The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 42 Decoy for decoy

The dying flames cast long shadows across the forest clearing where twenty knights had made their camp.

The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood and the earthy dampness of the autumn night.

Five tents formed a rough circle around the central campfire, with the largest—Lady Maenaʼs command tent—set slightly apart from the others.

The captured banditsʼ muffled screams occasionally pierced the otherwise quiet night, making even the most hardened knights shift uncomfortably at their posts.

Inside the command tent, illuminated by several oil lamps that cast a warm but unsettling glow, Lady Maena worked.

She was tall for a woman, with silver-black hair pulled back in a severe braid that emphasised her sharp cheekbones and steel-grey eyes. Her armour, though removed for the interrogation, sat on a stand in the corner, still bearing dried blood from the earlier skirmish. She had rolled up the sleeves of her white linen shirt, now spattered with fresh crimson stains.

Jolthar stood near the tentʼs entrance, his broad shoulders tense as he watched the scene unfold.

At eighteen summers, he was younger than most of the other knights, but his prowess in the dayʼs battle had proven his worth. His hand rested instinctively on his sword pommel as he observed Lady Maenaʼs methods with a mixture of respect and unease.

”Iʼll ask again.” Maenaʼs voice was impossibly soft, almost gentle—a stark contrast to her actions. She held a thin, curved blade delicately between her fingers, its edge glowing orange from the nearby brazier. ”Who sent you?”

With her experience, she could easily tell that these were just lackeys. And that man admitted that they were acting on orders.

The bandit—a scrawny man with matted brown hair—writhed against his bonds, the rope cutting into his wrists. His two companions lay unconscious nearby, having already endured their share of questioning. ”Please,” he whimpered again, ”weʼre just hired swords!”

Eran, Maenaʼs second-in-command, stepped forward. His weather-beaten face remained impassive as he handed Maena a small vial. ”The potion you requested, my lady.” His voice carried the distinctive accent of the northern provinces.

”Hold him,” Maena commanded.

Two knights moved to comply, their armour clinking softly as they secured the prisonerʼs head.

With practised precision, Maena dropped three drops of the viscous liquid onto the heated blade, producing a sickly sweet vapour. She held it under the banditʼs nose, forcing him to inhale.

”This concoction,” she explained conversationally as if discussing the weather, ”comes from the far eastern kingdoms. It makes everything... more intense.” She traced the flat of the blade along the manʼs cheek, leaving an angry red welt. ”Every sensation, every cut, every burn – theyʼll feel ten times stronger. But it also loosens the tongue wonderfully.”

Jolthar watched as several knights near him averted their eyes.

He held his ground, watching intently. He had seen Lady Maena in battle—her grace with a sword, her tactical brilliance, her unwavering protection of those under her command. This side of her, this calculated cruelty, seemed at odds with the woman who just yesterday had shared her rations with a hungry stable boy.

The banditʼs screams reached a new pitch as Maena began her work in earnest. She was methodical and precise—each cut and burn carefully placed to cause maximum pain with minimal permanent damage.

Through it all, she maintained that same soft, almost motherly tone.

”You see,” she continued, wiping her blade clean. ”I know youʼre lying. You are just some low mutts who thought you could stand against me and my knights.

So tell me while I am asking nicely, Who sent you? Where is the material you stole from the Baron? Regular bandits would have scattered at the first sign of knights. You stood your ground, and died fighting. That speaks of training, of discipline.” She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. ”That speaks of purpose.”

All the nails of the bandit were missing, and she was looking at the feet when he flinched, and the horror he was in for was evident in his eyes. ”You will tell me everything I want to know,” she said with a cold smile, ”or you will wish you had never crossed paths with me.”

The banditʼs resistance finally cracked.

Between sobs and gasps, the truth spilled out: They were indeed decoys, meant to draw attention while the main force moved on to their true objective.

Something the Baron possessed, something valuable enough to sacrifice two dozen men as a distraction.

Maena straightened, cleaning her hands on a cloth with deliberate care.

The transformation was immediate and striking—the torturer vanishing beneath the composed exterior of a noble lady. ”Thank you for your cooperation,” she said, and with a quick motion, she drove a dagger into the manʼs heart.

A mercy killing, quick and clean.

”Eran,” she turned to her second, ”prepare the men to ride. We return to the barony tonight.”

Then, catching Joltharʼs eye, she paused. ”You disapprove of my methods, young man?”

Jolthar met her gaze steadily. ”Itʼs not my place to judge, my lady.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. ”Yet judge you do. Come walk with me.”

Outside the tent, in the cool night air, Maenaʼs demeanour softened slightly. ”Cruelty for crueltyʼs sake is abhorrent,” she said quietly. ”But sometimes, to protect those we serve, we must be willing to dirty our hands. Better my soul bears this burden than the Baronʼs lands run red with innocent blood.” She placed a hand on Joltharʼs armoured shoulder. ”Remember this lesson, young man: True leadership often means making the harsh choices others cannot.”

The camp quickly transformed into a flurry of activity as the knights broke down their tents and prepared for the ride back.

The bodies of the bandits were burnt—Lady Maena insisted on proper disposal, even for enemies.

As Jolthar mounted his warhorse, he watched her direct the men with calm efficiency. The same hands that had dealt such pain now gently adjusted her saddle strap, her voice carrying clear instructions across the clearing.

The company rode out under the cover of darkness, twenty knights in formation around their commander.

Lady Maena led from the front, her pose regal despite the nightʼs grim work.

Beside her, Eran kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, while Jolthar found himself studying his commander with new understanding. The moonlight caught the silver streaks in her hair—earned in service to the clan, each one probably carrying its own dark story.

The forest seemed to close in around them as they rode, the darkness holding secrets yet to be unveiled.

The easy victory over the decoy bandits now felt hollow, a false triumph masking a deeper danger. Their horsesʼ hooves thundered through the night, the sound echoing ominously in the silent woods.