Return of House Mudd

Shadows of Injustice

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire in the village hall's hearth. Adden's face, illuminated by the flickering flames, looked older and more haggard than Hosteen had ever seen it. His once-bright eyes were dull, sunken with despair, and his hands trembled as he clutched the armrests of his chair.

When the elder finally spoke, his voice was so low and ragged that Hosteen had to lean closer to catch the words.

"They took her," Adden said, each word dripping with anguish. "Those bastards took her."

Hosteen frowned, his mind racing. "Who, Adden? Who did they take?"

Adden's eyes darted to him briefly before falling back to the fire. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of collapse. "Mya," he whispered. "They took Mya… and killed those who tried to stop them."

The words hit Hosteen like a physical blow. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of the revelation settling heavily on his chest. Mya—bright, strong, kind Mya. The one who had always stood at the forefront of the village's efforts, who had never hesitated to help those in need. The thought of her in the hands of Pemford's men ignited a deep anger within him.

"What happened?" Hosteen asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil building inside him. "Tell me everything."

Adden nodded, though it seemed more to himself than to Hosteen, and began his tale.

"It started about a moon after you left," Adden said, his voice trembling as he recounted the events. "We were doing well at first. The tools you made for us… they helped. We worked harder, faster, more efficiently than ever before. For the first time in years, we felt like we had a chance to prosper."

His gaze turned distant, as if he were watching the events play out in his mind. "Then they came back. The tax collector, but this time he wasn't alone. He brought soldiers—more than we'd ever seen in the village before. And with them came Lord Ewyn Pemford himself."

Hosteen's fists clenched at the name. He had heard stories of Pemford—petty, greedy, and cruel. The kind of lord who thought little of his smallfolk beyond what they could provide for his coffers.

"Pemford didn't even bother with pleasantries," Adden continued, his tone bitter. "He rode into the square like he owned the place—which, I suppose, he does—and started shouting about unpaid taxes. We tried to explain that we didn't have the coin. We told him about the tools, about the progress we were making. We begged for more time."

Adden's voice cracked, and he paused to steady himself. "He didn't care. He looked at us like we were insects beneath his boots. And then… then he demanded double the taxes. Double, Hosteen! It wasn't even tax season yet, and he still demanded it."

Hosteen felt a growl building in his throat. The injustice of it all was infuriating. "What happened next?" he asked, though he dreaded the answer.

Adden closed his eyes, as if trying to block out the memory. "We couldn't pay," he said simply. "No matter how much we begged, no matter how much we pleaded, we couldn't give him what he wanted. So he gave the order."

"The order?"

"To loot the village," Adden said, his voice breaking. "His men spread out like a plague, breaking down doors, ransacking homes, taking anything of value. Tools, livestock, jewelry—it didn't matter. If they thought it was worth something, they took it."

Hosteen could almost see it: the chaos, the terror, the heartbreak. His hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white. "Did anyone try to stop them?"

Adden nodded, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "Of course we did. We're not cowards, Hosteen. We fought back. Harvin, Edrin, and a few others tried to stand up to them. But Pemford's soldiers… they're trained, armed. What were we against that?"

He fell silent for a moment, his head bowed. "They killed them, Hosteen. Harvin, Edrin, and the others—they killed them without hesitation. Cut them down in front of their families."

Hosteen felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Harvin. Edrin. Friends he had grown to care for deeply. Gone. Murdered.

"But that wasn't enough for Pemford," Adden continued, his voice thick with emotion. "Even after they looted everything, it still wasn't enough. He wanted to make an example of us, to show us what happens when we disobey."

Hosteen's stomach turned. "What did he do?"

"He took Mya," Adden said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Said she would serve as 'collateral' until the taxes were paid. Called her the 'price of disobedience.'" He laughed bitterly. "We all knew what that really meant. He wanted to break us, to humiliate us. And he succeeded."

The elder slumped in his chair, his energy spent. "We're broken, Hosteen," he said, his voice hollow. "We have nothing left. No tools, no livestock, no hope. And now Mya is gone, and there's nothing we can do."

Hosteen stared into the fire, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He could feel the rage boiling inside him, a burning need to right this wrong. Pemford had taken everything from these people—his people. And for what? His own petty greed and amusement?

No. This wouldn't stand.

"I'll fix this," Hosteen said, his voice low and resolute.

Adden looked at him, his eyes dull and lifeless. "How? How can you fix what's already been destroyed?"

Hosteen rose from his chair, his armor gleaming in the firelight. "By doing what Pemford never expected," he said. "By fighting back."

He placed a hand on Adden's shoulder, his grip firm. "Rest now, Adden. You've done enough. Leave the rest to me."

As he left the hall, Hosteen's mind raced with plans. Pemford had made a mistake—a grave one. And Hosteen would make sure he paid for it.

The path away from the village seemed longer than Hosteen remembered, but perhaps it was his seething anger that stretched the miles. The soft crunch of his boots on the dirt path was drowned out by the crackling energy radiating from him. Sparks danced along his fingertips, and the faint hum of his magic filled the air, its wild power mirroring the tempest in his soul. His mind churned with memories of Adden's broken voice, the despair of the villagers, and the smug face of Lord Pemford he'd only imagined but now burned with hate.

By the time Hosteen reached the crest of a hill overlooking the ruins of Oldstones, his fury was a living thing, coiling in his chest and begging for release. The ancient castle, once the seat of his ancestors, stood like a forlorn ghost of the past. Its broken towers and crumbled walls bore silent witness to the rise and fall of House Mudd.

