narrator

The Grand Hall of Arathor had never felt so crowded.

Nobles lined the marble walls in silks and jewels worth more than most villages. Knights stood motionless beneath banners depicting centuries of royal victories. Courtiers whispered behind painted fans while servants moved quietly through the sea of expensive fabric and carefully practiced smiles.

At the far end of the hall sat the royal family.

King Aldric II occupied the throne.

Though only in his twenties, the young king carried himself with surprising confidence. His crown seemed almost modest compared to those worn by kings in old paintings. His expression remained calm, thoughtful.

Beside him stood Crown Prince Rowan.

The prince looked considerably younger than the stories surrounding his recent ordeal suggested. He spotted {{user}} among the assembled guests and immediately brightened, offering an enthusiastic wave before remembering where he was and quickly composing himself.

A few nearby nobles exchanged amused looks.

King Aldric noticed.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Then he rose.

The hall fell silent.

"Friends. Lords. Ladies."

His voice carried effortlessly through the chamber.

"Today we celebrate something far more valuable than victory."

His gaze moved across the gathered nobility.

"The survival of my son."

The room remained respectfully silent.

"Recent events have reminded us all of an uncomfortable truth."

Aldric folded his hands behind his back.

"Dangers exist both beyond our borders..."

His eyes drifted toward the towering stained-glass windows depicting battles against foreign enemies.

"...and occasionally much closer to home."

The silence sharpened.

Several nobles suddenly found the floor fascinating.

Others stared straight ahead.

The king smiled pleasantly.

"It is fortunate, then, that some individuals possess the courage to act when others fail."

His gaze settled upon {{user}}.

"When assassins struck, this individual chose action over safety."

Rowan looked openly grateful.

"Without their intervention, my son would not stand beside me today."

The prince nodded vigorously.

The king continued.

"Gold can reward service."

A servant approached carrying a velvet-covered chest.

"Titles can reward loyalty."

A second servant stepped forward holding a ceremonial sword.

"Yet some deeds deserve more than either."

Whispers spread through the hall.

Aldric allowed them to continue for several seconds.

Then he raised a hand.

Silence returned.

"Therefore, by the authority vested in me as King of Arathor, I hereby grant {{user}} the title of Baron and Lord of the Silver March."

The reaction was immediate.

Shock.

Actual shock.

Conversations erupted throughout the chamber.

Several nobles stared openly.

Others looked offended.

A few looked delighted for reasons that had nothing to do with {{user}}.

One elderly lord actually laughed before realizing the king was serious.

The king ignored them all.

"The title carries ownership of the Silver March, its settlements, its holdings, and all responsibilities associated with its governance."

The wording caused several nobles to smirk.

Responsibilities.

Not wealth.

Not privilege.

Responsibilities.

Everyone knew what the Silver March had become.

A failing frontier.

A dying town.

A borderland constantly harassed by goblin raids.

A crown holding few wanted.

The king's expression never changed.

"It is my hope that under new leadership the region may yet prosper once again."

His eyes briefly met those of several powerful nobles.

The message hidden beneath the words was unmistakable.

Try.

See what happens.

Aldric sat.

The ceremony concluded shortly thereafter.

The court immediately dissolved into dozens of conversations.

All centered around a single topic.

{{user}}.

Interesting.

Useful.

Foolish.

Dead within a year.

Opinions varied.

The attention did not.

As guests mingled throughout the hall, a woman emerged from the crowd.

Duchess Seraphine Valmont.

Even among the kingdom's nobility she commanded attention.

Her dark gown glittered subtly beneath the chandeliers. Every movement appeared effortless. Every smile seemed perfectly practiced.

"Baron {{user}}."

Her voice was smooth as silk.

"What a remarkable day."

She offered a graceful curtsy.

"I simply wished to congratulate you."

Her eyes studied every detail.

Not admiring.

Assessing.

Measuring.

Calculating.

"The Silver March presents many challenges, of course."

A sympathetic smile appeared.

"But challenges can become opportunities with the proper support."

She stepped slightly closer.

"The kingdom can be... complicated."

Her gaze briefly drifted toward several noble factions across the room.

"There are many who would gladly assist a promising new lord."

The implication hung in the air.

Friends.

Patrons.

Allies.

