<div>


    Dusk crept in, and Sten still hadn’t returned. Alexander decided waiting was a waste. He closed his eyes, sinking into a meditative breath to steady himself. Barely a moment passed before a clamor—distant at first—rolled closer, heading straight for him.


    He snapped his eyes open. Across the alley stood a dozen men, each with a longsword slung at their hip. Their leather armor was crude, little more than beast hides punched with holes and yanked over their heads. By that logic, their swords were likely just as shoddy. Still, they moved as a unit, armed and purposeful. Guards? Thugs? Alexander braced a hand on the broken wall and rose, sensing their target was him.


    Leading them was a man in his forties, skin weathered dark, build solid as stone. Behind him, two brutes dragged a figure streaked with blood. As if feeling Alexander’s stare, the beaten man groaned and lifted his head. Alexander’s eyelid twitched. Sten?!


    Raphael’s memories painted a grim picture. Sten was a mess—cowardly, crude—and Raphael hadn’t been much better. Crestwood’s mayor, Lord Mekhan, despised them ever since Sten tried sneaking over his wall one night to ogle his daughter. Caught red-handed, he’d nearly been beaten to death. Did he stir up trouble again? Alexander’s brow furrowed.


    “Well, well, Young Master Raphael,” the leader called, voice loud and casual. His face stayed neutral, but contempt oozed from every syllable.


    “What’s this about?” Alexander demanded.


    “Don’t blame me, Young Master,” the man sneered, grabbing Sten’s hair and yanking him forward with a savage tug. “This trash had the gall to steal!” He laughed, harsh and grating. “Can’t figure what he was thinking—stealing, then trying to sell it. And get this—he claims you gave it to him. So, what’s the truth? Speak up!” He loomed closer, eyes bulging, radiating menace, as if itching to haul Alexander off for a beating too.


    Alexander went quiet, not out of fear but necessity. Raphael’s memories were a tangled mess—he needed a moment to sift through them.


    “I see,” the man said, lips curling in a mocking grin. “He’s just barking lies, then. A fine, upstanding soul like Young Master Raphael wouldn’t stoop to thieving with this filth. You lot—take him back. Give him a proper questioning.”


    The brutes hoisted Sten up. No wails, no thrashing—just a hollow, desperate stare fixed on Alexander.


    “That crystal was mine to give,” Alexander said, voice ice-cold. “Which of your mutt eyes saw us steal?”


    The words dropped like stones. Silence swallowed the scene. The armed men, the gawking crowd—everyone froze. Even the leader gaped, stammering, “You… what did you say?”


    “I asked which of your mutt eyes saw us steal.”


    “You’re dead!” The man roared, fury igniting. He ripped his sword free and lunged, blade arcing high to cleave downward.


    Alexander’s face stayed calm, almost bored. He had the leisure to pick apart the man’s stance—sloppy grip, overextended reach, a dozen openings.


    Screams erupted from the crowd. Crestwood was a backwater, its people unused to bloodshed spilling in the open like this.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The cheap sword halted midair, inches from Alexander’s skull, trembling but unable to fall.


    Alexander smiled faintly. Every world had its rules. Raphael was a baron, a noble by blood. Penniless and ragged, sure, but his title held. Killing a commoner in broad daylight carried consequences—killing a noble? Far worse. Raphael’s memories named this man: Svanti, the town’s sheriff. He was Mekhan’s lapdog, eager to torment them, but not suicidal enough to cross that line over petty spite.


    “Stealing and mouthing off, huh?” An older man with graying hair shoved through the group, thrusting out a hand. A red crystal glinted in his palm. “This is mine!”


    Alexander’s gaze flicked to Sten, who thrashed and shouted, “Young master, that old bastard set me up! I went to his shop—” A thug’s backhand cut him off, silencing the rest.


    Anger flared in Alexander’s chest, but he was powerless—for now. He turned to the old man, voice frigid. “How do you know Sten stole it?”


    “He brought that crystal to my stall!” the old man jeered. “I recognized it instantly. Young Master Raphael, in your state… heh, can you really afford something like that?”


    “So Sten stole it, then marched back to sell it to you?” Alexander shook his head. “Being a pig’s fine—just don’t assume everyone else is too.”


    “You—” The old man faltered, stunned. Crestwood knew Raphael as a broke, spineless wreck. At first, his title had earned him wary respect, but years of rot stripped that away until he was less than human in their eyes. Where’d this backbone come from? Flustered but defiant, he barked at Svanti, “Sheriff Svanti, he’s all talk! Grab him, beat the truth out—I bet he cracks!”


    “Smart plan,” Alexander cut in, smirking. “Make me suffer now, and when the Tribunal gets involved, it’s someone else’s turn. But no one’ll pin it on you, right?” The Tribunal judged noble crimes. Even if he’d stolen, these yokels had no authority to sentence him—only the city courts did. Torturing a noble, though? That was a graver sin than theft.


    The old man’s eyes bulged, speechless. Raphael was a fool in his mind—a hopeless idiot. Yet here he was, sharp, calculating, turning the tables.


    “Don’t push it,” a deep, rumbling voice called from the crowd. “Beating a man bloody over a crystal, and now you want him locked up?”


    “Who’s that? Who’s running their mouth?” Svanti snapped, scanning the onlookers. “Step out, you—”


    The crowd parted—not by choice, but shoved aside. A towering figure strode in, broad as a mountain. His shoulders bore a massive greatsword, unsheathed, wrapped only in rough twine. Dark stains marred the blade—blood, maybe, or something worse. His pace was slow, deliberate, but the air thickened with his presence. Svanti’s jaw clamped shut, words dying in his throat.


    “You… a mercenary?” the old man asked, forcing a smile.


    “No badge, huh? Blind as well as stupid?” the giant growled, tapping a worn emblem on his chest.


    “Heh… mind telling us which guild?” the old man pressed.


    “Looking to kiss up or track me down later?” The mercenary snatched the old man’s wrist, twisting until he yelped. The crystal tumbled free. With a flick, the giant sent him staggering back seven paces to crash on his rear. Then he stooped, scooping the bead up.


    Daylight robbery, Alexander thought, but no one breathed a word. Not even Svanti, the so-called lawman. Mercenaries lived on the edge—hired blades unbound by local ties. If one place soured, they moved on. Townsfolk didn’t have that luxury.


    “What’re you staring at?” the giant said, voice low and sharp. “This crystal’s not mine—or yours.” He slammed his greatsword into the dirt, freeing a hand to dig into his belt. A fistful of identical red beads spilled out, glinting in the fading light.


    “Get it? These belong to my employer,” he said, dripping scorn. “These two didn’t steal a damn thing. Any problems? No? Then get lost.”


    Svanti bristled. Hearing the giant was hired locally puffed up his chest—he opened his mouth, ready to throw some weight around. But the mercenary’s tone only grew colder, more dismissive. Svanti’s face twisted, bravado crumbling. With a weak wave, he slunk off, his men trailing like whipped dogs.


    “Backwater clowns,” the giant spat, hefting his sword and lumbering away. He’d stepped in out of pity, maybe, or because he knew the crystals’ origin. But to him, a pair of beggar nobles weren’t worth a second glance—barely better than the fools he’d scattered.