I woke up at three in the morning to the sound of a wet, rhythmic snorting.
My bedchamber was pitch black. The stone floor was freezing. I slowly reached over to my nightstand, grabbed an iron candlestick, and lit the wick. The flickering orange light illuminated the foot of my bed.
Lying face-down on my imported wolf-pelt rug was a massive, incredibly hairy merchant from the east. He was completely blacked out, drooling a puddle of sour mead onto the fur, and for some incomprehensible reason, he was wearing my left boot on his right hand.
I stared at him. The smell of fermented honey-water and unwashed armpits filled my private sanctuary.
My dream of passive income had officially turned into a nightmare. My home was no longer a Keep. It was a frat house, and I was the miserable, sober landlord.
"Thorne!" I bellowed, kicking the merchant in his fat ribs. "Willem!"
A minute later, the heavy oak door banged open. Thorne charged into the room with his broadsword drawn, panting heavily. Willem scurried in behind him, clutching his ledger like a shield, wearing a long, ridiculous wool nightgown.
"Shadow Assassins, My Lord?!" Thorne roared, looking around wildly.
"No, Thorne. Just a drunk idiot wearing my footwear," I grumbled, rubbing my temples. "Get him out of here. Throw him in the badger dungeon and charge him a premium overnight lodging fee. And Willem, grab your ledger. First thing tomorrow morning, we are moving the tavern. I want these people off my lawn."
The sun had barely risen over the jagged eastern peaks when Willem, Thorne, and I marched down the muddy hill toward the village crossroad.
"We need a prime location," I lectured, stepping carefully over a frozen puddle of horse manure. "High foot traffic. Close to the main trade artery. And most importantly, far enough away from my bedroom that I don't have to hear them singing."
I stopped at the edge of the village. There was a perfect, flat patch of packed dirt right at the intersection of the northern and eastern roads. It was the absolute best real estate in the entire valley.
There was only one problem. A dilapidated, crumbling mud hut was sitting right in the middle of it.
Sitting on a three-legged stool outside the hut was Greta, the toothless, forty-year-old village gossip. She was aggressively churning a bucket of gray butter and muttering to herself about the patriarchy.
"This is the spot," I declared.
"But My Lord," Willem whispered nervously. "That is Greta's home. Her family has lived in that mud pile for three generations."
"Willem, have you ever heard of Eminent Domain?" I asked smoothly.
"No, Milord."
"It means the government can do whatever it wants as long as I say a cool Latin phrase in my head," I explained. I pointed at the mud hut. "Thorne. Demolish it."
Thorne didn't even hesitate. He marched right past a screaming Greta, planted his heavy metal boots in the dirt, and shoved his massive shoulder into the primary load-bearing mud wall.
The entire hut collapsed in a cloud of frozen dust and dry thatch.
Greta dropped her butter churn. Her eyes bulged out of her skull. For three seconds, there was absolute silence. And then, the feminist uprising was reignited.
"This is an outrage!" Greta shrieked, marching up to me and pointing a crooked, butter-covered finger at my chest. "This is systemic feudal oppression! You are destroying a female-owned space! You are erasing my lived experience to build your den of toxic, male-gaze objectification! I will not be silenced by the Turnip Patriarchy!"
I let her scream for a solid minute. When she finally paused to take a breath, I reached into my heavy leather pouch.
I pulled out a small sack of copper pennies. Then, I unhooked a solid oak club from Thorne's belt. I held both items out to her.
"Greta," I said calmly. "I am building a new, massive tavern right here. And I am promoting you to General Manager. You get two coppers a day, and you get to legally hit drunk men with this stick if they don't tip the maids."
Greta stared at the heavy wooden club. She looked at the copper.
Her fierce, lifelong dedication to dismantling the patriarchy vanished into the cold morning air.
"I am a Girlboss," Greta whispered in awe, taking the club. She turned to Thorne, her missing teeth on full display in a terrifying, predatory smile. "You! Tin-man! Clear this rubble! I want my corner office built facing the sun!"
Three Weeks Later.
The new standalone OnlyMaids tavern was a masterpiece of cheap, rapid construction. It was essentially a massive wooden barn, but to the freezing merchants on the trade route, it looked like a palace.
I stood across the street, leaning against a wooden fence, watching my passive income machine hum perfectly.
The heavy wooden doors swung open, and a fat merchant came flying out, landing face-first in the mud.
Greta marched out right behind him, brandishing her heavy oak club. She was wearing a surprisingly clean linen dress, her hair pulled back into a severe, terrifying bun.
"And stay out!" Greta shrieked, slamming her club against the doorframe. "If you want to look at Bess's cleavage, you pay the Garlic Butter upcharge! This is a respectable establishment, you cheap, exploitative pig!"
The merchant scrambled to his feet and ran down the road in sheer terror. Greta dusted off her hands, nodded sharply at me, and marched back inside to terrorize the waitstaff.
I wiped a single tear from my eye. She was magnificent. I didn't have to lift a finger ever again.
In the freezing shadows of the treeline across the road, Silas stood perfectly still.
The rusted iron skinning knife felt heavy in his hand. He had been watching the new tavern for hours, his cold, analytical brain running the calculations. The merchants were fat. Their pockets were full of silver. The ledger was unbalanced, and Silas was ready to do the accounting.
He gripped the hilt of his blade, preparing to step out of the shadows and hunt.
Suddenly, the side door of the tavern banged open.
Greta stormed out into the alleyway. She was dragging her husband, a lazy, useless peasant named Yost, by the ear.
"You think I don't see you staring at Elara's thighs?!" Greta roared, throwing Yost into the dirt. "You are a parasite! I am a managerial powerhouse! I work a fourteen-hour shift enforcing surge pricing, and you spend our turnip budget on sour mead! You are evicted from my life!"
Greta raised her wooden club and brought it down hard, smashing a wooden barrel right next to Yost's head. Yost screamed, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted away into the night, never to return.
Greta stood in the alley, breathing heavily, the wooden club resting on her shoulder.
In the shadows, Silas froze.
His internal monologue completely short-circuited. He looked at Greta. He didn't see a toothless, screaming gossip. He saw a predator. He saw a woman of action who understood that the ledger of a household had to be balanced with extreme prejudice. He saw efficiency.
For the first time since the winter froze his heart, Silas felt something warm in his chest.
She does not tolerate surplus, Silas thought, his eyes wide in the darkness. She cuts the fat. She is... perfect.
Silas looked down at his rusted skinning knife. He didn't need it anymore. He had found a new purpose.
With a quiet splash, Silas dropped the murder weapon into the freezing river beside the treeline. He stepped out of the shadows, the cold, dead look in his eyes replaced by a terrifying, intense devotion.
He walked up to the alleyway. Greta was currently struggling to lift a massive, full barrel of Artisanal Sour back onto the loading dock.
"Allow me, General Manager," Silas said, his voice low and respectful.
Greta blinked, looking at the quiet, intense villager. Silas easily hoisted the massive barrel onto his shoulder, his eyes locked onto hers with absolute, unblinking admiration.
"Well," Greta said, a blush rising to her cheeks. "It is about time a real man showed up to support a female entrepreneur. Carry that inside. And then you can rub my feet."
"It would be an honor to balance your ledger," Silas whispered.
The serial killer followed his new Girlboss into the tavern, leaving the bloody woods behind forever.