For two weeks after the victory at the Eastern Pass, the lands of Deryn found no peace. The Duke's banners had been pushed back, but in their place rose another tide: refugees.
They arrived in droves from the hamlets and villages scattered across the borderlands, drawn by the promise of safety behind the walls of House Deryn. They came by the dozens, then by the hundreds, and finally in the thousands. Men with sunken cheeks and blistered hands, women dragging children who wept from hunger, and wagons piled high with the little they could salvage—sacks of grain, goats tied with fraying rope, and bundles of clothes that still smelled of smoke.
At my command, small companies of cavalry rode out daily to gather them in, cutting off raiding parties of the Duke's stragglers and leading the villagers to safety. But the sight that greeted them was not one of relief, but rather a new uncertainty.
Deryn was not prepared for ten thousand souls.
My father, Baron Elias, bore the strain heavily. I often found him in the great hall, hunched over ledgers and maps with Steward Morien at his side, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Another three hundred arrived this morning from Fallowridge," Morien muttered one dawn as he shuffled through parchments. "We have no place for them inside the walls. The granaries will not last the month if we continue at this rate."
"Then we build," my father replied, his voice weary but firm. "Fetch more timber. I will not send them back to the wolves."
True to his word, men were dispatched to the nearby forest. Soldiers who had fought at the pass swung axes from dawn till dusk, felling trees and dragging them to the keep. Under Baron Elias's command, a district began to rise outside the walls—rows of hastily hammered huts with smoke curling from makeshift chimneys.
It was far from comfortable, but it was survival.
These days, my mother stepped forward with a quiet strength of her own. Lady Serenya of Deyreth, sister to Baron Maelor of the west, was a woman of gentle bearing but unshakable will. Her kin held lands rich in mines and trade, but their soldiers were few in number. She understood the cost of war.
While my father dealt with steel and coin, she focused on bread and blankets. I saw her among the refugees, offering food with her own hands and soothing frightened children with gentle words.
"You must show them not just strength," she told me one evening as we watched smoke rise from the new district, "but kindness. Strength earns obedience, Aleric, but kindness earns loyalty. Do not forget that both are needed if you are to lead."
At her side was my sister, Elira. Only fifteen, yet she already moved with a quiet grace that calmed those around her. She carried water to the sick, whispered comfort to grieving mothers, and stitched bandages with her own needle. Often, she looked at me with eyes full of trust—eyes that silently demanded I live up to the weight I had claimed.
Not all within my blood were so easily convinced.
Jaren, my younger brother by two years, wore his resentment plainly. Once, I found him pacing the armory, sword in hand, his strikes against the practice dummy sharp and furious.
"You speak, and Father listens," he spat when he saw me. "You command, and the council obeys. Are you Baron now, Aleric, or am I blind?"
"You mistake influence for authority," I replied carefully. "Father rules. I only advise."
He sneered. "Advise? Every soul in Deryn whispers your name after the pass. They do not whisper mine. Tell me, brother—what glory is left for me when you snatch it all for yourself?"
I could not answer. For though his tone was bitter, his words cut deep. In war, glory is seldom spared enough for two sons of one house.
One afternoon, I walked through the new district with Ser Brandt and two guards. The air reeked of sweat, damp wood, and unwashed bodies. Families huddled in half-built huts, children gnawed on stale crusts, and the sick coughed openly.
A man rose from the crowd to meet me. His clothes were ragged, his hands blistered from work. He bowed awkwardly.
"My lord," he said, his voice hoarse, "we have no bread left. The little ones—" His eyes darted to the children clinging to his legs. "We thank you for shelter, but hunger will kill us faster than the Duke's men."
I studied him for a moment, then gestured to the cart behind us, where sacks of grain awaited. "You will eat," I said. "But you must also work. The barony feeds those who build with their hands. Help raise your neighbors' homes, and you shall not starve."
Tears welled in his eyes as he bowed again. "Then we will work till our bones break, my lord."
As I walked on, Ser Brandt muttered at my side. "You give them hope. That is a dangerous weapon, boy—more dangerous than swords, sometimes."
Perhaps he was right. But I would rather rule hearts than corpses.
It was during this flood of humanity that Baron Caldor of Southmere arrived with his retinue. His sigil—a snake coiled around a sword—fluttered above his riders. A shrewd man, sharp-eyed and soft-spoken, he praised us with honeyed words the moment he stepped into the hall.
"What you have done here is nothing short of miraculous," he said, smiling at my father, then at me. "To slay Baldome, to shelter the poor, to keep order when others crumble—why, it is as though House Deryn is blessed by the gods themselves."
My father accepted the words with polite nods, but I felt the weight of them like oil on water: gleaming, yet slick.
Caldor pledged men to our cause, though not out of love. "If Deryn falls, Southmere will not stand a fortnight," he admitted easily. "Better that we bind our fortunes together."
Yet when he spoke, I saw calculation in his eyes. His tongue dripped praise, but his gaze measured everything—our numbers, our supplies, our walls. And when his men pitched camp near ours, their banners curled like snakes watching from the grass.
BBy the end of two weeks, Deryn's transformation was undeniable. The barony, which had once numbered ten thousand souls, now held twice that. Markets bustled, smithies rang with the sounds of clanging metal, and soldiers drilled in orderly companies at dawn and dusk. The refugees had become laborers, and these laborers formed a new lifeblood for the land.
However, with growth came strain. Coin flowed from our coffers like water, food vanished as quickly as it was bought, and whispers of plague emerged whenever the camps grew too crowded. I noticed my father's hair seemed greyer with each dawn.
Then came the news.
From the east, disaster struck. Count Sam, fighting for the Duke, had defeated Count Veridan of the Prince's faction in a battle that left thousands dead. The eastern front reeled, with the Prince's men in retreat.
The war now lay divided into three fronts: the east, broken and bloodied; the central front, swelling with forces for a decisive clash; and the west, where Deryn stood as both shield and sword.
I understood well that wars were not won by battles alone. Hannibal of Carthage had taught Rome that at Cannae: morale could be shattered just as surely as men. Supplies, terrain, and loyalty—these would determine Valoria's fate as much as swords would.
As I stood upon the battlements of Deryn, watching the camps below swell with life and need, I felt the weight of both opportunity and danger pressing upon me.
If the West were to be held, I would need to think not just as a soldier, but as something more. A player in the great game.