"Hey, Lightning Kid!" a mercenary snarled, glaring at the heavily armed Lightning Company soldiers. Behind them stood the captured Volantene officers, knights, and senior retainers.
"These are our prisoners! We've got the right to ransom them! You don't get to touch them!"
Yeah, that was the rule in this world. Captured knights, soldiers—even the lowliest conscripts and auxiliaries—were bargaining chips. You dragged them to the table and cashed them in with their families or their city.
For these mercenaries, killing the prisoners meant burning their payday. They hadn't bled through hell just to go home broke. Tiberius's order was ripping the biggest prize right out of their hands.
"Habro," Tiberius said coldly, ignoring the ragtag crew completely. "Bring me my riding whip."
"Kid…" Habro glanced at the prisoners, reluctant. But one look at Tiberius's face and he swallowed whatever protest he'd been about to make.
Truth was, Habro didn't want them dead either.
Think about it: get captured one day and your reputation is "merciful and brave" (wins battles and treats prisoners well)? You probably live.
But if your name is "ruthless and cold-blooded" (wins battles and shows no mercy)? You're lucky if they leave you with a whole corpse.
Still, Habro knew the kid's mind was made up. Arguing was pointless.
"Bring me the whip!" Tiberius snapped. "Did you not hear me?"
"Little bastard," the Crownless Princes captain spat, "when the empire's legions get here, you and your uncle and every worthless sack of shit under you will swing from the Black Walls!"
His hands were lashed tight to a wooden post, wrists already purple from the rough hemp rope. The fancy armor had been stripped off; all he had left was a coarse linen tunic.
"They'll hang you from the Black Walls and let the wind rattle your bones like cheap decorations! You can win once, ten times, a hundred times—but when Volantis decides to crush you, not even Targaryen dragonfire will save your sorry asses!"
"Noisy," Tiberius said flatly. "That your last speech? Then die."
No more words. Leather creaked in his steel-gauntleted hand. He stepped behind the captain, facing the watching mercenaries.
"Watch," Tiberius said, voice terrifyingly calm. "All of you—watch."
He looped the whip around the man's neck—handle on the left, lash on the right—then braced his knee against the prisoner's back like a horse trainer breaking a wild stallion.
Then he started tightening.
For the first few seconds everything was eerily quiet. The captain's hands clawed at the leather, nails digging in. His throat made wet, wheezing sounds like a busted bellows.
Tiberius didn't yank. He pulled slow and steady, muscles in his arms standing out like cables.
The prisoner jerked violently. A short, choked "kh" escaped his mouth, cut off like a sob.
Pure survival instinct kicked in. He thrashed, shoulders heaving, trying to get his chin under the cord. Tiberius's other iron-gloved hand clamped his head in place like a vice.
It turned into a silent, brutal contest of raw strength. Tiberius leaned back, teeth clenched, veins bulging at his temples. The whip sank deep into the man's neck, carving a white trench that quickly flushed purple.
The captain's eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting across the whites. Raindrops landed on his staring pupils but he couldn't blink anymore.
His mouth gaped in a silent scream, tongue lolling. His legs kicked uselessly in the mud, slower and slower.
Finally one last violent spasm ripped through his whole body. Then every ounce of fight drained out at once. His head snapped back at an unnatural angle, neck slack, eyes wide and empty, reflecting the gray sky and cold rain.
Tiberius held the pressure a few extra seconds before slowly letting go. The whip came free, leaving two deep, wet purple grooves around the dead man's throat.
He dropped the corpse like a broken tool. It hit the mud with a wet thump.
"Now," Tiberius said, not even breathing hard, "every single one of you—kill the prisoners. Five gold coins per head, officer or soldier. Or don't kill them and get nothing. Your choice."
A horn sounded in the distance.
Tiberius turned, chest rising and falling just a little heavier than usual. He peeled off the mud-spattered gauntlet and tossed the whip back to Habro like it was trash.
"You deaf?" Demetrius roared at his own Lightning Company men. "Get it done!"
"The Ruthless One…" one soldier whispered.
"The Ruthless One!"
"The Ruthless One!"
The chant rolled through the ranks, wave after wave, growing louder. Fear, awe, respect—all of it mixed together.
Good, Tiberius thought. Sounds a hell of a lot better than "the soft one."
"Use the flails, daggers, and spears," he told Demetrius quietly. "Make it quick—like they're doing farm work. But be fast. Because—"
He glanced toward the distant city walls barely visible under the gloomy sky, the river roaring silently into the Disputed River on the left.
"Next up is when we actually get rich."
>