The Mayor’s Morning

As dawn broke, a small maid opened the windows of the mayor’s chambers. A hot summer breeze swept in from the river, and the morning glow, reflected off the surface of the Morava, instantly painted the entire room in vibrant hues.

The mayor, Kunar, felt the radiant light pierce his eyelids, causing his brow to furrow deeply even in his sleep. He seemed to believe that by simply squeezing the muscles around his eyes, he could completely block out the insistent light.

Under the relentless illumination, Kunar’s expression slowly contorted into one of discomfort.

He pulled the blanket over his head, turning his back to the window, and immediately, the tension in his face visibly eased.

Yet, his discomfort soon returned, his thick, dark brows knitting together in a perpetual knot.

His ten toes curled, and with a long-suppressed shiver, he jolted awake!

“Hoo—hoo—” Kunar abruptly sat upright in bed, his eyes wide, gasping for air.

He had just endured a nightmare, though the precise details eluded him, leaving only a faint, lingering impression.

It seemed he had been pushed to the pinnacle of a towering, cloud-piercing mountain, poised on the edge of a sheer cliff, followed by an endless, disorienting plunge. The roaring wind at his back intensified with each passing moment.

Until finally, with a resounding ‘thump,’ he landed back on his bed!

Kunar cradled his head, still reeling from the dream, and glanced towards the bedside, where a petite maid stood silently waiting.

She had flaxen hair, a delicate face, and her small, youthful hands were demurely crossed over her abdomen. Her black and white maid’s dress was conservatively styled, revealing not an inch of skin.

‘Hmm! A rather proper maid,’ he mused.

“My lord, you are awake. Are you satisfied with today’s wake-up service?” the maid inquired, forming a circle with her thumb and forefinger around her lips before flicking out a tiny, suggestive tongue.

Kunar frowned impatiently, flinging back the exquisitely embroidered woolen blanket.

He found himself still impeccably dressed, his linen white shirt and linen capri pants neatly in place.

He nodded with a sense of relief; as mayor, he held no interest whatsoever in maids of such meager physique.

As for why this particular small maid had been assigned to him… that was entirely due to his wife, Swana.

“Help me dress,” Kunar commanded, stepping off the comfortable bed onto the floor and extending his arms towards the maid.

“Yes, my lord.”

****

Second Floor of the Timber Castle, Banquet Hall

The banquet hall was bright and impeccably clean, featuring two sun-facing windows, a long table, a lavishly comfortable daybed, and three servants poised to attend.

Kunar was currently taking his breakfast.

Some might argue that Kunar’s actions defied Christian doctrine.

Yet, as a self-made man, having risen from a mere gang leader to the esteemed mayor of Kroměříž,

Kunar paid no heed to any Christian two-meal regimen. Whether his breakfast broke a curfew was entirely irrelevant to him; he simply understood that eating, drinking, and relieving oneself were fundamental human needs, not to be overly suppressed.

Nor did he concern himself with the humors’ theories of hot and cold, or the distinctions between red and white meats; ordinarily, he ate whatever pleased him.

If one were to inquire about Kunar’s diet during Lent, they might consult the priest who had been flayed and abandoned in the deep wilderness.

That priest would surely know what Kunar consumed during his fasts.

At this moment, Kunar reclined languidly on a daybed, clad in a fitted brown velvet tunic.

At the head of the daybed, a male servant knelt, offering wine from a jug and cup. At the foot, a cooling handmaiden wielded a massive palmetto fan, circulating a perfectly calibrated breeze.

Directly before him, the petite maid who had attended him earlier now uttered a soft “Ah~,” as she personally fed him small, meticulously cut pieces of pan-fried venison steak drizzled with honey.

Kunar took the morsel between his teeth, but the maid, seemingly intent on teasing, used her slender fingers to push the meat further into his mouth, lingering to playfully caress his tongue with her fingertip.

“Hehe~” The maid giggled upon seeing the mayor’s annoyed gaze.

However, the astonished looks from the surrounding servants made her realize she had overstepped, performing an act unbefitting her station, and she quickly reverted to her previous deadpan expression.

“Is my lord satisfied?” the petite maid asked, her face once more impassive.

Kunar chewed slowly. The sauce, a blend of honey and mustard, was sweet without being cloying, spicy without being harsh—a perfect complement to the venison.

Moreover, the petite maid’s knife skills were exceptional; each cut seemed to follow the venison steak’s muscle grain, ensuring the original texture remained unspoiled.

“Excellent, this half-year-old venison tastes superb!” He swallowed the meat, licking his lips, clearly still wanting more.

