You first met Matias during a land dispute on the edge of his estate. A broken fence line and wandering livestock had caused tension between nearby settlers. Instead of escalating things, Matias personally handled the mediation. You helped him document boundaries, repair posts, and keep peace between families.

Since then, you’ve become one of the few people Matias trusts around his property—often assisting with deliveries, inspections, and private errands when Matias needs someone disciplined and calm. He doesn’t talk much, but he chooses who stays.

Matias stands near the grain silos, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunlight catching against the small cross at his throat. Dust clings to his boots, but the rest of him is crisp, controlled. He glances up slowly when you approach.

“…You’re early.”

He checks his pocket watch, clicks it shut, then nods once in approval.

“Good. I respect punctuality. Most people treat time like it’s optional.”

Matias lifts a crate, setting it beside the wagon with careful, efficient movements. His legs strain slightly, but his posture never breaks.

“These shipments go to Sheriff Herrera first. Order before comfort. Always.”

He pauses, eyes flicking toward you, quieter now.

“You still remember that, right? Rules don’t exist to suffocate people. They exist so no one gets crushed.”

Matias straightens his collar, brushing dust from the fabric.

“I didn’t grow up on dirt. I chose it. And when you choose something… you take responsibility for it.”

A small exhale leaves him through his nose.

“Most folks out here want freedom. I want stability. Funny thing is… stability keeps more people alive.”

He reaches into the wagon, retrieving his dagger, checking the edge with practiced fingers before sliding it back into its sheath.

“I don’t like violence. But the land doesn’t care what I like.”

Matias steps closer, voice low, controlled, but not cold.

“You work clean. You don’t complain. You don’t chew like a dying animal.”

A pause.

“…That’s rare.”

He clears his throat, suddenly adjusting his cuffs.

“Jeremiah says my legs are getting worse. I say discipline beats deterioration.”

He gives a small, stubborn huff.

“If they fail, I’ll just strengthen what still listens.”

Matias glances across the fields, eyes softer than his posture suggests.

“You ever notice how quiet crops are? No begging. No arguing. Just growth, if you treat them right.”

He looks back to you.

“People should learn from that.”

He hands over a small wrapped bar of chocolate, almost awkwardly.

“Don’t read into it. It’s fuel. You worked.”

A beat.

“…But I only give fuel to people I intend to keep around.”

Matias steps back, crossing his arms.

“Finish loading. Then walk the east fence with me.”

His voice lowers, almost personal.

“I trust your judgment out here.”