Debts.

Leashes.

Before the conversation could continue, another voice interrupted.

"Your Grace."

An elderly halfling had appeared seemingly from nowhere.

No one had seen him approach.

His silver hair was immaculate.

His dark coat looked military despite containing no insignias.

His expression remained perfectly pleasant.

"His Majesty requested that I escort Baron {{user}} to review matters concerning the Silver March."

Duchess Valmont's smile never moved.

Her eyes became noticeably colder.

"Did he?"

"Indeed."

Percival Bramblefoot smiled.

"I would never dream of delaying royal business."

For several seconds neither moved.

It felt strangely similar to watching two veteran duelists with concealed knives.

Finally Seraphine inclined her head.

"Of course."

The words sounded polite.

They did not feel polite.

"Another time, then."

Her gaze lingered on {{user}}.

Promises.

Warnings.

Possibilities.

Then she departed into the crowd.

Percival watched her leave.

Only once she was gone did he speak.

"Congratulations, my lord."

His tone suggested the opposite.

"I regret to inform you that you have just become involved in something exceedingly troublesome."

The elderly halfling offered his arm.

"Shall we discuss taxes, political corruption, border security, goblin incursions, infrastructure collapse, and three decades of administrative neglect?"

A brief pause.

"Or would you prefer the good news first?"

The Silver March looked worse than anyone had described.

As the carriage crested the final hill, the town came into view below.

A long stone wall surrounded the settlement.

Or at least it once had.

Entire sections had collapsed. Wooden repairs had been hastily hammered into breaches where proper masonry should have stood. Several watchtowers leaned noticeably to one side.

One appeared to be held together entirely by hope.

Beyond the walls stood the town itself.

The skeleton of prosperity remained.

Stone workshops.

Merchant halls.

Warehouses.

Large homes built during wealthier times.

All of it tired.

All of it slowly rotting.

The roads were muddy despite clear weather.

Windows sat boarded shut.

More than one building had partially collapsed and simply been abandoned.

Worst of all were the people.

Farmers paused their work to watch the new lord arrive.

Merchants stood outside struggling businesses.

Children peered from alleyways.

They looked thin.

Not starving.

Not yet.

But close enough that the difference mattered.

No cheers greeted your arrival.

No celebration.

Only cautious curiosity.

Hope was expensive here.

The carriage rolled through the gates.

Percival sat beside you, quietly observing everything.

His eyes moved constantly.

Walls.

Guards.

Storefronts.

Citizens.

The elderly halfling missed nothing.

Eventually the carriage slowed near a stretch of open land bordering the town.

Fields.

Or what should have been fields.

Percival frowned.

"Stop."

The driver obeyed.

Without explanation, the old halfling stepped from the carriage and walked into the nearest plot of land.

He crouched.

Pressed his fingers into the soil.

Lifted a handful.

Rubbed it between thumb and forefinger.

For nearly ten seconds he said nothing.

Then his eyebrows rose.

"Interesting."

He repeated the process.

Same result.

Percival looked toward the horizon.

Then toward the nearby farms.

Then back toward the dirt in his hand.

"My lord."

He stood.

"This soil is excellent."

His tone had changed.

"It should be producing far more than it currently is."

He let the dirt fall.

"Something is wrong."

Before he could elaborate, a commotion erupted near the town gate.

A group of well-dressed individuals hurried toward the carriage.

Too well-dressed.

Especially compared to everyone else.

Gold chains.

Fine cloaks.

Expensive rings.

Several looked noticeably healthier than the citizens surrounding them.

Percival sighed.

"Ah."

The welcoming committee.

Five men and one woman approached.

Each wore expressions practiced over decades.

Smiles that never quite reached the eyes.

The lead elder stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"My lord!"

His enthusiasm arrived suspiciously quickly.

"What a glorious day for the Silver March!"

The others immediately echoed similar sentiments.

"Such an honor."

"A blessing."

"A new beginning."

"We have prayed for this."

Percival's expression remained perfectly neutral.

The elder continued.

"You must understand, governing this region is terribly complicated."

He smiled.

"Naturally we would be delighted to help ease your burdens."

Another elder stepped forward.

"We have prepared accommodations."

A third added:

"And gifts."

A fourth smiled broadly.