His breathing ragged, Hosteen strode into the ruins, his footsteps echoing off the weathered stones. The cool air carried the scent of moss and damp earth, a sharp contrast to the heat coursing through his veins. His gaze swept across the remains of what had once been a proud keep, and his lips curled into a snarl.

This was where it had all begun, where House Mudd had once ruled as kings before being crushed under the heel of history. And now, here he stood, the last vestige of that bloodline, denied even the dignity of peace for his people.

The storm within him demanded release. With a growl, Hosteen thrust out his hand, and a boulder the size of a small house erupted into shards with a deafening crack. The shockwave rippled through the ruins, dislodging stones and sending a flock of startled birds into the sky.

Again and again, he lashed out. Boulders shattered, ancient walls crumbled, and debris flew in every direction. His magic poured out in waves, each pulse a manifestation of his rage and grief. The air grew thick with dust, the taste of it bitter on his tongue, but he didn't care. His power, wild and raw, surged through him like a raging river, carrying with it the weight of his anger.

As his fury began to wane, Hosteen's senses sharpened. He felt the earth beneath him, not as mere ground but as something deeper, something alive. His magic seeped into the soil, probing, searching. It was then that he felt it—an echo beneath the ruins, a hollow network of tunnels that pulsed faintly with the weight of ages.

The crypts of his forefathers.

Hosteen knelt, pressing his palm to the ground. His magic responded, flowing into the earth like water into a thirsty plant. The sensation was unlike anything he'd felt before—a connection to the past, to the roots of his bloodline. His mind filled with images: towering kings with golden crowns, swords held aloft in victory, and the sprawling lands of the Riverlands stretching out before them.

The rage that had consumed him moments ago gave way to cold, calculated determination. His fingers tightened against the earth as a plan began to form in his mind. Pemford had stolen and killed, trampling the dignity of his people for his own gain. If Pemford acted without honor, then Hosteen would deliver the justice he deserved.

But justice required more than raw power. It required precision, strategy, and a willingness to do whatever was necessary.

"I'll take him down," Hosteen muttered to himself, rising to his feet. His bronze armor, engraved with runes that now seemed to hum with newfound energy, caught the fading light of the evening sun. "I'll take his place and see that the Riverlands are ruled by someone who understands honor, not greed."

Pemford's downfall would begin with justice, swift and decisive. And it would end with Hosteen ascending to take what was rightfully his. Lord Mallister's blessing would be necessary for legitimacy, but that was a problem he could solve. A compulsion charm, carefully placed and expertly executed, would ensure Mallister saw things his way.

With a deep breath, Hosteen looked back at the ruins of Oldstones, now littered with the shattered remnants of his rage. It was fitting, in a way. The ruins had borne witness to the rise and fall of kings. Now they would serve as the birthplace of his plan to reclaim what had been stolen.

He turned away, his stride purposeful. The time for fury was over. Now was the time for action.

Hosteen returned to Gravesham with measured resolve, the cold precision of his plan suppressing the lingering embers of rage that threatened to consume him. The late afternoon sun hung low on the horizon, casting long, golden shadows over the village. What should have been a picturesque scene of rural tranquility was marred by the oppressive stillness that had overtaken the village.

The streets, once alive with laughter and the bustle of daily life, now felt haunted. The few villagers he passed moved silently, their shoulders slumped and their faces drawn with worry. Children, who had once raced and shouted with carefree abandon, stayed close to their homes, their eyes wide with fear. The weight of Lord Pemford's cruelty hung over Gravesham like a storm cloud, choking out all light and hope.

As Hosteen approached the village hall, he saw a thin curl of smoke rising from its chimney. The sight stirred a pang of nostalgia. The fire had always been a place where the villagers gathered, where stories were shared and troubles eased. Now, it seemed to burn in solitude, a flickering reminder of better times.

Inside, Adden sat in his usual chair by the hearth, staring into the flames as if they held answers to unspoken questions. His once-strong frame seemed diminished, his face pale and hollowed with grief. When the door creaked open to admit Hosteen, Adden looked up, the flicker of recognition in his eyes quickly replaced by weariness.

"Hosteen," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "You're back."

Without preamble, Hosteen crossed the room and stood before the elder. "Adden, listen carefully," he began, his tone firm but not unkind. "We must act swiftly if we're to right what's been done. Someone needs to ride to Seagard and plead our case to Lord Mallister. He must be told everything—how Pemford has looted the village, taken Mya as a hostage, and killed those who dared resist. Mallister has a sense of justice. He will hear us."

Adden's eyes narrowed, his brows furrowing in confusion. "And you? Will you not ride with us? Surely your presence would lend weight to our words."

Hosteen shook his head, his expression steady, though his mind churned with the gravity of what he was about to undertake. "No. I'll ride ahead to Hammerford."

Adden's jaw tightened. "Hammerford? Why there?"

"Because Lord Pemford must not have the chance to twist the truth or manipulate the situation in his favor. I'll ensure that when Lord Mallister arrives, he'll be met with an honest account, free from lies and deception."

Adden hesitated, his eyes searching Hosteen's face for answers. "What are you planning, Hosteen? This sounds dangerous."

Hosteen knelt beside the elder's chair, meeting his gaze directly. "I plan to protect Gravesham, Adden. I'll do what's necessary to make sure Lord Pemford cannot harm us again. But for this to work, you must trust me. Send a rider to Seagard—someone brave, who will not falter under questioning. Tell Mallister everything."

The elder's doubt lingered for a moment longer before it gave way to reluctant trust. "I'll find someone immediately. You're right; this is our only hope. May the gods watch over you, Hosteen."

Hosteen nodded, a brief but reassuring gesture, before he turned toward the door. As he stepped outside, the cool evening air bit at his skin, sharpening his resolve.