The first light of morning caught the frost along the keep walls, making them glitter faintly, like shattered glass. My hands were already stiff from inspecting the northern patrols before dawn, yet there was no rest. Frostmarch demanded action, not reflection.
Elizabeth had been awake long before me, of course. She moved among the scribes and soldiers, assigning last-minute tasks and recalculating the ration schedules in light of the labor rotations we would undertake that day. Her ice magic subtly hardened wooden posts, repaired torn parchment, and even straightened the bent edges of worn coins. Frostmarch was brutal, unforgiving, but her presence made it manageable.
The road project began at mid-morning. Broken cobbles, mud-filled ruts, and washed-out embankments stretched as far as the eye could see. Villagers, soldiers, and conscripted laborers moved with a mix of reluctance and necessity. Those who resisted were reminded firmly, and those who complied were rewarded with copper coins and rations. The first stretch we focused on connected the keep to the largest nearby village. Even a poorly repaired road would halve travel time for food, supplies, and communication.
I walked among the laborers, hands stained with mud, sleeves rolled, boots soaked. Frostmarch demanded sweat before trust. Villagers looked at me now with a mix of awe, caution, and faint respect. They understood that their viscount did not shy from hard work. They understood, too, that promises were honored when earned.
Elizabeth moved beside me, surveying the project with meticulous care. "Make sure the rations are distributed at the correct intervals," she instructed one of the scribes. "Any errors, and the workforce will falter. Discipline must be maintained."
Her eyes met mine briefly, and I caught a faint smirk. Exhaustion weighed on us both, but the work created its own rhythm—a cadence of labor, of trust, of survival. We were building more than roads; we were building order from ruin.
By mid-afternoon, as the sun broke through heavy clouds, a rider approached the keep gates alone. No escort. The banners of the empire were present, but subtle, almost forgotten in the mud and dust. A sealed envelope was handed to the steward and delivered immediately to me.
I opened it, and the paper was thin and cold, the ink precise, mocking.
"Viscount Flameviel,
It is remarkable how quickly you tire of the comfort of the capital. Frostmarch is not meant for a prince, nor for a consort who relies too heavily on ice to manage men.
Watch the roads, watch the labor, but remember this: some lands are better left to rot than rebuilt. Your work is amusing. Do not presume it goes unnoticed.
—Viscount Halbrecht, Riverford"
I read the letter twice, then folded it carefully. A single smirk crossed my face—not fear, not anger, but calculation. The empire had its eyes on Frostmarch. Someone in Riverford was amused by my struggles, and that amusement carried the subtle poison of hostility.
Elizabeth read the letter over my shoulder. Her face was calm, but I caught the brief glimmer of acknowledgment. "He tests you," she said simply. "And perhaps the emperor, indirectly. But do not give him satisfaction. Frostmarch will not falter because a man writes a cruel note."
"No," I agreed. "We will continue. He can watch all he wants."
The afternoon passed in the rhythm of labor. Broken stones were cleared, new cobbles set, and embankments reinforced. Soldiers supervised the conscripted villagers, while Elizabeth oversaw the distribution of food and coin. Copper scarcity was constant, but our rationing and labor-for-coin system ensured that every hand that worked earned something tangible.
I walked along the newly laid cobbles, testing their alignment, inspecting the trenches. The road was crude, uneven in places, but functional. It was the first visible mark of order in Frostmarch, a symbol that decay would not reign unchallenged.
By late afternoon, we had news from the northern patrols. Small groups of Black Banner scouts had been spotted near the treeline again, but they had not engaged. Their movements were deliberate, testing boundaries, perhaps taking note of our improvements, our labor, our vigilance.
I considered them quietly. Patrols were not enough; information must flow, routes must be reinforced, and every worker needed to be aware of potential threats. Frostmarch was alive, and every shadow, every whisper, every broken road had to be accounted for.
Elizabeth joined me on the ridge overlooking the village as the sun began to sink. Her face was faintly flushed from exertion, her hair tied back but still streaked with frost and dust. She leaned on the railing, quiet for a moment, then spoke.
"We are exhausted," she said simply, her voice low. "But the day is not over. And yet, I trust the roads we built will hold, the rationing will continue smoothly, and the villages will survive another night."
I nodded, feeling the same weight of exhaustion pressing on my limbs. "It is strange," I said, "to find trust in shared labor rather than in words. But it feels… real."
She glanced at me, eyes faintly softened. "Trust built in sweat lasts longer than trust built in ceremony."
I allowed a small smile. Frostmarch demanded endurance, and endurance demanded reliance on those who would endure alongside you. Words were useless here; shared effort was truth.
Night fell, but we did not retire immediately. Patrol routes were reviewed, labor assignments finalized, and plans for the next day drawn. The letter from Viscount Halbrecht remained folded neatly on my desk—a reminder that Frostmarch was being watched, that success attracted scrutiny, and that the empire's attention was not always benign.
Yet I felt no fear. Lightning and water thrummed beneath my skin, ready, waiting. Frostmarch's challenges were many—roads to repair, villages to sustain, enemies to deter—but each obstacle was measurable, tangible, solvable. Even the subtle hostility of a distant viscount could be countered with results, with strength, with patience.
Elizabeth finally retired to her own quarters, leaving me alone with the ledger and the letter. I considered it briefly, then tucked it into a drawer. Frostmarch would not crumble because someone mocked it on paper. It would crumble if I faltered in action—and I would not falter.
I walked once more along the battlements, feeling the hum of magic beneath my skin, listening to the faint murmur of the wind through broken roads and fields. Frostmarch demanded vigilance, patience, and endurance. We had all three.
And tomorrow, we would begin the next stretch of the road, reinforcing supply lines, preparing for Black Banner movements, and continuing to turn ruin into structure.
The empire might watch. Neighboring lords might mock. Frostmarch might be hostile. But it would bend to order, to labor, and to leadership. And we would endure.
Exhaustion pressed down on me, heavy but familiar. I did not sleep immediately, letting the cool night air settle against my skin. The roads we had built would carry life to the villages. The ration schedules would feed soldiers and villagers alike. And the empire could watch all it wanted—it would find Frostmarch alive, stronger than it had been in decades, and under a viscount who would not yield.
Frostmarch was alive. And we were its lifeblood.