The Accidental Saint of the Kingdom

Chapter 4: The Slum Lord of Kindnes

The following morning, the Silt District greeted Rhovek with the familiar, suffocating stench of wet rot, coal smoke, and desperation. It was home. Or at least, it had been his home for thirty years before he woke up in a body that smelled like lavender and expensive soap.

He stood on a rickety balcony overlooking the central market, his fingers itching to swipe a gold-inlaid coin purse from a passing merchant. Instead, his right hand was busy waving with an airy, regal grace at a cluster of soot-covered children.

"Look at this place, Kervos," Rhovek muttered, his smile tight enough to crack his porcelain skin. "It’s a dump. A goldmine of misery, but a dump nonetheless. How are we supposed to squeeze blood from this stone?"

Kervos leaned against the damp brick railing, his eyes scanning the rooftops for snipers. "The King wants a 'prosperous' district, My Lord. Maybe start with, I don’t know, not arresting the tax collectors?"

"I’m not arresting them, I’m ‘optimizing’ them," Rhovek hissed, his voice dropping an octave. "I’ve spent all morning drafting a decree that effectively doubles the tavern tax and imposes a ‘public walkway’ f*e. I’ll be swimming in coin by the weekend."

"Right," Kervos said, his tone dry as bone. "Because the guy who just gave away half his vault is definitely the man to implement a regressive tax hike. You’re going to be run out of town on a rail."

"I’m doing it for the, uh, betterment of the infrastructure," Rhovek groaned as his body forced him to reach into his purse and toss a handful of copper coins to a beggar who had done nothing but look at him with wide, hungry eyes. "Stop that! Damn it, stop!"

"You’re doing it again," Kervos pointed out with a shrug.

"It’s not me! It’s the saintly neuro-pathways of this wretched vessel!" Rhovek wiped his hands on his tunic, feeling a surge of genuine fury.

A shadow shifted near the alley entrance. Tavrek Oslan, a man Rhovek had known in his previous life as a low-level cutpurse, stepped forward. He looked haggard, his clothes held together by prayer and patches. He bowed low, his face etched with a look of profound, sickening gratitude.

"My Lord Dalmarys," Tavrek said, his voice cracking. "The, uh, the new tax exemptions you posted this morning. The word on the street is... well, it’s a miracle."

Rhovek blinked, his heart sinking into his gut. "The what now? I specifically signed the order for tax increases."

"The scribes must have misread your, uh, elegant handwriting, My Lord," Tavrek said, gesturing to the market. "By clearing the port fees and waiving the stall taxes for the vendors, you’ve basically jump-started the whole market. The prices dropped, the volume tripled, and... well, people are actually eating tonight."

Rhovek felt a vein pulsing in his temple. "They’re eating?"

"Like kings, sir," Tavrek grinned. "Everyone’s talking about how you’re the first noble who actually understands the burden of the poor. You’re practically a saint, My Lord."

Rhovek grabbed Kervos by the lapels, pulling him close. "Did you hear that? I’m a saint. I’m a philanthropic, tax-exempting, soul-crushing disappointment to thieves everywhere."

"Look on the bright side," Kervos whispered, his voice masking a laugh. "At least you aren't broke yet."

"I am, however, remarkably stupid," Rhovek muttered, releasing the guard. "Tavrek, get over here. I need to, uh, discuss some 'strategic investments' with you."

Tavrek scurried forward, beaming. "Anything for you, My Lord. Anything at all."

"I want to know who controls the flow of grain in the south quadrant," Rhovek said, trying to summon his old, predatory edge. "I want them pressured. I want... I want to take a cut of their profits."

"Already done, sir," Tavrek said, puffing out his chest. "I took your 'new regulations'—the ones about fairness and market stability—and I used them to threaten the grain merchants into lower prices. They’re so terrified of your reputation that they’re practically handing the grain over at cost."

Rhovek stared at him, his mouth agape. "I was trying to extort them."

"And you succeeded, My Lord," Tavrek beamed. "It was a masterstroke of diplomacy."

"I’m going to kill you," Rhovek muttered to the sky.

"My Lord?" Tavrek asked, confused.

