To the boy it seemed a horrid trap, like a fever dream he was being marched into. By lanterns light he tread with his captor and his fellow prisoner in silence along the entrance path. The path was paved with stone, a foreign luxury in the hovel below. It was lined with a garden of surely imported flowers in perfectly matching shades of reds and whites and lilacs. They were cut and trim to perfect measurements, none encroaching past their gardens. Gone was the overgrowth of the village, the unruly weeds and clutching branches that flanked their village. The manor was sterile, it was organized, it was planned.