The great hall was, if possible, even more depressing up close.
Kaelen sat at the head of the table, projecting an aura of calm authority he did not feel. The memory of the gleaming gold hidden in his chambers was a secret warmth against the castle's damp chill.
His "council" filed in, their demeanor a mixture of duty and wary curiosity.
First came Gideon, clutching a dusty ledger. He gave his new Lord a nervous glance, his mind clearly still reeling from their discovery, but his face was a mask of practiced neutrality.
Next was Seraphina, the Captain of the Guard. She entered with a stiff posture, her leather armor creaking softly. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, swept over Kaelen. She offered a crisp, formal bow. "My Lord." It was the proper respect for the title, but held no warmth for the man.
Then came Borin, the mountain-like blacksmith, and Elspeth, the pragmatic village elder. They, too, offered respectful but distant bows before taking their seats. They were here because they had to be.
Kaelen waited for them to settle, letting the silence hang for a moment.
He began, his voice steady and clear. "Thank you for coming. As you are all aware, this barony is facing a crisis. Our treasury is empty, our infrastructure is failing, and winter is approaching."
He paused, letting the grim reality settle over the room.
"I've reviewed the numbers with Gideon," he continued. "We have enough grain to last until the first deep snows. After that, we starve. This is not a possibility; it is a mathematical certainty under our current operational model."
Borin grunted. Elspeth's lips thinned into a grim line. This was not news to them; it was the story of their lives.
"This is unacceptable," Kaelen stated simply. "And it is going to change. Starting today."
He looked directly at Elspeth.
"I propose we plant a winter crop."
The silence that followed was one of pure, unified disbelief. It was Seraphina who broke it, her voice sharp.
"My Lord, with respect, that's impossible. The ground will freeze. Nothing will grow."
"Not with traditional methods," Kaelen agreed smoothly. "But we're going to use a new system. We'll plant turnips and clover. They are frost-resistant, and the clover will replenish the tired soil. It's a technique to improve our yields long-term."
"Turnips?" Borin snorted from across the table. "We're to fight a famine with turnips?"
"We'll fight it with whatever works, Borin," Kaelen countered. "And turnips will work. But to do this, we need better tools."
He unfurled a piece of parchment on the table. It was the plow blueprint.
"This is a more efficient design. Lighter, faster. I need ten of them forged."
The blacksmith stared at the drawing, then back at Kaelen, his expression one of open ridicule. "And you'll pay for the iron and my labor with what, my Lord? Good intentions?"
It was the question Kaelen had been waiting for.
He reached into the simple leather pouch at his belt—the same one Gideon had shown him earlier, which had held their pathetic treasury. But now, it held a small fraction of his newfound capital.
He pulled out a single, gleaming gold coin and placed it on the table.
The effect was electric.
A collective gasp went through the room. Gold was a rarity in Greylock, a treasure seen only in tales or in the hands of visiting lords.
"I have secured... private funding," Kaelen said, his voice deliberately vague. "This is our budget. And it will be put to use."
He slid the coin towards Borin. "This should be enough to acquire the raw iron you need from the scrap merchants in the next town, and to pay for your labor. Can you make the plows?"
The blacksmith stared at the coin, then at Kaelen, his ridicule evaporating, replaced by stunned confusion. He picked up the gold piece, feeling its weight, his expert eyes confirming its authenticity.
"Aye, my Lord," he finally rumbled, his voice thick with disbelief. "For this... I can make them."
Kaelen then turned to Elspeth.
"I am not asking your people to work for free. Any villager who volunteers for the farming project or to help Borin will be paid. A fair wage. Two coppers a day and a hot meal from the castle kitchen. This is an investment in our workforce."
Elspeth was speechless. Paying villagers for their own work was a concept so alien it was hard to grasp.
Finally, Kaelen's eyes locked with Seraphina's.
"Captain. I have a vital task for you. This agricultural project will need fertilizer to succeed. The village produces a great deal of organic waste—scraps, dung, ash. I am creating a new Sanitation Initiative to collect this waste and process it into compost."
He saw the flicker of confusion in her eyes.
"It's a nutrient-rich soil amendment," he explained simply. "It will make the land fertile again. I need your guards to oversee this operation. They are the most disciplined unit I have, and this task is crucial for our survival."
Seraphina's jaw tightened. He was asking her warriors to become supervisors of waste collection. It was a bizarre, almost insulting, command. She could see the conflict in her eyes—the duty to obey her lord versus the sheer absurdity of the order.
But he was the Baron. He had just produced gold from thin air and was proposing a plan—a mad plan, but a plan nonetheless—to save them from starvation.
"You want my guards… to manage compost?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"I want your guards to execute a key logistical component of our survival strategy," Kaelen rephrased. "Can they handle it?"
He'd framed it as a challenge to her unit's competence. A clever trap.
Seraphina held his gaze. She saw no madness in his eyes, only a strange, unyielding certainty. Reluctantly, she gave a stiff nod.
"They can handle it, my Lord."
"Excellent." Kaelen clapped his hands together. "Then we have our projects. Farming, forging, and fertilizer. Get to it. Our deadline is the first snow."
He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. The council rose, still looking dazed, and bowed. As they filed out, their minds were reeling. Their strange new Baron was not what they had expected. He was demanding, unconventional, and possibly insane.
But for the first time in a long time, in the cold, dying barony of Greylock, he had given them something they hadn't had in years.
A budget.
And a plan.