"Nothing. Go. Feed the poor. It’s... it’s for the brand," Rhovek sighed, waving him off.

As Tavrek retreated, a group of five hulking men detached themselves from the shadows of a nearby warehouse. They wore the colors of the Razor Gang, a group of thugs Rhovek had spent years avoiding in his previous life. Their leader, a scarred brute named Harl, stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.

"So," Harl spat, his voice like grinding gravel. "The fancy noble comes to play in the Silt. You’re making our business difficult, Dalmarys. The markets were better when people were desperate enough to pay our protection fees."

Rhovek straightened, his old instincts flaring. He didn't want to kill them—not here, not yet. He needed them to pay up. "Harl, right? Look, I’m just here to, uh, negotiate a merger of interests. How about we discuss a, let’s call it, a professional partnership?"

He reached into his silk robe, intending to pull out a heavy pouch of gold—not to give away, but to bribe them, to turn them into his own personal enforcers.

But as his hand went for the gold, his body jerked. It didn't offer a bribe. Instead, his arm swung out with terrifying speed, his palm snapping forward in an open-handed strike that landed perfectly on Harl’s chin.

Crack.

Harl flew backward, his head slamming into a stone pillar. The other four lunged, but Rhovek’s body didn't need his permission. It pivoted, a foot lashing out to trip one attacker while his other hand snatched a discarded crate and smashed it into the ribs of a second.

"What are you—stop—ouch!" Rhovek yelled as his own body vaulted over a cart, executing a move so graceful it bordered on mockery. He didn't want to fight; he wanted to sit down and be a criminal mastermind, but his limbs were dancing a violent waltz of self-defense.

Within seconds, the Razor Gang lay in a heap, groaning in the mud. Rhovek stood over them, panting, his hand hovering over his own heart.

"I... I was going to bribe you," Rhovek gasped, looking down at his trembling, combat-hardened hands. "I had a whole speech prepared."

Harl looked up, blood trickling from his nose, his eyes wide with genuine terror. "You don't need to bribe us, My Lord. You’re... you’re a legend. We just wanted to see if the rumors were true. We’ll get out of the Silt. Just... please, don't hit me again."

The thugs scrambled to their feet and fled, leaving behind a market square that had gone dead silent. The residents of the Silt were watching from their windows and stalls, their expressions turning from fear to something dangerously close to worship.

Kervos walked over, nudging one of the discarded crates with his boot. "You know, for a man who claims to be a thief, you’re doing a terrible job of acting like one."

Rhovek leaned against the wall, sliding down until he hit the cobbles. "I hate this. I hate everything about this."

"The people are cheering for you again," Kervos noted, nodding toward the crowd that was starting to emerge from their homes, murmuring his name.

"I know," Rhovek groaned, burying his face in his hands. "It’s disgusting. I didn't even get the protection money."

"You got the district, though," Kervos said, offering a hand to pull him up. "And it seems you’ve managed to turn the worst gang in the city into your own personal security force by accident."

Rhovek looked at the outstretched hand, then at the bustling, hungry, hopeful street. "I’m going to be the most miserable ruler this city has ever seen."

"Maybe," Kervos smirked. "But you’ll be a well-fed one."

"Lord Dalmarys!"

The voice came from the edge of the square, cold and precise. Rhovek turned to see a stranger leaning against a lamp post. He wore a coat of deep, midnight blue and a wide-brimmed hat that obscured his face. He didn't look like a merchant or a thug. He looked like an observer.

"Who’s that?" Kervos asked, his hand drifting to his sword.

"Never seen him," Rhovek muttered, his stomach knotting.

The man stepped forward, his eyes locked onto Rhovek’s. He had a faint, knowing smirk that sent a chill down Rhovek’s spine.

"I've heard quite a bit about your 'transformation', Rhovek," the man said, his voice smooth as velvet and twice as sharp. "It’s a fascinating performance. But I think you and I both know that beneath those fine silks, the old thief is still hungry."

Rhovek’s blood turned to ice. "Do I know you?"

"We’ve never met," the stranger said, tipping his hat. "But I know exactly where you spent your nights before the manor. And I think it’s time we talked about who you really are."