Captain Ulric Dane watched from the gate as Sergeant Roland Tenebrae and his squad marched in, goblin heads swinging from their belts like grim pendants. The camp stirred around them—cheers from the sentries, murmurs from the cookfires, even a few wide-eyed recruits craning necks for a glimpse. Dane kept his face impassive, but inside, a quiet satisfaction bloomed. First blood without a single loss. A good omen in these cursed wilds.
He stepped forward as Roland saluted, the young sergeant's face streaked with mud and goblin ichor, but his eyes steady. Just like his father, Dane thought. Byrt Tenebrae had been much the same—unflinching in the face of chaos, back when they'd served together under the old king. Byrt had pulled Dane from a collapsing tunnel during a border skirmish years ago, his grip like iron, his voice calm amid the screams. "Steady, Ulric," he'd said. "We walk out together." Roland had that same steel spine, that quiet command that made men follow without question. If the boy kept this up, he'd outshine even Byrt one day.
"Well met, Sergeant," Dane said aloud, clasping Roland's forearm. "Six goblins, no casualties. Your squad did fine work today. Held the line, struck true. Eldermere owes you a debt."
Roland dipped his head. "Just doing our duty, Captain. The training held."
Dane glanced at the squad—fifteen faces flushed with adrenaline and the raw afterglow of survival. Willem, the young one, still clutched his spear like a lifeline; Tomas wiped blood from his blade with deliberate care. "You all did," Dane continued, raising his voice. "First kills are the hardest. Remember this feeling—use it. It'll keep you sharp for what's coming." He nodded to the heads. "Hang them on the post as a warning. Let the wilds know we bite back."
The squad saluted and dispersed, carrying their trophies toward the central spike where other such warnings already dangled. Dane watched them go, then turned back to Roland. "Your father would be proud, lad. You lead like he did—clear, unflinching. Keep it up."
"Thank you, sir," Roland replied, a flicker of emotion crossing his face before discipline smoothed it away.
Dane clapped his shoulder once more and strode toward his quarters, the weight of command settling heavier with each step. The boy's got Byrt's fire, he mused. Gods willing, it won't burn him out too soon. These wilds test more than steel; they test the soul. And with the reports piling up… He shook his head. One crisis at a time.
His quarters were sparse—a canvas tent reinforced with timber, a cot, a scarred table cluttered with maps and missives. A single lantern cast flickering shadows on the walls. Dane sank into the chair, rubbing his temples. The day's patrols had been routine until Roland's encounter; now the goblins felt like a harbinger. He reached for the stack of reports delivered by courier that afternoon—sealed parchments from AshenVale and Black Hollow, the other pillars of the Gilded Wilds.
He broke the wax on AshenVale's first. The words blurred briefly in the lamplight before sharpening into grim detail: Harpy nests multiplying in the high cliffs, diving on loggers and scouts alike. Three crews lost in the last fortnight, bodies torn and scattered. Militia thin—only eighty able-bodied, barely trained. Supplies dwindling; the river route clogged with lizardmen ambushes. But one bright note: the road connecting Eldermere to AshenVale, hacked through the underbrush by combined work crews, was finally complete. Wagons could roll by week's end.
Black Hollow's report was darker still. Kobold tunnels riddling the earth like wormholes, collapsing fields and swallowing livestock whole. Goblin raids on the outskirts, bolder by the night. A quarry overrun, workers fleeing to the capital's safety. Militia at fifty strong, morale fracturing. Requests for aid urgent—men, arms, anything.
Dane leaned back, exhaling slowly. Eldermere held, thanks to the five hundred who'd answered the call, but the sister settlements teetered. With the road to AshenVale open, opportunity knocked. He pulled fresh parchment and ink, quill scratching in the quiet.
To Viscount Frederick Fairbourne,
Reports from AshenVale and Black Hollow confirm escalating threats: harpies and lizardmen in the former, kobolds and goblins in the latter. Eldermere's militia stands strong at five hundred, with recent successes against goblin patrols. The road to AshenVale is now complete, allowing swift reinforcement.