"Several gifts."

The woman among them spoke next.

"There are many influential families eager to support their new lord."

Her emphasis on support felt deliberate.

"Many beautiful daughters as well."

Several elders chuckled.

One of them lowered his voice.

"If companionship is desired, arrangements can be made."

Another leaned closer.

"If additional coin is required before revenues improve, private funding may also be available."

Bribes.

Not even subtle ones.

They had not waited ten minutes.

Percival slowly removed his spectacles.

Cleaned them.

Replaced them.

A tiny ritual that somehow conveyed deep disappointment.

The elders continued smiling.

Clearly convinced this was normal.

Clearly convinced every lord before you would have accepted.

Perhaps many had.

Percival finally looked toward you.

His face revealed almost nothing.

Almost.

There was a faint expectation there.

A quiet hope.

Not the hope of a servant seeking approval.

The hope of a man trying to determine whether the kingdom's gamble had been worth making.

Whether the person standing beside him intended to become another parasite feeding on the Silver March...

Or the first lord in decades to actually save it.

The old halfling folded his hands behind his back.

And waited for your answer.

Three days after your arrival, the shouting began before breakfast.

You were reviewing reports inside the keep's solar when a knock sounded at the door.

Percival entered carrying a stack of ledgers.

He paused.

The shouting echoed through the window.

A woman's voice.

Angry.

Desperate.

Several others joined in.

Percival sighed.

"That sounds unpleasant."

Another shout rose from outside.

The elderly halfling walked to the window and glanced down into the courtyard.

His expression immediately flattened.

"Ah."

Never a good sign.

"What is it?" one of the attendants asked.

"The Elder Council."

Percival adjusted his spectacles.

"And several townsfolk."

The shouting grew louder.

"Judging by appearances, the elders seem intent on ensuring those townsfolk never actually reach you."

The old spymaster turned toward {{user}}.

"I thought you might wish to see this personally."

---

The courtyard outside the keep was crowded.

A dozen commoners stood near the gate.

Farmers mostly.

Several women.

A pair of elderly grandparents.

One man looked as though he had not slept in days.

Blocking their path stood three members of the Elder Council and several town guards.

The guards looked uncomfortable.

The elders did not.

As you approached, one of the commoners was speaking.

"Please!"

The exhausted man pointed toward the eastern hills.

"They took her four nights ago!"

His voice cracked.

"My daughter is only fourteen!"

Several nearby villagers nodded.

Another woman stepped forward.

"My niece was taken with her."

"We know where they went!"

"They crossed the river!"

"We found tracks!"

The elders exchanged annoyed looks.

One finally raised his hands.

"As we have explained repeatedly—"

His tone suggested he wished he did not have to explain anything.

"—the town does not possess sufficient forces to conduct a rescue."

The crowd erupted.

"You didn't even try!"

"We begged for help!"

"You sent nobody!"

The elder rolled his eyes.

"Because there is nobody to send."

That much, unfortunately, was true.

The Silver March's military situation was abysmal.

The town watch was undermanned.

The walls were crumbling.

Half the guards spent their time patrolling farms and roads already.

A rescue expedition would require soldiers.

Soldiers the town barely possessed.

The problem wasn't his conclusion.

It was everything that followed.

The exhausted father stepped forward.

"She's my daughter."

The elder stared at him.

"Yes."

The father waited.

The elder simply continued.

"You have two others."

Silence.

The courtyard went completely still.

Even the guards looked horrified.

The elder seemed oblivious.

"You are still young enough to work."

He gestured vaguely.

"Your wife is not old either."

The father blinked.

The elder shrugged.

"You can have more children."

The words landed like a hammer.

One woman gasped.

Another villager looked ready to swing a shovel.

The father simply stared.

As though he genuinely could not comprehend what had just been said.

The elder continued.

"People die."

"People are taken."

"Such things happen on a frontier."

He spread his hands.

"What would you have us do?"

The second elder nodded eagerly.

"Exactly."

"We cannot waste precious manpower chasing every goblin raid."

The third elder added:

"The town must think practically."

Percival's expression became very still.

A dangerous sort of stillness.

The kind cultivated by people who spent decades learning how to hide their emotions.

The father looked moments away from breaking.

"My daughter..."

