Knight Captain Fredrick strode into the grand tent, his armor clinking softly with each step, flanked by Patt and Tim. The air inside was thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax, a testament to Lord Allen's sleepless night of strategizing.
The rebel-sweeping corps loomed ever closer, bolstered by the count's reinforcements, and Allen's mind had been a battlefield of its own, plotting to preserve his forces.
"Milord, we've returned," Fredrick announced, his voice steady.
Allen looked up from the map sprawled across the table, rubbing his face as if to shake off exhaustion. "Good, you're back. Seraphina, fetch Hilter, Eman, and Arman."
His tone was brisk, leaving no room for delay. As his aide slipped out, he gestured to the newcomers. "Sit. Was the journey smooth? Patt, get Tim something to eat."
The tent buzzed with quiet efficiency as Hilter, Allen's second-in-command, and Eman, the meticulous finance master, arrived to tally the spoils Tim had brought from his father's hidden stash.
Moments later, Eman returned, his face alight with excitement. "Milord, we've got 100,000 kilograms of refined flour."
Allen's brow arched. "Mister Tim, why did Viscount Tebri hoard so much?"
Tim rose, bowing deeply. "Milord, it's two years' worth of produce from the viscount's lands, processed into flour for trade. Every other year, merchants buy it for about 1,000 gold Kross. I've managed the deals myself."
Allen nodded, a spark of approval in his eyes. "That's a windfall. We can ease the convoy's rationing with this. Tim, I won't take it for free—I'll ensure you reclaim your rights."
Arman entered next, saluting crisply, but Allen waved him to wait as Hilter approached with a ledger. "Milord, the seven chests hold 17,000 gold Kross and 11,000 imperial gold coins."
Leaning back, Allen fixed Tim with a calculating gaze. "As Viscount Tebri's heir, 1,000 gold Kross seems a fair ransom for your freedom. The rest we'll claim as payment to secure your title and cover expenses. Agreed?"
Tim bowed again, his voice firm. "Milord, I trust your judgment.""Good. How many men do you command?"Tim hesitated. "About 600, I think. Knight Gemors would know the exact number."
"Gemors?" Allen prompted.
"He's a Two-Star Silver knight, 53 years old, blunt and carefree," Tim explained. "He served my father but clashed with him often. Only his family's loyalty kept him around. He guarded the flour with me, hid it when trouble came, and swore to uphold the Tebri line after the viscount's fall. He rallied the people when I took charge."
Allen tapped the table, processing this. "A useful man. Here's the plan, Tim: I'll equip your men and let you set up camp under the Tebri banner at the rebel-sweeping corps' old site. Send smooth-talkers to the western mountains—spread word of our victory over the count's forces. Tell the insurgents they can cripple him for good, raid his lands, and keep what they take. Once your unit's armed, have Gemors drill them. Then you'll return for noble etiquette lessons."
He turned to Hilter. "You'll train him. Delegate some duties to Arman and Eman—there's too much on your plate."
Hilter bowed, his passion for nobility gleaming in his eyes. "Yes, milord." He glanced at Tim. "Let's begin. I'll correct you as we go."
As they exited, Allen addressed Eman and Arman. "Set up an account for Tim's gold and flour. Credit him for purchases. Equip his men with gear from the surrendered garrison troops—market price. Supplies for his camp go slightly above market rate. Clear out our surplus and turn a profit. I don't give gold back once it's mine."
"Yes, milord," they chorused, hurrying off.
Only Allen, Seraphina, and Elrod remained. Elrod, Allen's stoic bodyguard, broke his silence. "Milord, why help Tim so much? He could be a fraud."Allen chuckled. "Fraud or not, that's not our call. In the Northlands, I'd kill him and take his lands. But here, so far from home, what's the point? Killing him gains us nothing. Nurturing him into a noble with an army, though? That's a favor owed—a future ally. Plus, he's a buyer for our gear. If insurgents see we reward loyalty with weapons and support, they'll flock to us. Cross us, and they're dust. We've got gold and equipment aplenty—what we need are customers."
Two days later, Tim's men raised the Tebri flag at their new camp, a bold horseshoe against the sky. Word of the count's defeat spread like wildfire, fanned by Tim's messengers.
Insurgents trickled in, trading for weapons and swelling the convoy's coffers. Eman bartered surplus gear for mounts, easing their shortage, while Hilter turned away those offering horses for food—self-sufficiency was non-negotiable.
Then came news from Stroud's scouts: Count Cobry's reinforcements, a pike cavalry company escorting supply wagons, were a day out. Allen had expected them sooner, but their sluggish pace in the snow was his gain.
The ambush was swift and brutal. Knight Josk, fueled by vengeance, felled three Silver-ranked commanders with pinpoint arrows, two of them the count's bastard sons.
Fredrick, Bale and Stroud led the heavy cavalry, shattering the weary pikemen. They surrendered in droves. The insurgents watching from the sidelines were awestruck.
The count's forces—three cavalry companies, a regiment, and a garrison unit—lay broken by Allen's hand so far.
His dominion teetered, ripe for the taking. Within hours, 3,000 mountain rebels swarmed the camp, eager for a piece of the prize.
