Asmora's mornings no longer began with silence. They began with the sound of work. Hammers struck nails, axes bit into timber, and shovels cut into earth with the steady rhythm of a village that had decided it would not drown again. The palisades had begun to look less like a frantic barricade and more like the outline of a settlement's spine.
Beyond the line, the land was still scarred by flood memory, but the river embankments held firm under stone and labor. Even the farmbeds had taken on a healthier shade, dark imported soil settling into place like a promise.
Chapter 19: The Vocabulary of Survival
Asmora's mornings no longer began with silence. They began with the sound of work. Hammers struck nails, axes bit into timber, and shovels cut into earth with the steady rhythm of a village that had decided it would not drown again. The palisades had begun to look less like a frantic barricade and more like the outline of a settlement's spine. Beyond the line, the land was still scarred by flood memory, but the river embankments held firm under stone and labor. Even the farmbeds had taken on a healthier shade, dark imported soil settling into place like a promise.
Yet the villagers still looked up at the hill often. The Wizard's Tower remained there like a pale sentinel, watching the town grow beneath it. Even in daylight, its marble seemed too clean, too proud, and at night it caught moonlight and glowed softly, giving the impression that it might awaken again at any moment.
Alaric watched all of it from near the command tent, small hands clasped beneath his cloak. He was four years old, yet his posture was careful, practiced, the way children of noble blood were taught to stand so they did not appear weak. His red-gold hair, that strange copper-flame highlight, caught the morning light, and the platinum ring on his left hand gleamed whenever he shifted.
Inside the tent, the air was warmer, heavy with lantern smoke and the faint scent of ink. A rough table had been assembled from planks and braces, and upon it sat the village's entire future in the form of stacked parchment. Coin totals. Labor costs. Supply orders. The kind of information that looked dull to peasants but decided whether they starved.
Asimi opened the ledger with practiced grace. She did not treat it as mere accounting, to her, a ledger was a battlefield map. Alaric stood on a small crate beside the table so he could see. His eyes scanned the inked columns with careful focus. James Silver's mind behind his own translated meaning from pattern and context, and Alaric's noble education filled in the rest.
"Tell me your plan," Asimi said softly.
Alaric exhaled slowly, then spoke with quiet certainty. "We need more than just walls," he said. "We need the people to fill them." His small fingers tapped near the edge of the ledger, as if the paper itself were a map. "We need families willing to stay. We need homes. Food."
Asimi nodded once, approving that he had not begun with vanity. "And coin? How much are you willing to spend?"
Alaric hesitated for only a breath. Then he made the decision. "Seventy-five thousand golden dragons," he said.
The number was immense, a king's ransom thrown into the mud of a frontier village. Asimi's quill paused as she did the mental math. After the massive influx of imperial funds and the sale of Starfall Manor, their coffers had been deep, but this was a definitive strike.
"First, we seek families willing to move here," Alaric counted on his fingers. "Not travelers, but real people who will build. Second, housing for laborers so they don't live like refugees. Third, rations at wholesale for the knights and the village stores."
Then Alaric's last finger lifted. "And a monster egg," he said simply, his eyes flicking to Dawn.
Dawn blinked, her face flushing faintly. Asimi's expression did not soften outwardly, but a faint warmth flickered behind her metallic eyes. She understood the alliance Alaric was forging. "You chose a meaningful gift," Asimi said softly. "But you must choose it wisely. A monster egg is not a toy. It is responsibility."
The invitations had already brought the warriors, and the tournament grounds were thick with the scent of woodsmoke and sharpening stones. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, Alaric stood on the raised platform to announce the terms of the tournament's conclusion. The crowd of mercenaries, exotic fighters, and disgraced squires went silent.
"The tournament will continue until fifty-one champions remain," Alaric declared, his voice high but steady. "These fifty-one will not merely be hired swords. You will be the foundation of the Starfall Order."
He gestured to the tower on the hill. "All fifty semi-finalists will be knighted by my hand. You will be afforded dwarven equipment, armor and blades several grades above the castle-forged steel of the common ranks. It is metal that carries the memory of this tower, and it is reserved only for the elite."
A murmur of disbelief and hunger rippled through the warriors. Dwarven steel was the stuff of legends, lighter than iron and harder than diamond.
"The champion," Alaric continued, "will be awarded the title of Knight-Commander. The other top-six finishers will be granted the rank of Knight-Sergeant, each given a squadron of ten men to command. But know this, every finalist who claims that steel will swear an oath to Asmora bound to this tower and upheld by the Theurges' magic. It will not be a promise of words, but a bond of spirit. If you betray this land, the tower will know."
Dawn stood beside him, her midnight hair brushed neatly, her eyes following his gaze toward the horizon. Asimi watched them both with quiet satisfaction. The village had taken another step forward, and the step felt heavier than stone.
Gold had weight. Oaths had weight. And Asmora, now, was beginning to carry both.