I request permission to dispatch one hundred militia—seasoned squads under capable sergeants—to AshenVale. They will clear immediate threats and train local recruits, bolstering defenses. This move secures our flank and honors the king's decree to tame these wilds.
Awaiting your command,
Captain Ulric Dane
He sealed it with the guard's emblem, a stylized tower wreathed in thorns, and summoned a runner. "To the Viscount's manor. Urgent."
As the boy dashed into the night, the scene shifted miles away, to the Viscount's residency in Eldermere—a modest stone manor perched on a rise overlooking the town, its windows aglow with candlelight. Inside, Viscount Frederick Fairbourne paced his study, face drained of color, parchment clutched in a trembling hand. The room smelled of wax and old books, the fire in the hearth doing little to warm the chill that had settled in his bones.
He'd thought the missive from the capital was a swift response to his plea for reinforcements—too swift, perhaps, but hope had flared nonetheless. The journey from the capital took weeks; a reply so soon meant urgency, or so he'd reasoned. But as he'd broken the royal seal—an eagle clutching a scepter, stamped in crimson wax—his illusions shattered.
The letter was no aid. It was catastrophe.
Fairbourne sank into his chair, rereading the words as if they might change. The king's closest allies—Duke Vermont, the Iron-Fist, and Duke Winsington, the Flame Sorcerer—had turned traitor. They marched on royal assets, seizing forts, mines, and granaries by force. The kingdom of Fatum teetered on civil war.
Duke Vermont, at fifty-eight—ten years the king's senior—had been a pillar of the realm since serving under the late King Maximus Solmire. Known as the Iron-Fist for his unyielding command of the heavy cavalry, Vermont had crushed the Orcish Incursion of three decades past. In the Battle of Ironspike Pass, he'd led a charge through sleet and mud, his warhammer shattering orc shields like glass. Legends spoke of him single-handedly felling a war-chief twice his size, his fist—clad in enchanted gauntlets—punching through armor to claim the beast's heart. Under Maximus, he'd reformed the kingdom's legions, instilling discipline that turned rabble into unbreakable phalanxes. Loyal to a fault, or so it seemed—until now.
Duke Winsington, sixty, was the more enigmatic of the pair, his exploits woven with fire and arcane fury. The Flame Sorcerer had risen from humble mage-apprentice to Maximus's arcane advisor, his pyromancy turning tides in the Siege of Emberhold. There, besieged by elven raiders, Winsington had summoned walls of flame that scorched the attackers from the field, his spells weaving infernos that danced like living serpents. He'd once quelled a dragon uprising in the southern peaks, binding the beasts with chains of molten rock forged from his will alone. Ten years Augustus's elder, Winsington had mentored the young prince in strategy, his counsel as sharp as his flames. To betray now… it defied reason.
Fairbourne's hands shook. These men had been the king's bedrock, their service to Maximus extending seamlessly to Augustus after the old king's death. What rift had sundered them? Whispers of court intrigue, perhaps—taxes too heavy, lands redistributed unjustly. Or ambition, raw and unchecked. Whatever the cause, their defection meant chaos: armies clashing on heartland soil, supply lines severed, the frontier forgotten.
He set the letter down, staring into the fire. Eldermere, AshenVale, Black Hollow—they were specks on the map, but vital for the kingdom's expansion. If the capital fell to infighting, what hope for the Gilded Wilds? Reinforcements? A dream now. They were alone.
A knock at the door jarred him. A servant entered, bearing Dane's fresh missive. Fairbourne took it, breaking the seal with numb fingers. One hundred militia to AshenVale. A sound plan, under normal skies. But with treason brewing…
He sighed, quill hovering. Permission granted, he would write. They had to hold the wilds themselves now. The center was crumbling; the edges must endure.
Outside, the night deepened, stars indifferent to the schemes of men. Betrayal's shadow stretched long, from capital halls to frontier camps, where young sergeants like Roland slept with swords at hand, unaware of the greater storm brewing.