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CHAPTER 25 But if you never Bend
🕑 Added 2025-05-02 16:17:02 +0000 UTCThe air in Brenn’s office was thick, strung with tension. Brenn sat behind his modest desk, his large hands resting on its worn surface, fingers twitching.
Across from him, the emissary of House Kira lounged with practiced arrogance, his gilded robes and silvered hair a stark contrast to the crude simplicity of the room.
"Commander Brenn," the emissary began, purposefully omitting his title. "I trust you understand the gravity of your failure here. A patrol of knights, men of noble blood, wiped out under your watch? The Kira family demands answers."
Brenn’s jaw clenched. He forced his voice to remain steady. “The knights left on patrol after Sir Viel was recalled to the capital. They ignored the safety protocols he put in place, chose to leave the safe zones undermanned, and…” He hesitated, his words heavy. “The predator took them.”
Brenn spoke a half-truth. Darryl had inspected the scene - two of the victims had died from knives, not scythes. They did their best to find the culprit. They failed.
But saying as much would be a death knell. They would burn Grainwick to the ground in retaliation.
The emissary’s lips curled into a sneer. “And whose responsibility was it to ensure they followed those protocols, hmm? Surely not theirs? Or do you presume to lay the blame at their feet?”
Brenn held the man’s gaze, his knuckles whitening against the desk. “With respect, sir, they were knights. Trained. Disciplined. Sir Viel ensured they knew the risks, and I trusted them to act accordingly. They chose not to.”
The emissary’s sneer deepened, but he seemed to sense the futility of arguing. He waved a hand dismissively. “Convenient. Still, their deaths will not go unnoticed. On the way here, I heard some rather… colorful accounts from your villagers.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Screams about a rapist knight. Care to explain?”
Brenn froze. That was the second part of what he was trying to keep secret. The words hung in the air like a guillotine.
“That…” His voice faltered for the briefest moment before he forced it steady again. “That’s a sensitive matter. An investigation is underway.”
The emissary’s smile was predatory. “Oh, come now. No need for pretenses. Let’s speak plainly, Commander. Are you suggesting that Sir Calland Kira—my kin—is being accused of… misconduct? His name besmirched so soon after his passing?”
Brenn’s throat tightened. The man across him had to know the truth, Calland’s rowdiness wasn’t a secret. It was all sophistry and he had to play along. “The girl is recovering. Her account is… being reviewed.”
“Her account?” The emissary’s voice rose sharply, the room seeming to shrink under his ire. “How dare you! That peasant dares besmirch the name of Calland Kira? A hero who died protecting this backwater?” He slammed a hand onto the desk, rattling the sparse items atop it. “I will not stand for this.”
Brenn remained silent, his jaw locked, trying to figure out the man’s approach. What is he trying to get out of this?
The emissary’s expression shifted, becoming eerily calm once again. “There’s only one solution. The girl must be executed. Publicly. Let it be a lesson to others who might think to spread such vile rumors.”
Brenn’s head blanked. What? He stared at the man. He had expected increased taxes, maybe lashes… But this? The girl’s injuries flashed in his memory, her wounded psyche and trembling voice. A victim, not a liar.
“No,” Brenn said finally, the word heavy but firm. “I won’t condemn an innocent. Not to save face. Not for anyone.”
The emissary’s fake calm shattered, replaced by cold fury. “Innocent? That’s rich. But I guess you’ve always had a penchant for trying to save scum.”
He leaned in closer, his voice a venomous whisper. “You’ll regret this, Commander. You might have been a legend once, but you’re overstepping. House Kira does not forget slights.”
Brenn straightened, meeting the man’s glare with resolve. “Then let House Kira do what it must. But I’ll not let fear dictate my actions.”
The emissary rose, his robes swirling around him. “Very well. Once this village falls, the girl will die with it. Goddess be my witness, not a single knight will lift a finger to help you.”
He turned sharply and strode from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Brenn’s shoulders slumped as he sank back into his chair, his hands trembling as they covered his face. The weight of his choices bore down on him. Had he doomed them all in his pride? Would the people condemn his choice?