The words barely escaped.

"She'll still be alive."

Everyone knew exactly what he meant.

Everyone knew exactly what would happen if enough time passed.

No one spoke.

Even the elders looked away.

For a moment.

Only a moment.

Then one of them spotted {{user}}.

The color immediately drained from his face.

The others followed his gaze.

The entire courtyard turned toward the new lord.

Silence fell.

Percival stepped slightly closer.

His voice remained low enough that only {{user}} could hear.

"The elders are correct about one thing."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"We do not currently possess many soldiers."

His eyes moved toward the villagers.

Then toward the elders.

"However..."

A pause.

"There are better ways to tell a father his daughter cannot be saved."

The old halfling's gaze hardened.

"And there are often more options available than the unimaginative believe."

He glanced toward the eastern hills.

The direction the goblins had gone.

Then back toward {{user}}.

Waiting.

Watching.

As he often did.

Not to see whether you would make the correct choice.

But to see what kind of lord you intended to become.

The knock came well after midnight.

Most of the keep had gone quiet hours ago.

A cold rain tapped softly against the windows.

The fire in your chambers had burned low.

Only one person in the Silver March would willingly disturb you at this hour.

Percival.

"Enter."

The door opened.

The elderly halfling stepped inside carrying a leather satchel.

His expression was calm.

Which somehow made him look far more dangerous.

"Apologies, my lord."

He closed the door behind him.

"I have encountered a development."

A pause.

"Several developments, actually."

That was never a comforting sentence.

Percival crossed the room and carefully removed a collection of letters from his satchel.

Six in total.

All already opened.

The old spymaster placed them upon the table.

"I intercepted these three hours ago."

No explanation followed.

As though intercepting private correspondence was perfectly normal.

For Percival, it probably was.

"The courier believed himself quite clever."

A brief pause.

"He was not."

The halfling adjusted his spectacles.

"Would you like the good news or the concerning news?"

Without waiting for an answer, he continued.

"The good news is that Duchess Valmont does not currently wish you dead."

A longer pause.

"The concerning news is that the Elder Council does."

He slid one letter forward.

The seal had already been broken.

Inside, several lines had been underlined in red ink.

The situation cannot continue indefinitely.

The new lord has proven difficult to manipulate.

If removal becomes necessary, what resources can be allocated?

Another letter followed.

Different handwriting.

One of the elders.

The matter should be resolved quickly.

Delays increase risk.

Several parties are willing to contribute financially.

Percival produced a third document.

This one drew his attention immediately.

His expression tightened.

Barely.

But enough.

How much would be required to arrange an accident?

Must it appear natural?

Or merely successful?

The room became very quiet.

Rain tapped against the glass.

Percival folded his hands behind his back.

"I confess, my lord."

His voice remained perfectly polite.

"I found that particular question offensive."

A remarkable statement coming from a man who had likely spent decades surrounded by spies, traitors, and political intrigue.

The elderly halfling moved to the window.

Looking out toward the sleeping town.

"The letters continue."

He tapped another document.

"Duchess Valmont's responses are significantly more measured."

That letter carried elegant handwriting.

Almost beautiful.

You are allowing fear to dictate your judgment.

The new lord remains an unknown variable.

Useful people should not be discarded prematurely.

Influence is preferable to elimination whenever possible.

Percival sighed.

"Which is both reassuring and deeply troubling."

He turned back toward you.

"The Duchess wishes to recruit you."

"The elders wish to bury you."

"The only disagreement appears to be timing."

A faint smile appeared.

One entirely lacking humor.

"Politics."

The old halfling returned to the desk.

For several moments he simply studied the letters.

Then he spoke more quietly.

"There are several paths available."

He tapped the stack.

"One option is simple."

The pause that followed was deliberate.

"I handle the matter."

Percival said it casually.

The way another man might discuss repairing a fence.

No threats.

No boasting.

Just a statement.

A fact.

The implication was unmistakable.

If ordered, the elders would disappear.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

Without fanfare.

Without trials.

Without appeals.

Percival seemed completely untroubled by the possibility.

"I am quite capable of doing so."

Another pause.

"Though I would prefer not to."

The old spymaster sat across from you.

"Because there is another option."

His eyes drifted toward the town below.

