The sound of heavy sledgehammers smashing against solid stone echoed through the Keep.
I stood in the doorway of my private bedchamber, sipping a cup of warm water, watching the destruction with immense pride. Now that the tavern was safely operating down in the village, I was officially a man of passive income. And a wealthy man deserved warm feet.
"Put your back into it, Thorne!" I called out. "We need to hit the foundational dirt!"
Thorne swung a massive iron sledgehammer, shattering a heavy floor stone into dust. Four other guards were in the room with him, completely covered in sweat and gray debris, aggressively tearing up my bedroom floor.
I was building a heated floor. I had seen a YouTube documentary about ancient heating systems five years ago while eating a bag of sour cream chips. The concept was simple: dig a hole under the floor, route the smoke from the kitchen ovens through it, and enjoy a toasty, tropical bedroom while the rest of the medieval world froze to death.
"Halt!" Thorne bellowed, wiping a thick layer of stone dust from his forehead.
My entire bedroom floor was gone. In its place was a massive, jagged, four-foot-deep crater of freezing, damp dirt and broken cobblestone. It looked like a meteor had struck my mattress.
"The excavation is complete, My Lord," Thorne reported proudly. He stepped out of the crater, leaning heavily on his sledgehammer. "A brilliant tactical pit. I await your next command. Do we just shovel the burning kitchen coals directly onto the dirt? Or is there a way to guide the smoke so you don't choke to death in your sleep?"
I froze. My smug, wealthy smile slowly melted off my face.
Guide the smoke.
I stared into the dark, freezing dirt pit that used to be my bedroom. I suddenly realized, with terrifying clarity, that I had absolutely no idea how fire worked. Smoke goes up. My bedroom was on the exact same floor as the kitchen. I didn't know how to make hot air move sideways. I didn't know how to build an underground chimney without burning the entire Keep down.
"Right. The smoke," I said, clearing my throat and backing out into the hallway. "Actually, Thorne, this specific ancient technique requires the foundational dirt to... cure."
Thorne blinked. "Cure, My Lord?"
"Yes. The earthen humors must settle before we introduce the fire," I lied flawlessly. "It will take several days. I am completely sealing this room off until the dirt is fully optimized. Nobody goes in."
Thorne nodded sagely. "Brilliant, My Lord. Patience is the mark of a master tactician."
Midnight. The Keep was dead silent.
I was sweating through my nightshirt, desperately dragging my heavy, lice-infested mattress down the dark, freezing stone corridor. I kept looking nervously over my shoulder, terrified that Marta or Bess would wake up and catch me.
I reached the Keep's supply closet right next to the kitchens. I shoved the heavy wooden door open. Two mops and a bucket clattered onto the floor.
I kicked the mops out of the way. The closet was a windowless, four-by-four foot wooden box that smelled aggressively like wet straw and rat droppings. I grabbed my mattress and shoved it inside. It didn't fit.
Gritting my teeth, I violently folded the heavy mattress completely in half like a giant taco, wedged it into the closet, and crawled inside. I pulled my knees tightly against my chest, pulled the heavy wooden door shut, and lay there in the pitch black.
A rat squeaked somewhere above my head. I just closed my eyes and sighed.
The next morning, I hobbled into the Great Hall like an eighty-year-old man.
My spine felt like it had been shattered into a dozen pieces. I practically collapsed onto my wobbly wooden throne, wincing as my locked-up neck popped loudly.
Daily Court was in session. Willem stood beside me, clutching his ledger. Four heavily armored Keep Guards stood at absolute, stoic attention in the very back of the hall.
Down on the floor, two local peasants were aggressively arguing over a chicken.
"He stole my prize hen, Lord Elaric!" the older peasant yelled, pointing a shaking finger at his neighbor. "He painted her brown with mud to hide her true white feathers! I demand justice!"
I rubbed my eyes. "Just cut the chicken in half. Next case."
The peasants looked at each other, shrugged, and the younger one actually drew a small knife.
Before the medieval horror could commence, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall banged open.
A messenger boy sprinted in, desperately clutching a violently flapping gray courier pigeon to his chest. He shoved the squawking bird directly into Willem's hands, panting heavily.
"Urgent news from the Capital, My Lord!" Willem gasped, awkwardly trying to untie a tiny scroll from the struggling bird's leg. The pigeon instantly pecked his thumb, broke free, and fluttered high up into the dark, wooden rafters of the Great Hall.
Willem unrolled the tiny paper. His face went completely pale. "Tragedy! The Crown has fallen! King Alden has been violently overthrown by the Duke of the Western Marches!"
The reaction in the back of the hall was instantaneous.
The four Keep Guards violently kicked their wooden chairs backward. They leaped to their feet in perfect unison. With a terrifying, synchronized shwing, four heavy broadswords were drawn from their scabbards.
"For Aldoria!" Thorne roared, his eyes burning with absolute, patriotic fury. He raised his sword to the ceiling. "We march on the Capital! We will bathe the streets in the Usurper's blood!"
"Thorne, sit down," I groaned, holding my aching lower back. "We are a five-week march from the Capital. By the time you get there, the war will be over."
Thorne stood there, vibrating with excess adrenaline, his sword still raised high.
Ten minutes passed. The guards remained standing at absolute attention, gripping their swords, ready to lay down their lives for the realm.
Suddenly, a second messenger boy sprinted through the doors. He was holding yet another violently thrashing pigeon. He shoved the bird at Willem.
"An update, My Lord!" Willem yelled, frantically wrestling the tiny paper off the second bird's leg before it, too, escaped into the rafters to join the first one. Willem read the first line. He paused. He squinted at the parchment, took his spectacles off, wiped them, and put them back on.
"Well?" Thorne demanded from the back, his sword gleaming in the torchlight. "Has the King been martyred?!"
"No," Willem said slowly. "The King... legally allowed himself to be adopted."
I stared at the steward. "Adopted? He's a sixty-year-old man."
"Yes, My Lord. But according to the decree, he was legally adopted by a wealthy peasant turnip-merchant named Greg," Willem read aloud, his voice flat. "By invoking the Peasant Immunity Act, the King nullified the Duke's right to execute him. He then used his new father's massive turnip fortune to pay off the Duke's mercenary army and buy the throne back. His official royal title is now King Alden, Son of Greg."
The Great Hall went completely silent.
High up in the rafters, one of the pigeons cooed softly. A wet, white splat echoed loudly as bird shit hit the stone floor right next to the dais.
I looked toward the back of the hall. The four Keep Guards were still standing there, their swords raised in the air.
They slowly looked at each other.
Without a word, Thorne lowered his arm. The guards slowly, awkwardly slid their swords back into their scabbards. They picked up their overturned wooden chairs, sat heavily back down, and stared blankly at the stone floor. One of them rested his forehead against his hands.
Down in front of the throne, the younger peasant slowly raised his small knife, staring up at the fat gray pigeons in the rafters and licking his lips.
I leaned back on my throne, my spine screaming in pain.
"Willem," I said quietly. "Are you telling me my seventy-percent tax rate is going to a guy named Greg's adult son?"
"It appears so, My Lord."
I closed my eyes. "Bring me the first guy you can find who owes us money."