He looked at the wine servant beside him. “Wine,” he commanded.

The wine servant filled a bell-shaped, pale yellow glass goblet eight-tenths full, then carefully and steadily brought the rim to Kunar’s lips, slowly raising the base of the cup in sync with his sips.

After imbibing this spiced wine, infused with fennel and cinnamon, Kunar’s foul morning breath was effectively suppressed.

He turned his gaze back to the petite maid; no words were needed, as she instinctively understood and fed him another piece of venison.

Thus, bite by bite, and sip by sip, he continued until his breakfast was finished.

Having savored his meal, Kunar dismissed the assembled servants with a wave of his hand, rose from the daybed, and, patting his stomach contentedly, walked to the window.

Gazing through the window at the soldiers patrolling the city walls and the servants bustling about the courtyard, he felt a profound satisfaction with the power he now wielded, save for one thing…

“Knock, knock!” A rap sounded from outside the hall.

“Enter,” Kunar called.

It was his old butler. “My lord,” the butler announced, “there is news concerning the treasure.”

“Where?!” Kunar’s excitement surged. “Have those two deformed bastards returned?”

“My lord, you know they cannot openly enter Kroměříž,” the old butler replied, shaking his head. “And as yet, there is no news of them.”

The sudden drop in excitement left Kunar visibly displeased. “Then what news do you speak of?”

The old butler glanced behind him, where Reken stood just outside the door.

“Mayor, the convoy I ambushed earlier—they have arrived in Kroměříž!” Reken stepped forward, radiating eagerness, clearly hoping to atone for his past failure.

Kunar stroked the short beard on his chin, pondering for a moment before looking at Reken. “You claimed before that only five of them routed your forty-odd men?”

“Yes, Mayor,” Reken answered humbly.

Kunar seemed to recall something else. “I believe my previous order was to attack Osbrück, was it not?”

Reken’s expression froze. “That… I…”

“Never mind,” Kunar dismissed, beginning to pace back and forth across the banquet hall. After four turns, he stopped and looked at Reken again. “Can you be certain the treasure is with that convoy?”

“Uh…” Reken’s voice trailed off, his certainty wavering. “I believe it must be.”

Kunar scoffed, a flicker of coldness in his brown eyes. “You *believe*?”

Reken’s heart clenched, and he lowered his head. “My lord, one of my dwarfs was discovered while searching for the treasure at the estate. Based on my understanding of Černý…”

Reken cautiously raised his gaze, stealing a glance at Kunar, and seeing no interruption, he continued:

“Based on my understanding of Černý, once he realized the treasure was being targeted by thieves, he would undoubtedly seek a way to transport it to Uničov, and this convoy presents an excellent opportunity.”

Having spoken, Reken lowered his eyes, awaiting Kunar’s decision.

The banquet hall fell into a profound silence, the prolonged quiet causing Reken to break out in a cold sweat.

“Hoh-hoh-hoh!” Kunar chuckled, a thick, nasal sound.

After his laugh subsided, he scoffed derisively, “Do you truly believe you understand that old fox, Černý, better than I do?”

“Hard to say,” Reken blurted out.

No sooner had the words left Reken’s mouth than he wished he could slap himself twice.

“Hm?” Kunar cupped an ear, wondering if he had misheard.

The old butler, standing nearby, quickly intervened to smooth things over. “Of course, my lord, you understand Černý best! Is there anyone in this world who knows him better than you?”

Kunar nodded, resting his hands on the windowsill as he gazed out over the Morava River. “That old scoundrel Černý, he has been locked in contention with me since the day I became mayor, a struggle now spanning three years. I daresay there is no one in all Olomouc who understands him better than I.”

As he spoke, he slapped the windowsill with emphasis.

“The greedy old fool would never entrust his treasures to a group of strangers in a convoy; he would…”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Reken’s mouth once again spoke without his consent.

Kunar’s face instantly darkened; he detested being interrupted.

Reken, like a drenched chicken, felt cold sweat plaster his dirty hair to his forehead. He managed a strained smile. “M-my lord, I…”

“Get out.”

“Right away!”

Reken fled with haste, certain that if he remained any longer, his own mouth would be the death of him.

After Reken had gone, and seeing Kunar had regained his composure, the old butler ventured to advise, “My lord, Reken’s words are not entirely without merit. If the treasure truly is hidden within that convoy…”

“Hmph?!” Kunar frowned, turning to glare, a cold snort emanating from his nostrils.

The old butler lowered his head, not daring to utter another word, and slowly retreated.

The hall door softly clicked shut.

Kunar stared at the shimmering ripples on the great river, murmuring softly, “Norsemen, then…”