And outside, somewhere in the darkness, Traeven is coming.
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(Moments later)
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PAULS CLEARING- LATE EVENING
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Rain sheets across the clearing, turning the dirt to dark mud. Paul stands, and hears a low rumble.
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Wheels.
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Hooves.
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Armor.
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He lifts his head. Through the rain-blurred window, lantern light is seen scarcely across the clearing — warm gold cutting through the darkness. The shadows stretch. The royal carriage rolls into view, its wheels sinking slightly into the mud. Black lacquer gleams beneath the rain, the red trim catching the lantern glow like embers.
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Five mounted kings guards and their horses snorting steam into the cold air. Rain flows down their helmets, dripping off the edges like tears of steel. The clearing feels smaller, like the world is closing in. The large King's Knight leads the formation, armor gleaming. Behind him sits the driver, hunched forward, soaked but steady.
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They pull into Paul's clearing — a patch of mud and darkness outside the crooked shack. The carriage slows.
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Stops.
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Silence, except for the rain. The carriage door swings open. Black boots step down, one at a time, sinking slightly into the wet earth.
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It's Traeven.
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He walks with purpose toward the shack, the first Kings Guards following and the others trailing behind slowly.
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Traeven reaches the door.
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He doesn't knock.
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He just enters.
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As he steps inside the shack alone, rain dripping from his black leather coat, a smug smile tugging the corner of his mouth— like he has nothing better to do than to be in Paul's home at this hour. His hands rest calmly behind his back as he studies the room.
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Paul stands hunched over the table, both palms planted on the wood, shoulders tight, eyes burning. Like he's ready to charge. Traeven's smirk widens.
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Traeven:
"Well, look who—" Paul cuts him off instantly, voice exploding through the shack.
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Paul: (shouting)
"WELL LOOK WHO IT IS!! THE DIPSTICK!"
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Traeven's smirk fades, he blinks, recalibrating, trying to read the storm standing in front of him. Paul rocks his head at Traeven, still hunched over, palms flat on the table.
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Paul:
"So the master sends his dog, huh?"
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He slams his half-drunk mug into the already-ravaged table. The wood rattles. The lantern flickers.
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Paul:
"YOU TELL THAT WALKING TAX — IF HE WANTS ME, THEN HE CAN COME AND GET ME!"
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Traeven lowers his gaze, he inhales deeply. He lifts his head, calculating the hardest speech check of his life—Yet Traeven stands there still, like he's inspecting a museum exhibit instead of a man's ruined life.
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Traeven:(voice smooth, gentle)
"Paul... isn't it. I don't mean to disturb you at this late hour."
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He glances around the wrecked shack — the broken shelves, the overturned mug, the lantern flickering weakly—
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Traeven:
"I'm an old friend of Metro's, though I don't believe we've met. I'm... sorry for the way things have turned out for you and your friends."
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Paul doesn't move. His hands stay planted on the table, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on Traeven like a wolf sizing up a threat. Traeven steps a little further in, lowering his voice.
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Traeven:
"You do know there's a war coming... Whether anyone likes it or not, Metro has helped with sparking it..."
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He tilts his head, studying Paul.
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"You seem the type to stay away from politics.
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(beat)
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…But sometimes the people we allow close to us have a way of... dragging us down."
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Paul snaps and open palms strike the table — a sharp echo. The whole thing wobbles like a coin about to fall flat.
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Paul: (roaring)
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?"
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Paul leans in snarling.
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Paul:
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!"
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Traeven's breath catches — just a small hitch, barely visible, but enough to show Paul's rage starting to register. He straightens his posture, voice burning into that calm, persuasive tone he uses when he wants someone to believe him.
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Traeven:
"Zacharias wants Metro's head on a spike. He's awaiting trial as we speak. And the head of Providence wants you and Blake detained for questioning — nothing more. Once you're proven innocent, we can let this all go.'
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(beat)
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'Leave it behind us."
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Traeven softens his expression, almost sympathetic.
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Traeven:
"I'm on your side...
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...on Metro's.
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'I'm tired of the corruption. Their jealous men who want him gone. People in power who take advantage of honest men like yourself.
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Beat.
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‘King Theron is drowning in his own mistakes... You wanting to stay away from this was wise. But now your name is in a letter. And that changes everything."
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Paul's jaw tightens. His eyes burn.
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Paul:(voice raspy)
"I'm not going anywhere."
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Traeven clicks his tongue, looking down, not wanting to look the beast in his eyes.
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Traeven:
"Don't make this hard on yourself. You've been doing the village a great service here.
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Makes eyes contact**
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‘I don't want this to get difficult. Let us go now. Come quietly."
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Paul's response is instant, explosive.
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Paul:
"KISS MY ASS!"
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Traeven's composure cracks. Just a little. Irritation written across his features. He prepares himself — shoulders squaring, breath steadying — the way a man does before giving an order he hoped he wouldn't have to give.
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Traeven:
"I'll be forced to call the Kings Guard. And the first Knight's hand."
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Paul steps forward while Traeven still speaks, fist pumping, pointing straight with wild defiance.
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Paul: (roaring)
"BRING THE KING'S GUARD! BRING YOUR COUSINS —
(very short beat)
“-BRING YOUR GRANDMA! BRING EM AAAALLLL!!"
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The shack shakes with the force of his voice.
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Traeven stands still, rain still dripping from his coat, expression now cold.
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The five King knights walk in. The largest knight stands by
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