The signs at the front of property had been very clear: NO TRESPASSING


Two days of snooping around the premises had given very two brave and enterprising photographers from the Rhy?din Times the impression that it was a warning that often went unenforced. By the fourth day, work had started to get out and a half a dozen reports from various news outlets (reputable and not) had taken to loitering on the fringes of the manor grounds in shifts, hoping to catch the new baron and prevail upon him to answer a single question.

How will you align to the new Overlady?

In the wake of some of the highly publicized declarations of renegade status against Melanie Rostol and her response, his lack of response had created a buzz of curiosity.

But he had, it seemed, become a recluse with his new prize/responsibility. There had been no sight of him at the Triple A Gym and, when pressed, it?s staff and owner had replied with a simple: No comment. Messages left with at the arena went unanswered and the only Charlie Nine sighting had come belatedly reported after the conclusion of the recent team tournament on Twilight Isle. He had never been seen exiting or re-entering the manor and in the days leading up to the deadline had only given glimpses of himself a few times, half shadowed in a second floor window like some apparition haunting and staring out over the grounds without expression.

Until today.

Someone had thought to be funny, putting a cheap, dilapidated podium out in front of the classic English-styled manor?s steps, before the modest crowd of a dozen or so people toting notepads, handheld recorders, and cameras (because really, was this real news?) as if someone of legitimate import was due (or expected) to arrive from within to deliver word of some (or any) significance. It sat there for less than an hour, beneath the laughable bit of warmth the afternoon sun provided against the winter?s nip, before finally eliciting a response.

Charlie appeared briefly at that window again, lingering in a stare over the modest crowd (could you really call it that?), flinching minutely against the flash of cameras and grimacing at shouted questions before disappearing again. His absence was short this time and when he reappeared, it was to the loud creak of the opening window. It was an encouraging gesture, emboldening the assembled to shout all the louder until something small came sailing out of the window to land amidst them in the snow.

It was a single sheet of standard paper, crumpled up into a ball.

A young man with nimble feet, freckles on his cheeks, and the slight tapering of ear that implied elven heritage, lept to snatch it up, jeering at his peers and darting quickly out of reach. Safe from grabbing hands, he began to straighten it out. The words on the page were done in neat, deliberate block lettering, very formal and?

?Well, Kerro?? Someone barked at him. ?What?s it say??

?Yeah! We getting an answer today or what??

?Read it out loud!?

Blinking and squinting beneath the tense press of demand, the young man didn?t make it through more than mild marveling over the penmanship before acquiescing to the crowd. He spoke slowly and clearly, as not to stumble over the words.


?It says? Oh?? There were more blinks and then a mild expression of disappointment.

And then the young man paled.

?It says: The Baron of New Haven aligns himself Loyal to the 99th Overlord of the Duel of Swords. Any further inquiries should be directed to Andrea Anderson, at her discretion and your own risk.?

There was silence, and then?

?Is that all??

And then?

?Really? That?s sodden all?!?

?No??

?Then what else, boy? Speak up!?

?Seems kinda formal,? an older woman called out, pad in hand. ?Aren?t he and the new Overlady supposed to be super chummy??

?I? uh?? The young man stammered. ?The announcement has been made in accordance wit the time limit given by the Duel of Swords administration. You have twenty seconds to vacate this property before proper action is taken by it?s current caretaker.?

?...what??

The young man continued to read downwards.

?19?18? 17? 16...15??

?He can?t be serious. What?s he going to do, shoot us all?? Some seemed incredulous.

The young man read on.

?The local hospitals already been given courtesy calls, so that their burn wards can be properly prepared? 10? 9? 8? 7? 6... ?

A growing murmur of concern spread amongst the small collective, but no one moved. A debate almost started, indecision mixed with worry that saw them milling like cattle. Or sheep.

Until the podium suddenly exploded, sending a shower of shards everywhere.

Amidst the shouting and the scramble to escape, none of them noticed that not a single piece of the fallen debris was burning. The note, dropped in the panic, lay half sodden in the snow, an memento as insignificant to the departed as it was to the one who penned it.


* * *

?Was that necessary?? Jen?s fingers were cool against the sensitive skin along the underside of his forearm, slipped beneath the loose sleeve of his old robe to feel skin on skin. She used the touch to draw the limb possessively to her chest. ?You could?ve just waved a gun around and told them to get off your lawn.? The mentally image made her giggle just a little, though she had already been smiling.

?Could?ve,? he conceded quietly and with a nod, smiling faintly in return and sagging into the hold she had on him. The dark circles beneath his eyes were finally beginning to fade, but remained a reminded of his fatigue. ?Maybe this way they?ll leave me alone.?

?Maybe.? The pretty little red-headed asian echoed the word, sounding as uncertain about the notion as he felt. She tugged on him again before he could speak again and changed the subject. ?Let?s go swimming. I got a new bikini I wanna wear for like five minutes.?

?Okay.?