Chapter 92: Chapter 92: More Honesty
It was a good day, a good day until.
And then he heard it—words so vile they seemed to warp the air around them.
’...now I have to kill you,’ Aiden thought, the vow sliding through his mind like a blade half-drawn from its sheath.
He forced his jaw to remain still, his lips a neutral line. Rage, molten and uncontainable, boiled in the marrow of his bones.
His hand twitched. His eyes twitched. His breath tightened. His palm slid instinctively toward the sword at his side. But before he could even complete the thought of steel, another blade was already out—Big John’s.
It gleamed, catching the sunlight like a sliver of the heavens itself. The edge pressed against the soft flesh of the baron’s son’s neck. The boy’s throat bobbed visibly, a lump moving like prey caught in a snare.
"You are talking about our lady Flora, kid," Big John’s voice rumbled, as low and dangerous as distant thunder. The big man’s brows furrowed in irritation, his nostrils flaring. He inched the blade closer, until the boy’s pulse beat visibly against its cold steel.
The baron’s son swallowed, but no words came out at first—only a dry rasp of fear. Then, trembling, he found his voice.
"Y...you dare? I am the only son of Baron Melodious! Your neck will not see tomorrow’s light." His arrogance was cracked now, a thin veneer trembling over the rot of fear.
His gaze darted to Aiden, his voice suddenly sweetened with desperate pleading. "A...Aiden, tell something to this barbarian. Restrain this brute!"
Aiden smiled. It was not the smile of comfort or reassurance, but the barest curl of lips that carried ice and flame in equal measure.
He did not answer in words. Instead, he placed his hand firmly on Big John’s sword and pushed—pressing the edge harder into the pampered flesh.
A bead of blood welled up. Crimson against pale skin.
The boy gasped, his body jolting with the realization of mortality. "W...what are you doing?" His voice quivered, breaking like thin glass. "This is outrageous! St...stop!"
Aiden’s voice came low, steady, almost tender with the weight of his fury. "Sadly, son of Baron Melodious... Lady Flora is the one I serve. Your words drip treachery like venom. And treachery, no matter how gilded, stinks the same."
The boy’s eyes bulged. Anger fought with terror, each shoving against the other in his trembling body. "Y...you peasant! How dare you. I am the future baron, heir to a hundred men’s loyalty! You are not even knighted. You should be on your knees, kissing the dust at my feet, not threatening me with steel!"
The horses around them slowed, hooves thudding to silence. Even the wind seemed to pause. The baron’s son’s cries had halted the forward rhythm of the convoy. Guards lifted their heads, hands drifting toward their hilts. The carriage wheels creaked to a halt.
Then—
"What’s happening here!?"
The voice cut through the road like a hammer through anvil. Deep. Commanding. Absolute.
The commander had arrived.
He was a giant in crimson and black armor, astride a warhorse that seemed carved from shadow.
His armor bore the scars of countless battles; his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the entire battalion’s discipline. The air itself thickened as his presence pressed forward. Even Aiden felt it—like standing at the edge of a storm about to break.
Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
Each step of his horse carried the metallic punctuation of judgment.
"Why the fuck are you cunts blocking the road?!" the commander roared, his voice thunder in flesh. "You lot want to fucking die today?" His eyes blazed, his sheer size even dwarfing Big John.
John withdrew his sword reluctantly, muscles still taut with fury. "This lad dis—"
But Aiden’s voice cut sharper. "He said he wanted to RAPE Lady Flora!"
The words fell like lightning. The air cracked. Every soldier stiffened. The accusation was not merely insult—it was sacrilege.
The boy’s face drained of color. "NOOO!" he screamed, panic raw and childlike.
The commander’s expression shifted instantly from rage to murderous disbelief. His hand flew to his sword. The steel rang out as it cleared its scabbard, already pointed at the trembling heir. "You dare!"
"No, no, he’s lying! I said no such thing!" the baron’s son wailed, his voice shrill, cracking under terror. His gaze darted wildly. "Y-you were there, you heard me!" He turned to Big John and the knights behind him, desperation clawing at his words.
But Aiden already saw the battlefield of politics forming. He knew the weight of voices, the fragility of truth when pressed beneath power. He turned, his voice ringing with the solemnity of oath.
"You know me," Aiden declared, his voice iron wrapped in thunder. "As knight close to Lord Augustus. This boy uttered shameful words, thinking a commoner like me would bow, silent and meek.
But I will not. I WILL take this matter to my lord himself. And whoever dares deny my words will be counted a TRAITOR to Augustus’s fief."
The words were not mere speech—they were judgment.
The son of the earl, armored and silent at the edge of the convoy, tilted his head, a small smile hidden behind his helm. Aiden had chosen his battlefield well.
Big John, loyal though fierce, said nothing. His friend too fell silent. Neither dared risk the wrath of Augustus’s authority.
The baron’s son’s mouth opened and closed like a fish dragged onto shore. "Y...you...you peasant scum!" His rage cracked into panic, then back into rage. His hand jerked to his sword.
"Hold!" the commander thundered, but the boy no longer heard.
His blade hissed free, wild with desperation. He swung, a ragged arc aimed at Aiden’s head.
Aiden could have ended him there. Could have disarmed him, broken him, humiliated him. But instead—he let the blade nick his neck, a shallow sting. Blood welled, hot and sharp, down his skin.
The commander’s fury detonated.
Steel whirled. Authority absolute. His strike fell like the wrath of gods themselves. The baron’s son gasped, but the sound was lost in the wet crack of steel meeting flesh.
The head severed. Blood sprayed.
The boy’s body collapsed, twitching. His head rolled to the dirt, eyes wide in shock, lips still forming unspoken words.
Aiden stood still, breath steady, watching. His armor caught the spatter, crimson dripping into the grooves of steel, running down into his gauntlets. A line of warmth slid into the corner of his mouth. He tasted it, the taste of iron.
’...I said it,’ he thought.
The commander’s sword gleamed, red and terrible, held high for all to see.
Aiden’s gaze lingered on the fallen heir.
’You would die for that,’ he thought, each word heavy, deliberate, like stones laid upon a grave.
He sneered within his helmet, a bitter smile curling unseen.
’I ain’t waiting for a whole arc to get rid of noble scum like you.’
The wind shifted. The convoy stopped completely. The father of the fallen head, coming in view