The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 331: Liberator

For that one moment, pain turned to pride and despair to defiance—and Jolthar's name became the pillar they leaned upon.

The townspeople moved quickly to obey.

As the cleanup began around them, Jolthar carried Mira toward Nora's dining, with Nora and the others following close behind.

Maelruth the drake padded after them, her massive form moving with surprising grace between the damaged buildings.

Inside the warm, familiar walls of the establishment, they settled around Nora's largest table while Jeanne bustled about preparing drinks for everyone.

Mira remained on Jolthar's lap, her small hands exploring the fabric of his travel-worn clothes. She pulled his ponytail, asking him why he let it grow.

Jolthar just smiled.

"The man in the sky," she said suddenly, looking up at Jolthar with wide, curious eyes. "Who was he? Why was he so big and scary? Why did he talk like that?"

Jolthar considered how to explain the concept of deities to a nine-year-old child. "He was... a very powerful being from far away. He was angry because someone he cared about got hurt."

"But she was one of the bad people," Mira said with the simple logic of childhood.

"Bad people should get punished when they hurt good people. That's what Mama always says."

"Your mama is very wise," Jolthar agreed, smoothing her hair.

"Sometimes powerful people think the rules don't apply to them. But everyone has to follow the same rules, no matter how strong they are."

Nora's voice cracked, trembling with anger and fear. "Why are you so cruel with them, Jolthar? Did you really have to kill them like that?"

Jolthar's eyes, still dark from battle, shifted to her. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. "I had to, Nora. If I hadn't, they would have torn through us. Sometimes, the only way to stop monsters is to become something worse."

Her fists clenched at her sides, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "Violence isn't always the answer! What if… what if that deity comes to the barony when you aren't here? What then? What happens to us when your sword isn't at our side?"

Jolthar stared at her, unmoving, his jaw tightening. "He won't touch the barony. Not while I draw breath. If he comes, he comes for me alone. You don't have to worry about this place in my absence. I'll make sure of it."

The silence after his words was heavy. Nora's shoulders trembled as she tried to hold his gaze, her lips trembling with questions she dared not speak.

Roblan stepped forward, laying a hand on her shoulder to calm her. "Enough, Nora. Don't question him. He did what was necessary."

He looked at Jolthar with a mixture of respect and certainty, though a shadow of unease lingered in his chest.

To Roblan, Jolthar's actions had been right.

Necessary.

Outside, the square had emptied, leaving only the echoes of grief clinging to the stones. The people had returned to their homes, carrying heavy hearts after living through a night of horror. Yet amid their sorrow, there was gratitude—gratitude that Jolthar had come when he did, that he had stood between them and ruin.

The memory of the tragedy cut deep now, but time had its way of softening even the sharpest wounds.

Days would pass, and though scars would remain, the details would blur.

That was the way of life.

No one could clutch every moment of pain forever; people had to rise each morning, to labor, to rest, to love, and to live.

In that quiet, unyielding rhythm, even tragedy became a shadow, and only fragments endured.

-

And just like that, the days slipped by, winter settling over Tekkora Barony with its quiet dominion. Snow came heavy and unrelenting, blanketing rooftops, piling high in crooked streets, and muffling the world in cold silence.

The city had begun to stir again, trade trickling back into its veins, though it was not yet the thriving heartbeat it once had been.

Word traveled fast across the roads—whispers carried by merchants and caravan hands—that the barony had been attacked by the merchant lord Eude, and that its young lord, Jolthar of Tekkora, had slain him.

They spoke of how his head now sat impaled on a pike outside the gates, frozen in the winter air, beside the pale, glassy-eyed visage of Gales.

Travelers who passed through shuddered at the sight—two grisly trophies stiff with frost—yet they also marvelled.

Some called Jolthar terrifying, others brave, but all agreed he was a lord who ruled with steel in hand, unflinching before any foe.

The barony, scarred but alive, began to swell with new blood.

Adventurers arrived in greater numbers, drawn by the tale of what had transpired, eager to test their mettle where danger lingered.

The guild bustled, its halls louder than they had been in years, with contracts changing hands and blades flashing in eager demonstrations.

Even the beast market thrummed with life again, cages rattling with exotic creatures brought in by adventurers eager to sell their prizes.

Tekkora had been wounded, but now, with winter pressing at its walls, it breathed anew—hardened, wary, and more alive than ever.

-

It was the last week of December when Jolthar finally stood in the place he had dreamed about for years.

The great forge that Cleora had built was everything he had hoped it would be and more.

The main workspace was vast enough to hold several projects at once, with multiple hearths burning at different temperatures and anvils of various sizes arranged around the space.

The most impressive addition was the team of dwarven smiths that Cleora had somehow convinced to work there.

Dwarves rarely left their mountain homes, but the promise of working with the finest materials and the most advanced techniques had drawn several master craftsmen to Tekkora.

Their leader was Heddokin, a dwarf whose skill with metal was legendary even among his own people. His beard was indeed iron-grey, and his hands bore the calluses and burn scars that marked a lifetime of working with fire and steel.