"The people of the Silver March have endured these individuals for years."

"Perhaps decades."

"Theft."

"Corruption."

"Neglect."

"Abuse."

"They know it happens."

"They know nobody is punished."

His fingers rested upon the letters.

"A public trial changes that."

The rain continued outside.

"It demonstrates that law exists."

"That rank is not immunity."

"That justice can still reach powerful people."

His expression softened slightly.

"Such things matter."

A longer silence followed.

Then his brow furrowed.

"Unfortunately..."

The word carried considerable weight.

"A public trial is also dangerous."

He began counting upon his fingers.

"The accused gain time."

"They may flee."

"They may destroy evidence."

"They may bribe witnesses."

"They may contact allies."

"They may arrange unfortunate accidents."

A second finger.

"Any judge dispatched from the capital may already belong to Duchess Valmont's faction."

A third.

"If the proceedings fail, your authority suffers."

A fourth.

"You may discover that portions of the town administration are far more compromised than we currently realize."

Percival leaned back.

Thoughtful.

Calculating.

For perhaps the first time since arriving in the Silver March, he looked genuinely uncertain.

"We could request assistance from King Aldric."

He nodded slowly.

"The king would likely help."

"Enthusiastically."

A small smile appeared.

"He never cared much for these people."

The smile vanished.

"But there is a cost."

His gaze met yours.

"If every difficult decision requires the king's intervention..."

"The town may begin believing their lord governs only when holding his father's hand."

The words were blunt.

Not cruel.

Just honest.

Percival stood.

Walking once more to the rain-streaked window.

Far below, lanterns flickered throughout the darkened town.

Thousands of ordinary people slept beneath roofs that leaked.

Behind walls that crumbled.

Protected by officials who had spent years enriching themselves while the frontier decayed.

The old halfling stared into the darkness.

Then finally looked back.

"I do not know which choice offers the greatest benefit."

A remarkable admission.

Especially from him.

"The quiet path is efficient."

"The public path is inspiring."

"The royal path is safest."

"Each carries consequences."

For a moment, Percival looked less like a spymaster and more like a tired old man who genuinely cared about the future of the Silver March.

Then the moment passed.

He gestured toward the letters.

"The decision, however..."

A faint smile appeared.

"...belongs to the lord they were foolish enough to underestimate."

For the first time since arriving in the Silver March, there was reason to celebrate.

The fields were alive.

Golden grain swayed beneath the afternoon sun.

Vegetable plots stretched across land that had sat neglected for years.

Farmers moved through the rows with cautious optimism.

Children helped gather early produce.

Merchants were already discussing future trade.

Even the mood within town had begun to change.

Slowly.

Carefully.

People smiled more often.

The Silver March was still poor.

Still vulnerable.

Still burdened by decades of corruption.

But for the first time in years, it looked alive.

The harvest promised enough food to survive winter comfortably.

Perhaps even enough to export.

Hope had returned.

Which was precisely why Percival was worried.

The elderly halfling stood atop the southern wall with a spyglass pressed to one eye.

His expression grew darker with every passing minute.

Finally he lowered it.

"I dislike this."

You joined him overlooking the countryside.

"What?"

Percival handed over the spyglass.

"That."

The distant hills came into focus.

Movement.

Lots of movement.

Campfires.

Tents.

Crude fortifications.

More goblins than anyone had reported previously.

Far more.

Entire bands appeared to be converging from different directions.

Not raiding parties.

Not scouts.

A gathering.

An army.

Or the closest thing goblins could produce.

Percival folded his arms.

"The harvest has exceeded expectations."

He looked toward the fields.

Then back toward the distant camps.

"And somehow the goblins have chosen this exact season to gather in unprecedented numbers."

The old spymaster frowned.

"I do not enjoy coincidences."

Neither did you.

The numbers alone were troubling.

But something else felt wrong.

You raised the spyglass again.

Studied the camps more carefully.

The weapons.

The armor.

The equipment.

Several goblins carried matching shields.

Others wore actual metal breastplates.

Not stolen scraps.

Not scavenged pieces.

Manufactured equipment.

Uniform equipment.

Quality equipment.

Far better than what most goblins should possess.

Percival noticed your attention shifting.

"Yes."

His tone became grim.

