The wind biting at Kaelen’s face felt different now. Before the siege, it had felt like malice; today, it just felt like winter.

  He sat astride a roan gelding in the courtyard, his breath pluming in the cold air. Beside him, Uncle Hareth shifted in his saddle. The old sergeant’s leg was stiff, wrapped heavily in wool and leather, but he had refused the carriage.

  “If the Baron rides, I ride,” he had insisted, and Kaelen hadn’t argued.

  “We look like a ragged parade,” Hareth grunted, eyeing the escort.

  It was true. Ten men-at-arms, their mail scrubbed of rust but dented from the battle. Elian, clutching a slate as if it were a shield. And Jory, riding point with a restless energy, his eyes scanning the tree line.

  “We don’t need to look pretty, Uncle,” Kaelen said, adjusting his gloves. “We just need to look alive. The people need to see that House Vane didn’t die with my father.”

  He signaled the gate, and the heavy timber doors groaned open.

  As they rode out, passing the charred patch of earth where the bodies had been burned, Kaelen pulled up the map in his mind.

  [Quest: The Lord’s Inspection]

  Objective: Visit all 8 Settlements.

  Current Target: Vragas (Security Rating: Low)

  Hidden Objective: Assess Loyalty and Resource Potential.

  “Tell me about Vragas,” Kaelen said as they turned onto the western road. The snow was packed down here, the ruts frozen hard.

  Hareth spat to the side. “It’s a hard place, lad. Closer to the mountains than anyone with sense should be. The Vragas family… they’ve got iron in their blood, but bad luck in their stars.”

  “Karl fought well,” Kaelen noted.

  “Aye. Karl has the fire,” Hareth agreed. “But a house needs more than fire. It needs a foundation. Since his father died in the ambush two years back—God rest Sir Torrhen—the house has been bleeding. No knight to lead them. Just a boy trying to fill boots three sizes too big.”

  “And their loyalty?”

  Hareth looked at Kaelen, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Torrhen Vragas took an arrow for your father once, during a border skirmish. He pulled your brother Erik out of a frozen river when they were boys. You don’t ask about Vragas loyalty, Kaelen. You ask if they have enough swords left to uphold it.”

  Kaelen nodded, absorbing the information. Loyalty born of blood debt, he thought. Valuable. But fragile if neglected.

  The ride to Vragas took three hours. The landscape shifted from the flat, snow-covered fields near the river to rocky, uneven foothills. Here, the wind howled louder, echoing off the grey cliffs of the Razorbacks that loomed uncomfortably close.

  Vragas was less a village and more a fortress that had forgotten it was one. A low stone wall encircled a cluster of slate-roofed houses. In the center, on a rise, sat the manor—a squat, defiant block of granite.

  As the banner of House Vane came into view, a horn sounded from the watchtower. It was a lonely, thin sound.

  By the time they reached the gates, a young man was waiting.

  Karl stood in the mud, wearing a gambeson that had seen better days and a sword belt that looked too new—likely looted from the recent battle. He looked exhausted, shadows dark under his eyes, but he stood straight.

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  “My Lord Baron,” Karl said, bowing stiffly. “House Vragas welcomes you. Though… we have little to offer in the way of a feast.”

  Kaelen dismounted, ignoring the mud that splashed his boots. He walked up to Karl and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “I didn’t come for a feast, Karl,” Kaelen said loud enough for the gathering villagers to hear. “I came to thank the House that stood with me when the darkness came. I came to see the home of a hero.”

  Karl’s head snapped up, surprise warring with pride in his face. Around them, the gaunt faces of the villagers softened.

  “The Hall is warm, at least,” Karl managed, his voice thick.

  Inside the manor, the reality of Hareth’s words became clear. The tapestries were faded, the furniture worn. It was the home of a family holding on by its fingernails.

  Kaelen sat at the head of the table, waving away the servant offering wine.

  “Elian,” Kaelen said. “The writ.”

  Elian stepped forward, handing a parchment to Karl.

  “What is this?” Karl asked.

