that Derek had gone too far; capital nobles pointed and laughed at northern infighting. Hussein smiled, seeing an opening in the conflict and already considering which northern nobles he might draw to his side.

Then noise rose outside. “Viscount Derek has arrived!”

Perez hurried out, anxious to see whether Derek was hurt. Instead, he saw Derek’s men hanging the assassins and pressing rows of soldiers in royal uniforms to the ground.

“Marquis.” “Commander.” The kneeling soldiers shouted in confusion when Hussein appeared. Everyone recognized them as men of the First Northern Expedition Legion.

Perez sensed trouble. “Derek, what are you doing?”

Derek turned and bared his teeth. “What our forebears did, I will do.”

What had their forebears done? During the War of Division thirty years ago, fierce northern knights had hanged nobles who ran away. It was one reason they were disliked.

Hussein finally spoke. He stepped past Perez. “This is no longer the War of Division. Killing my soldiers is treason.”

Even now he laid a verbal trap, happy to trade soldiers’ lives for a charge of treason against Derek.