For the first time in years, Brenn felt like a man standing against a current too strong to fight.
Yet, even as the weight of his choice crushed him, he held onto one fragile truth: he had made the only choice he could live with. They would need to prepare and fast.
He got up to get Darryl and devise a defense plan. The emissary’s parting words still rang in Brenn’s ears. His hands clenched into fists. Divide and act. No time to waste.
Darryl would handle patrols, barricades, and assembling fighters. Brenn had the harder task—rallying the villagers before fear took hold.
-=-=-
After meeting up with Darryl, Brenn found himself walking the road towards the edge of the village.
The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal guided him to the smithy. The forge’s glow flickered through the open door, and inside, the blacksmith worked tirelessly, shaping a sickle.
A tool. A weapon.
Brenn stepped in, his one-armed frame filling the doorway. He took a breath, steadying himself. "Bert."
The blacksmith didn’t pause. "Commander," he greeted, hammer still striking. "Need something done?"
Brenn stepped closer, his movements deliberate. "Yeah. Drop what you’re doing."
Bert raised an eyebrow. "I’m almost done with this. I’ll—"
"Weapons, Bert. Drop everything else.” Brenn’s voice cut through the heat of the forge. “Spears. Reinforce the armor. Adapt any farming tools you can for fighting."
Bert blinked, his surprise quickly turning to a grin. "Weapons, huh? So, we’re finally taking things back into our own hands?"
Brenn exhaled, rubbing his temple. "The knights are as good as gone. They’ll leave today.” He paused. “We’re on our own."
Bert let out a short, mirthless chuckle. "Good riddance. All they did was eat, drink, and ruin lives. We’ll be better off without them." He reached for a chunk of iron. "Hell, my wife will finally be able to breathe."
Brenn didn’t smile. He braced his good arm against the workbench, his voice grim. "Maybe. But they also kept the predator at bay."
Bert’s grip on the iron tightened. His face hardened. "And now it’s up to us," he said quietly.
"That’s right," Brenn confirmed. "Less than two weeks. If we’re not ready…" He trailed off, letting the unspoken truth settle between them. The crackle of the forge filled the silence.
Bert straightened. "We don’t have much of a choice, do we?" His voice was steady. "We’ve handled worse."
Brenn locked eyes with him. "No, we haven’t."
Bert didn’t hesitate as he snapped back. "Doesn’t mean we can’t."
Brenn gauged the man. This wasn’t blind confidence—Bert understood exactly what was coming. And he was still ready to fight.
For the first time since the emissary’s visit, something loosened in Brenn’s chest.
He slapped the workbench. "You’re goddamn right.” He let out a rough chuckle, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight. “Darryl kept telling me I’ve turned into an old codger. He was right"
Bert clapped his shoulder, his grip firm. "We’ll be ready, Commander. We need no mercy from noble upstarts." He gestured toward the scattered tools and materials. "But I’ll need more iron."
"I’ll get it." Brenn turned to leave but hesitated at the doorway.
"Your woman" he said, glancing back. "Think she could make something big happen? Explosive arrows, maybe? I’ll pay it off, eventually."
“How many do you think she could make in time? One? Two?” Bert laughed. His voice was deep, full of something close to pride. "Don’t you worry about special weapons, Commander. We’ve got something better in the works."
Brenn nodded, lingering for just a second longer. But there was no time to waste, not even in good company. He stepped out into the cold air. His steps were lighter, his spine a little straighter.
No knights. No reinforcements. No way out. But it still felt better than suffocating slowly under the iron boot.
Brenn spent almost all his time going door to door, reassigning priorities. Time for fixing roofs and sowing seeds was over. Digging the trenches and fletching arrows - that’s what would keep them alive.
The ones who hadn’t yet learned to fight, went to Darryl for basic training. They had just enough time to learn which side of the spear to stab with.
By sundown, all the remaining knights left, along with the emissary. Grainwick was reminded of a different time, not too long gone, when the period of goddess’s rest did more than just mark the passage of time.