Allen and Hilter met their leaders, promising support to raid the count's heartland.
Burdock Bastide fell first. Chaos reigned as insurgents looted homes and warehouses. The count's Gold-ranked bastard son rallied three garrison squads to retaliate, smashing through two rebel bands—until Fredrick's cavalry charged. Bolstered by Seraphina's magic, Elrod and Hilter rose to Gold rank, cutting down the son and parading his head on a pike.
The bastide's last defenders yielded, and Allen claimed it.
"Onward!" Hilter roared from atop a white charger, whip cracking as a thousand carriages rolled out. The Styles family's crimson lion dipped, replaced by the Tebri horseshoe—Tim's victory, gifted by Allen's cunning.
Tim, now polished by days of Hilter's tutoring, rode at the fore. His 1,000 soldiers and 2,000 followers stood as a testament to his rising star. The count's ruin was their gain, and Allen's convoy marched stronger than ever, a force of loyalty and ambition forged in flour and gold.
...
The tent was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single lantern hanging from a wooden pole. The air carried the faint tang of sweat and steel, remnants of the day's battle still clinging to Lord Allen as he stood in the center, his broad frame encased in glistening armor.
Seraphina moved with quiet grace around him, her slender fingers deftly working the straps and buckles that held the plates in place. The soft clink of metal punctuated the stillness as she eased the dented breastplate free, setting it aside on a wooden stand with a care that bordered on reverence.
"Hold still, milord," she murmured, her voice a gentle ripple in the quiet. She knelt to unfasten the greaves, her blonde hair catching the lantern's glow as it spilled over her shoulder.
"You've been quite busy today."
"We cannot afford any blunder at this point." Allen grunted, rolling his shoulders as the weight lifted. His tone was gruff, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips, betraying his satisfaction with the victory.
Seraphina paused, her hands resting on the vambrace encasing his left arm. She tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes meeting his.
"There's news from Loran's scouts. They've tracked down the ancient magi tomes—finally found them in some crumbling ruin to the east."
She slid the vambrace free, her fingers brushing against his skin as she continued. "They retrieved what they could, but most of the relics were already gone. Adventurers got there first, picked the place clean. What's left won't come cheap—Loran says you'll need to pour a hefty sum into gathering those tomes and whatever magi relics remain."
Allen's brow furrowed, his gaze drifting to the tent's canvas ceiling as he processed her words. Seraphina stood, moving behind him to undo the straps of his pauldrons, her movements steady and practiced.
The heavy shoulder plates came loose with a soft thud as she placed them beside the breastplate, her hands lingering for a moment as she adjusted their alignment on the stand.
"How much are we talking?" he asked, his voice low, already calculating the strain on his coffers.
"A considerable amount, considering how tight our funds are." she replied, circling back to face him. She tugged at the leather ties of his gorget, her fingers nimble as she worked the knot loose.
"Although we made a lot of money but our expenses are not small, buying necessary ration, clothes, army equipment andkeeping the convoy moving is a huge burden."
"Loran's holding what he found, but the rest—scattered across merchants and collectors now—will take gold Kross coins, and plenty of them, to track down and buy back."
The gorget came free, and she set it down, stepping closer to unbuckle the faulds around his waist. Her proximity brought a faint scent of herbs and earth—her own quiet magic, always lingering about her.
Allen exhaled, feeling the last of the armor's burden slip away as she spoke again.
"There's more, though. Loran's men found a stash of fairy dust among the ruins— shimmering like starlight."
Allen's eyes sharpened, a spark of interest cutting through his fatigue. "Fairy dust? Enough for your potions?"
Seraphina nodded, a rare smile flickering across her lips as she pulled the faulds free, her hands brushing the rough fabric of his tunic beneath.
"More than enough, it seems mercenaries and adventure have also take quite a bit but they don't know it's value, Loran should be able to buy off of them."
She stepped back, folding her arms as Allen stretched, the tension in his muscles easing now that he stood unencumbered. He paced a few steps, the lantern casting long shadows across the tent's floor, then stopped, turning to her with a decisive nod.
"Good. We'll make it work. I'll send Bale with a few riders—fast ones. They'll take a chest of gold Kross coins to Loran. With their speed, they can ride out, deliver the funds, collect the tomes and dust, and be back before the convoy reaches the Styles domain in the Northlands." He rubbed his jaw, already mapping the route in his mind.
"Bale's got the grit for it—he'll push the horses hard and keep the men in line."
Seraphina tilted her head, watching him with a mix of curiosity and approval. "You're sure Master? That's a long ride, and the Northlands are still months off. If they hit trouble—"
"They won't," Allen cut in, his tone firm. He stepped toward the armor stand, running a hand over the dented breastplate as if testing its resilience. "Bale's too stubborn to fail, We need those tomes—your magic's too valuable to let stagnate, and I'll not have some greedy adventurer profiting off what's ours."
Seraphina chuckled softly, a sound rare enough to make the tent feel warmer. She moved to the stand, picking up the vambrace to polish it, her hands steady as she worked.
Allen watched her for a moment, then sank into a chair, the weight of the day settling into his bones—but his mind already racing toward the promise of ancient magic and the power it could bring.
The lantern flickered on, casting their shadows long and lean.