The three golden knights advanced into the lobby, their heavy footfalls methodical and synchronized, like the ticking of a doomsday clock. The air grew thick, heavy with the weight of their silent judgment. Leo felt a pressure in his chest that had nothing to do with his former heart condition; it was the suffocating presence of raw, disciplined power. His survival instincts, dormant for years in the sanitized world of corporate negotiations, were screaming at him to run, to hide, to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
He was an ant in the path of a steamroller.
The leader of the trio came to a halt a few feet away, his towering form casting a long, intimidating shadow over the fallen Lyra. He didn't even grant Leo a sideways glance. In his eyes, Leo was part of the scenery, as insignificant as the dust on the floorboards. The knight's attention was focused entirely on his quarry.
He raised a gauntleted hand and pointed a single, accusatory finger at the silver-clad woman. His voice, when it came, was not a normal human sound. It was amplified, booming through the hall with a metallic, resonant quality that seemed to vibrate in Leo's bones.
"Lyra, the Apostate," the voice declared, each word a hammer blow. "You are found guilty of heresy, of betraying the sacred covenant, and of consorting with the shadows. Your sentence, decreed by the Radiant Council, is death. There is no appeal."
Leo's throat went dry. This wasn't just a pursuit; it was a formal execution. These weren't soldiers; they were zealots. He took an involuntary step back, his foot scuffing loudly on the floor.
The knight's helm swiveled a fraction of an inch in his direction. The featureless golden faceplate seemed to bore into him. "The affairs of the Order of the Sun do not concern common men. Stand aside, lest you be judged as an accomplice."
The dismissal, the casual threat, sent a jolt of ice and fire through Leo's veins. He was terrified, more scared than he had ever been in his life. His mind was a frantic cacophony of panicked thoughts. Just let them do it. It's not your problem. You just got here. You need tenants, not corpses. Just close your eyes.
He saw the lead knight heft his massive warhammer from his shoulder. The weapon's head glowed with a soft, golden light, humming with a contained power that made the air around it shimmer. It was a holy instrument, designed to smite and purify.
He looked at the woman, Lyra. She was trying to push herself up, to face her end with some semblance of dignity, but she was too weak. Her head was bowed, her platinum hair curtaining her face. She was helpless.
Something inside Leo snapped.
It wasn't heroism. It wasn't bravery. It was a sudden, white-hot spike of pure, possessive indignation. This was his inn. His property. The one place in all of existence he was supposed to have control over. The one quiet sanctuary he had earned with his own death. And these shining bullies were about to commit a messy, violent murder on his lobby floor as if he wasn't even there. They were treating his newfound domain like a public execution ground.
The knight raised the glowing warhammer high, preparing for the final, devastating blow.
The careful, negotiating part of Leo's brain shut down completely. The panicked, primal part took over. He didn't craft a clever response or a powerful declaration. He just opened his mouth and yelled, his voice cracking with fear and fury.
"HEY!"
The sound was shockingly loud, raw and undignified. The two knights flanking their leader actually startled, their helms turning towards him in surprise.
"STOP! NO… NO FIGHTING IN MY LOBBY!"
It was the desperate, frantic shout of a man trying to stop a brawl, not a hero defying gods. But in this place, his desperate, frantic shout was something more.
The moment the words left his lips, the air in the Inn changed. It was a subtle shift, like a change in atmospheric pressure just before a storm. The blue, translucent screen that only he could see flashed in his vision, a single line of text burning bright.
[New Rule Registered: No Unauthorized Violence]
The light from the lead knight's warhammer, which had reached a blinding crescendo, winked out. The hum of holy power vanished.
The knight brought the weapon down in a deadly arc aimed at Lyra's head. But the object that swung through the air was no longer a warhammer.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the gleaming, divine instrument of death had silently, seamlessly, and utterly transformed. Where a massive block of enchanted gold had been, there was now the long, tapered shape of a loaf of French bread. It was perfectly baked, with a golden-brown, flaky crust, scored neatly along the top.
The baguette swung through the air, completely silent, and connected with the side of Lyra's helmet with a soft, dusty thump before bouncing harmlessly onto the floor.
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence descended upon the hall.
The two flanking knights were frozen, their posture radiating utter confusion. Lyra, who had flinched away from the death blow, slowly looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief.
And the lead knight stood there, his arm still extended from the follow-through of his swing, holding nothing but the handle of his former weapon. At his feet lay a perfectly formed, slightly dusty baguette.
He slowly, mechanically, looked down at the bread. Then he looked at his empty hand. Then he looked at Leo.
And Leo, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, could do nothing but stare back, his own mind struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of what he had just done.