Dust puffed before Serganio’s face, tickling his nose and provoking him to burst out with a thunderous sneeze. His now watery eyes blurred all the cluttered things in the old room. Through his slowly stuffing nostrils, he heaved in the scent of old, sour wood. Were it not for Re Verdani’s tax men he would never have needed to unlock the damned door.

He gave a heavy sigh before stepping even further into the room; lit candle flickering as he moved and dimming the still blurry surroundings. After wipping his eyes, sneezing again, and rubbing away more tears, he set to searching.

The room was filled with furnitures and linens that he had not needed ever since the passing of his brother. The poor mercenary used to hold feasts for his great victories, but ever since his shit choice in battle grounds he no longer graced Serganio with the presence of his shimmering armor nor the smiles of his men who cared only once to stop by at his house to offer meager condolences. Bastards the lot of them all.

Weaving through all of the dusty obstacles, sure enough not to disturb them lest his nose explode, Serganio made his way back to an old, iron-banded chest. He then plucked up the key hung before his breast. The key fit without complaint, but he hesitated from turning it. He knew whatever would be left would have deter the taxman and Verdani’s every growing greed. Yet it would be the last he could give. Even were he to stumble into a loaded silver mine or inherit some ten vineyards from a long lost uncle he would never have the coin to survive another year.

Then numerous loud clanks rang against the courtyard gates. Serganio shoved his way through the attic over to a single dusty window that looked over his small villa of four, well established generations. Pikes, shimmering breastplates, and colorful hats were gathered outside his front gate. Before he could even care to sob, the dust he wiped from to window to better take in his doom forced him to sneeze once again. At least if he were to die this day he would never sneeze again.

After another fit of sneezing and more clattering against the gate, which he thankfully kept locked other than on market days, he ceased an old linen to wipe his nose. Yet as he pulled it away something metallic clanged beneath it. Already suffering he bit of dust mites, he yanked the linen from where it was perched. Serganio had then revealed the second to last set of plate harness his brother owned. It was set upon a stand and held in both hands was the etched war-sword their father had wielded in battle against the second king of Ruebaetard. He dared not let himself sob in his failures and grief of loss but instead laughed at the grace the stars shone upon him for at least giving him a poetic ending.

Through all the sneezing, heaving, and the thundering outside, he managed to dawn the armet helm, the cuirass, mail, and gauntlets. Before taking up the sword he silently prayed. First to the Mother for forgiveness, then to the Warrior for bravery and cunning in the coming battle.

Serganio, somewhat armed and heart pounding for the clash of steel, strove himself out of house and into the courtyard. The clanking went on until he cried out.

“Who be it that breaks down my doors?” He tightened his grip on the sword’s hilt.

“Captain Graetzo of the Colore Company!” The nasally voice of the brokened nosed Graetzo Porccelli was loud yet filled with regret. “Serganio Berccetti, your debts are to be collected by land, chattel, and your death, per Re Verdani’s behest! Open the gates and I, the greatest friend of your brother will give you the swiftest of deaths, worthy of any good man.”

Serganio’s leg jittered, his hands shook, eyes watered, voice quivered with puny sighs. However, he dragged himself towards the gate and managed to lift the plank holding the doors tight. He stepped back and regriped the war-sword with both hands. Voicing his last prayers to the Crone, voice level and calm, he waited for the captain and his tens of men.

As the gates ground open and the breastplates glimmered, pikes leveled, and hats bounced forth, he tightened his grip and gave a final, sharp cry that the whole Valley would hear for decades to come.