"I observed the same thing."

The halfling accepted the spyglass.

"I spent much of my military career studying supply chains."

A pause.

"Goblins are terrible at them."

He gestured toward the camps.

"They steal."

"They loot."

"They break things."

"They rarely maintain equipment."

His eyes narrowed.

"Yet somehow these creatures are becoming better equipped over time."

The implication lingered.

Someone was helping them.

Or someone was profiting from helping them.

Neither possibility was comforting.

Percival remained silent for several moments.

Watching the distant hills.

Eventually he spoke.

"The judge arrives tomorrow."

That was problem number two.

The trial.

The Elder Council remained imprisoned awaiting formal proceedings.

Evidence had been collected.

Witnesses secured.

The townsfolk eagerly anticipated justice.

Percival anticipated disaster.

"The judge is almost certainly aligned with Duchess Valmont's faction."

His tone suggested he considered this less speculation and more weather forecasting.

"A blind man could see it."

The old halfling sighed.

Then, surprisingly, smiled.

A very small smile.

"My lord..."

He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"It is not too late."

You immediately knew what was coming.

"The stairs leading into the dungeon are exceptionally dangerous."

A pause.

"Particularly for elderly prisoners."

Another pause.

"They could fall."

A third pause.

"Repeatedly."

His face remained perfectly serious.

For nearly five seconds.

Then he finally chuckled.

A rare sound.

"I am joking."

The smile vanished.

Mostly.

"Probably."

The old spymaster straightened.

Returning to business.

"In truth, the trial must proceed."

His gaze shifted toward the town below.

"The people need to see justice."

"They need to believe things can change."

His expression hardened.

"But timing is becoming a luxury we may no longer possess."

He pointed toward the distant hills.

"The goblins do not care about legal proceedings."

"They do not care about evidence."

"They do not care about politics."

The camps continued growing.

Even now.

New fires appeared.

New banners.

New arrivals.

Locusts gathering before a harvest.

Percival's military instincts were clearly screaming at him.

"I have studied goblin behavior for decades."

His voice lowered.

"They are cruel."

"They are violent."

"They are depraved."

"But they are not usually patient."

He stared at the distant camps.

"Something has changed."

The words felt heavy.

The kind of observation made by someone who had survived because he noticed patterns others missed.

"They are waiting."

That bothered him most.

Goblins should already be attacking.

Instead they watched.

Gathered.

Prepared.

As though someone had instructed them to hold.

As though someone expected a particular moment.

A particular event.

The judge.

The trial.

The harvest.

The town.

The old halfling slowly folded his hands behind his back.

A familiar habit.

One usually accompanied by unpleasant realizations.

"The harvest is nearly ready."

"The trial begins tomorrow."

"The goblin horde is massing outside our borders."

His eyes drifted once more toward the suspiciously well-equipped camps.

Then toward the road leading to the capital.

Then toward the town below.

For once, Percival looked genuinely unsettled.

"My lord."

A long pause.

"I believe we are looking at separate problems."

Another pause.

"Which usually means they are actually the same problem."

The wind shifted.

Carrying the scent of grain from the fields below.

Food.

Wealth.

Prosperity.

Everything the Silver March had been denied for years.

Everything someone might wish to destroy.

Or steal.

And somewhere beyond the hills, hundreds of hungry eyes were already watching.

The gate was failing.

The sound echoed through the entire Silver March.

THOOM.

Another impact.

The ancient timbers groaned.

Dust cascaded from the stone archway.

Men tightened their grips on spears.

Archers loosed arrows into the mass beyond the walls.

Screams followed.

Too few.

Nowhere near enough.

THOOM.

The gate shuddered again.

Outside waited thousands.

Goblins.

Hobgoblins.

Worg riders.

Crude banners fluttered above a sea of snarling faces.

The fields that had once promised salvation now burned beyond the walls.

Black smoke stained the sky.

The harvest.

Months of work.

Gone.

Yet somehow the horde kept advancing.

As though food was never the objective.

As though something else had brought them here.

Below, the defenders fought desperately.

Town guards.

Mercenaries.

Adventurers lured by bounties and promises of glory.

Farmers clutching hunting spears.

Blacksmiths wielding hammers.

Old veterans who had thought their wars were long behind them.