  “A tax exemption,” Kaelen lied smoothly. The System labeled it a [Economic Stimulus Investment], but Karl didn't need to know that. “For two years. On the condition that the coin you save goes into repairing the outer wall and equipping your militia.”

  Karl stared at the paper. “Two years? My Lord, that is… that saves us.”

  “And one more thing,” Kaelen said. He looked at Hareth. “Uncle?”

  Hareth grunted and pulled a heavy bundle from his saddlebag, placing it on the table. He unwrapped the oilcloth to reveal a sword. It wasn’t ornate, but the steel was dark, folded, and lethal. A Stone Eater blade, reforged.

  “High-Carbon Steel,” Kaelen said. “My smiths are calling it ‘Mountain-Make.’ It’s yours, Karl. A knight needs a knight’s weapon.”

  Karl touched the hilt, his hand trembling. “I am not a knight, my Lord. I am just a squire with no master.”

  “Then we will fix that, too,” Kaelen said, standing up. “When the planting is done, you will come to Blackwood. Ser Haldor will finish your training. You will kneel a squire and rise a Vragas Knight.”

  Karl dropped to one knee, clutching the sword. He didn't speak, but the System flashed a notification that told Kaelen everything he needed to know.

  [Settlement Status: Vragas]

  Loyalty: Unshakeable (100%)

  Security: Upgraded to Medium

  Kaelen looked out the narrow window toward the mountains. One village secured. Seven to go.

  [Location: The Hollow of Skulls – Neutral Ground]

  Deep in a ravine that cut between the territories of the Ash Wolves and the Black Fangs, four men sat around a fire that gave off no smoke.

  This was the Hollow of Skulls, a place where tribes met when they didn’t want the Stone Eaters to know.

  Zark, chieftain of the Ash Wolves, poked the embers with a blackened stick. He looked like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down—gaunt, grey-skinned, with eyes that saw too much.

  Across from him sat Vron of the Red Hands, methodically sharpening a spear.

  Rogh of the Broken Claws sat on a boulder, nursing a wineskin. His arm was bandaged where a Stone Eater arrow had grazed him during the retreat.

  And finally, Derek, the son of the Black Fang chief. The boy was sweating despite the cold, his gold chains clinking nervously.

  “He will come for us,” Derek whispered. “The High Chieftain. Gorm. They say he eats the hearts of traitors.”

  “Shut up, boy,” Rogh growled. “Your fear smells like piss.”

  “He is right to be afraid,” Zark said, his voice a dry rasp. “Gorm is not Gorak. Gorak was a hammer. Gorm is the avalanche. He will not just attack us. He will try to erase us.”

  “We have thousands of spears between us,” Vron said calmly. “If we stand together.”

  “Together?” Rogh laughed bitterly. “Like we stood together in the Vanguard? We killed each other, Vron! My men have Red Hand arrows in their backs!”

  “Because we were panicked,” Vron countered. “Because the Stone Eaters broke first. But now? Now it is survival. If Gorm comes, he comes for all four tribes. We either fight as one, or we die one by one.”

  Zark looked up. “The Stone Eaters are strong, but they have bled. Gorak took one hundred of their best elites and fed them to the Lowlander castle. Those elites are dead. Gorm has lost his fist.”

  “He still has the Stone Walkers,” Derek whimpered.

  The name silenced the circle. The Stone Walkers. The heavy infantry of the High Hall. Men encased in armor made from the deep-vein ore, who felt no pain and gave no quarter.

  “We use the terrain,” Vron said, drawing a map in the dirt. “The Black Fangs hold the lower passes. You run at the first sign of trouble—bait them. The Ash Wolves harry the flanks. The Broken Claws and Red Hands hold the chokepoints.”

  “And if they break through?” Rogh asked.

  Zark smiled, exposing yellow teeth. “Then we run to the Lowlanders.”

  The other three stared at him.

  “You are mad,” Rogh said. “The Lowlander Lord burned our dead.”

  “The Lowlander Lord killed Gorak,” Zark murmured. “The enemy of my enemy is a shield. If Gorm pushes us too hard… maybe we show the Lowlanders the secret paths to the High Hall.”

  It was treason of the highest order. It was unthinkable.

  And yet, none of them argued.