Chapter 133 – Construction of the Citadel & the New City System
That morning, Eisenwald was alive with the pounding of hammers and the sawing of timber. Since Fenrir had declared the construction of the Eisenwald Citadel, the entire city pulsed with newfound energy. Carts loaded with stone, stacks of pine logs from Altenburg's forests, and iron bars from Falkenrath's mines filled the streets.
The Eisen River, which cut through the valley, was now crowded with small trade boats carrying granite blocks from Drachenfels and wheat from Rotteiwl. The wooden docks, once enough for a few fishing skiffs, had become a logistical artery.
Fenrir stood on the hill where the citadel's foundation was being laid. A massive stone bearing the sigil of the Crimson Wolf was surrounded by scaffolding, smoke rising from lime kilns, and overseers barking orders.
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Inside a great tent draped in crimson cloth, Fenrir sat with administrators and commanders. A vast map was spread out across the table: the citadel's design at the center, rings of planned roads surrounding it, and marked zones for trade and production.
"Logistics is the lifeblood of this project," said Viktor Redmane, once a merchant, now one of Fenrir's senior administrators. He tapped at the blue line representing the Eisen River. "Every stone, every plank, every bar of iron flows through here. If the river clogs, the entire citadel halts."
Fenrir's gaze hardened. "Then assign two hundred men to reinforce the docks and install cranes. I want no ship to wait longer than an hour to unload."
Selene Aestra, leaning with her bow at her side, added, "I can spare some archers to patrol the river. River bandits will smell gold before long."
"Do it," Fenrir ordered.
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On Fenrir's right, a young scholar unfurled a parchment of figures.
"My lord, we cannot rely solely on war spoils. We must establish a new tax system if we are to keep the coffers flowing."
Fenrir looked around the council and spoke firmly:
"Listen well. Taxes are not chains for the people. Taxes are the blood that sustains our strength. Thus, three pillars:
1. Trade Tax – Every caravan or ship entering Eisenwald will pay 5%. In return, their safety is guaranteed.
2. Agricultural Tax – Farmers will give one-tenth of their harvest. No more. It feeds the coffers but spares them from ruin.
3. Production Tax – Blacksmiths, craftsmen, and weavers will contribute 3% of their profit. In return, they will have direct contracts from the citadel."
The administrators murmured among themselves. It was simple, fair, and sustainable.
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Fenrir pointed to the concentric circles on the map.
"Eisenwald will no longer be a sprawling village. We will forge a new city system."
Inner Ring: the Citadel itself, military barracks, armories, noble estates, and the administrative halls.
Middle Ring: the main market, workshops, homes of craftsmen, and the newly planned academy.
Outer Ring: farmland, ranches, and common settlements.
"Each ring will be guarded by watchtowers and gates. The main road widened so carts and cavalry can pass with ease. This city will be a fortress, yes—but also a hub of trade."
Kael Morgenstern nodded. "With such layers, any enemy must break three walls of steel and fire. Not a fortress alone… a metropolis."
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That afternoon, Fenrir personally inspected the warehouses. Stacks of grain sacks, iron bars, and timber beams filled the halls. Overseers scrawled tallies in charcoal on wooden boards.
"How much iron do we have left?" Fenrir asked.
"Enough for two months of work, my lord," the overseer replied. "But grain must be replenished. With so many new workers, the demand has doubled."
Fenrir tapped his chin. "Send envoys to Verdentia. Offer higher prices for wheat. I want full stock before winter bites."
Meanwhile, Darius Holt directed veterans to patrol the trade routes. "No caravan shall fall to brigands. A cut in our supply lines is a cut into the citadel's heart."
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For the common folk, the citadel's construction meant hope.
Farmers now had land secured as compensation for the fallen. They worked fields with renewed vigor.
Blacksmiths labored day and night, forging lighter steel for armor and tools.
Children ran through streets, building clay models of the towering citadel-to-be.
Women sold bread and soup by the construction site, feeding hundreds of workers.
Fenrir walked among them, approachable yet commanding. He stopped by an old woman selling apples. "Are you making enough profit?"
She smiled. "More than enough, my lord. May the heavens bless your citadel."
Fenrir laid a hand on her shoulder. "The heavens give nothing without toil. You've earned it."
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But problems soon followed.
Stone from Drachenfels: a wooden bridge collapsed, halting shipments.
Grain from Rotteiwl: bandits ambushed a caravan before it reached Eisenwald.
Labor unrest: foreign workers demanded higher pay.
At the evening council, Fenrir's orders were sharp:
"Rebuild the bridge with stone, not wood. Once built, it will last decades."
"Lyra and her scouts will hunt down the bandits. Not a single one leaves alive."
"As for unruly workers—pay them fairly. But if they riot again, cast them out. Eisenwald will not bend."
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That night, Fenrir stood on the hill once more. Below him, thousands of workers toiled by torchlight. Sparks flew from forges, hammers echoed, and scaffolding climbed higher.
The citadel was not yet visible, only foundations of timber and stone. Yet in Fenrir's mind, he already saw it: towers piercing the sky, iron gates unbroken, and a city layered like steel rings.
He gripped his sword tightly.
"This is not just stone. This is the future. Eisenwald will be the heart that pumps strength into the empire."
The pounding of hammers carried into the night, heralding the dawn of a new era.
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