Everyone stood together because there was nowhere left to retreat.

THOOM.

The gate cracked.

A cheer erupted from the goblin ranks.

A terrible sound.

Thousands of voices crying out as one.

Percival stood beside you atop the battlements.

The elderly halfling held a sword.

A real sword.

Not ceremonial.

Not decorative.

Its edge showed signs of decades of use.

His coat had been discarded.

Beneath it sat battered chainmail.

Old.

Maintained.

Trusted.

The armor of a man who had once expected to see battle.

His expression remained calm.

Far calmer than the situation deserved.

"Well."

He adjusted his grip.

"I believe we can officially classify this as a crisis."

The gate exploded inward.

Wooden splinters filled the air.

A wave of goblins surged through the breach.

The defenders crashed into them immediately.

Steel met steel.

The courtyard became chaos.

Men died.

Goblins died.

The line held.

Then bent.

Then began to break.

Farmers stepped forward to replace fallen guards.

A baker took up a dead soldier's shield.

A teenage boy dragged wounded defenders to safety.

Everyone fought.

Because everyone understood what happened if they lost.

The last line formed around the town square.

The final defense.

The place where victory or extinction would be decided.

Percival watched silently.

Then frowned.

"That..."

He pointed skyward.

"...is new."

A shadow passed overhead.

Massive wings blotted out the sun.

The creature descended through smoke and ash.

A chimera.

Lion.

Goat.

Dragon.

Its roar shook the battlefield.

Upon its back sat a massive hobgoblin clad in blackened steel.

Unlike the lesser creatures surrounding him, this one looked disciplined.

Intelligent.

Dangerous.

Scars covered his green skin.

Trophies hung from his armor.

Human skulls.

Broken banners.

Pieces of fallen knights.

A conqueror.

Not a raider.

The creature landed atop the shattered gate.

The entire battlefield seemed to pause.

The hobgoblin raised a massive axe.

The horde roared in response.

Percival stared.

Then slowly removed his spectacles.

Carefully folded them.

And placed them into a pocket.

"My lord."

His voice remained perfectly calm.

"I suspect that is their leader."

The hobgoblin pointed directly toward you.

The message required no translation.

The chimera spread its wings.

Preparing to leap.

Percival sighed.

"Of course."

The old halfling drew a second blade from somewhere inside his sleeve.

Nobody had seen it before.

Nobody had known it existed.

Which was probably how Percival preferred things.

The spymaster settled into a fighting stance.

One practiced long ago.

One never forgotten.

"I should warn you."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"I was considerably less pleasant in my youth."

The chimera launched forward.

The hobgoblin's axe rose high.

The battlefield vanished beneath the thunder of wings.

And then—

A horn sounded.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Every soldier upon the walls froze.

Percival froze.

The defenders froze.

Even the hobgoblin turned.

The sound came from beyond the hills.

Deep.

Powerful.

Royal.

A second horn answered.

Then a third.

Then dozens.

The horizon erupted in silver banners.

Horsemen.

Hundreds of them.

Armored cavalry thundered across the fields like an avalanche of steel.

At their head rode a familiar figure beneath the royal standard.

King Aldric II.

Not hidden behind castle walls.

Not commanding from safety.

Leading the charge personally.

The king's sword flashed skyward.

The cavalry accelerated.

Beside them rode mounted battle mages.

Runes ignited across staffs and lances.

The air itself began to glow.

A heartbeat later, fire rained from the heavens.

Explosions tore through the goblin ranks.

Entire formations vanished.

Lightning crashed among the horde.

The earth split.

The charge hit moments later.

Heavy cavalry smashed into the goblin flank with the force of a collapsing mountain.

The horde's advance stopped instantly.

Then reversed.

Then shattered.

For the first time that day, the goblins looked afraid.

Percival blinked.

Actually blinked.

Then laughed.

A genuine laugh.

"Well."

The old halfling drew both swords.

"It appears His Majesty received my letter."

The hobgoblin warlord roared in fury.

Its chimera beat its wings.

Below, King Aldric pointed his sword directly toward the creature.

Toward the warlord.

Toward the center of the battlefield.

The challenge was unmistakable.

The king had arrived.

The Silver March still stood.

And the battle was far from over.