The driver, fueled by fear and the promise of a clean escape, urged the horses on, pushing them past their strained capacity. The carriage lurched violently, wheels grinding hard against what sounded like a field of shattered slate. Kael's hand braced against the cold wood of the frame, his eyes fixed on the man's rigid back. His internal input remained locked on the threat:
[DANGER ALERT: Carriage driver attempting to create separation for desertion. Immediate action required.]
Kael leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wind with unexpected force, the volume measured not to be loud, but to be precisely heard and absolutely obeyed. "Driver. Halt. That is a direct order. Immediately."
The man flinched violently, his whole body shaking, but the cadence of the command—sharp, non-negotiable, and carrying the weight of institutional hierarchy—forced compliance. With a reluctant, jerky tug, the reins slowed the horses. The carriage creaked to a stop on the cracked, desolate road. Dust instantly swirled, enveloping them in a howling, gray fog.
Kael threw the heavy curtain aside and stepped down. His movement was fluid, economical, the way Adrian Cole moved when dismounting a tactical vehicle in a hostile zone. His cloak snapped in the gale, a dramatic, unintended flourish. His boots crunched against the barren soil as he fixed his gaze on the driver's hunched shoulders.
The escort of knights immediately tensed. Sergeant Rylen and his men saw the scene unfolding: the weak Baron challenging a superstitious servant on the very edge of the dreaded Ashen Frontier. They gripped their sword hilts, waiting to see which side would break first.
Kael didn't raise his voice, yet every word was etched with clarity against the roar of the wind.
"Driver. Look at me."
The man hesitated, then slowly turned, eyes darting everywhere but Kael's face. His mouth worked, trying to form an excuse.
"Do not insult my intelligence with local folklore," Kael commanded. "Lies are insubordination, and insubordination in the field costs lives. Answer me plainly. Did you intend to leave the Baron of the Ashen Frontier and his escort to the wastes?"
The driver's elaborate resistance crumbled under the intensity of the gaze. He saw the cold, analytical conviction in Kael's brown eyes—eyes that had seen men sacrifice their comrades for a pocketful of silver.
"Y-yes, my lord," the driver stammered, his head bowing low. "I believed you were doomed. I meant to ride back and blame the land's curse."
A ripple of nervous energy passed through the nearby knights. They had expected bluster or weakness; they received clinical honesty.
Kael raised the Baron's Writ, the heavy wax seal catching the dim light. He held it up for the knights to see, transforming the parchment from a simple decree into an object of imperial power.
"This Writ is the Emperor's will," Kael declared, his voice carrying the deliberate force Adrian Cole had used to motivate exhausted platoons. "It is the chain. The Emperor commands the Duke. The Duke commands Kael Veynar. And Kael Veynar commands you."
He stepped closer to the driver. "You do not serve a man. You serve the chain of command. In the Imperial Army, breaking that chain means the failure of the entire line, and the death of every person you swore to protect. You have just committed treason against that chain."
Kael's gaze swept over the knights. He did not appeal to their loyalty or their honor, but to their discipline and self-preservation. "You think me weak. You think this frontier cursed. But your duty is not to your fear. Your duty is to the Emperor's appointed Baron and to the Imperial chain of command that binds your very oath."
He lowered the Writ, tucking it away. The wind still howled, but the air around them felt dominated by his unexpected presence.
"I require loyalty, not comfort. Discipline, not excuses. From this moment forward, my word is the Empire's law in this territory. We move forward." Kael gestured toward the gray horizon with a single, firm hand. "Any further discussion of turning back, any act of desertion, and you will answer to the Imperial Marshal, not me. Is that understood by all of you?"
The driver nodded quickly, terrified but entirely subdued. The knights, led by Sergeant Rylen, straightened their posture, their respect sharpened by the cold logic of survival.
"We proceed," Kael repeated.
He stepped back into the carriage. The internal danger alert immediately dissolved, the mechanical input ceasing. The threat had been neutralized by the application of force protection logistics.
Exile was a calculated death sentence. But Adrian Cole was a man who understood how to manage personnel and resources under hostile conditions. And in this desolate world, that was a power greater than any magic.