Inside the courtyard of House Artos, a quiet buzz was emerging. What once was a place for overly extravagant parties meant to show off the family's immense wealth was now filled by men of every kind. Farmers, orphans, beggars, and landless peasants all gathered together in an increasingly anxious crowd.
Among them was fourteen-year-old Rorik.
Born a second son from the relatively small village of Ingstead, Rorik’s prescribed future was a lifetime of aimless drift. In the harsh frontier of the Artos territory, a second son was as good as a ghost. His older brother would inherit what little land their father had, and he would... well, he would have to travel south to look for opportunities. If he was lucky, he might eventually have the chance to marry into a modest family and work their soil.
But that was all highly improbable.
So when the word spread that the lord of the territory was recruiting a permanent, paid standing army with steady wages and actual benefits, Rorik had instantly dropped everything and set out for Galehelm.
Beside him stood his childhood friend, Brand, whose fingers were white from gripping the small bundle of his worldly possessions.
"Hey," Brand whispered, his breath pluming in the freezing morning air. "Stop shaking. You’re going to make me start."
"I can't help it," Rorik muttered back, his gaze locked on the high stone steps of the estate. "The stories, Brand... they say the young Marquess would have servants beaten to death at a mere whim." He clenched his fist tight, his future deeply uncertain. "What if this whole thing is just a trick to round us up for hard labor?"
"It’s not a trick," Brand hissed, though his own eyes darted nervously to the armored guards lining the walls. "Why bother sending out messengers throughout the land if he just wants to round us up? Why not just order a forced conscription instead?"
Brand's reasoning made sense to Rorik. If the intent was truly just to capture them, it was highly unnecessary to gamble on the chance that people would take the bait when the lord could straight up order a conscription.
Suddenly, the low hum of the crowd cut out as the heavy oak doors at the balcony overlooking the courtyard groaned open.
Edric stepped out and looked down over them.
Rorik held his breath. He had expected the gluttonous, heavily perfumed tyrant from the village rumors, but the young lord standing before them looked sharp.
',He's lost a significant amount of weight since I last saw him,' Rorik realized.
Edric wore a simple, dark tunic trimmed with silver, his posture straight, his golden eyes sweeping over the mass of commoners with an analytical coolness that made Rorik’s spine tingle. There was no arrogance in his face—only an iron-clad focus.
"Look at yourselves," Edric’s voice rang out across the courtyard. It wasn’t a roar, but it carried perfectly through the dead silence. "Take a good look at the men standing beside you. You are the second sons. The landless. The outcasts who have no inheritance waiting for you."
A collective, heavy weight seemed to press down on the crowd. It was the brutal truth they all lived with every day.
"But House Artos sees you differently," Edric continued, leaning forward slightly over the stone railing. "I am building a new army for Galehelm. A real army."
Low murmurs began to ripple through the crowd.
"If you pledge your absolute, unyielding loyalty to my house, and you prove deserving of that spot, you will be rewarded handsomely," Edric continued, looking at each of them meticulously. "Steady coin, full bellies. A life where your future is determined by the strength of your arm, not the order of your birth. Prove your worth to me, and you shall never go hungry or worry about tomorrow again."
A collective shiver ran through the crowd's chest. The fear that had gripped Rorik for days suddenly twisted into a desperate, burning spark of ambition. Beside him, Brand’s jaw tightened.
Edric stepped back, gesturing to the formidable figure stepping into the light beside him. "This person here is the commander of my household guards. She will be the one to oversee your test."
Serah strode forward, her crimson hair tied tightly back, her massive greatsword resting casually against her steel-clad shoulder. She looked down at the crowd with a terrifying, predator’s smirk.
"The Lord Marquess has an optimistic heart," Serah barked, her voice carrying a rough, soldier’s edge that made half the front row flinch. "I do not. I see a courtyard full of soft, mud-brained farm boys who would drop their spears the moment a mountain raider bared his teeth. I will be weeding out the weak, the lazy, and the undeserving. If you want a place in this army, you will prove yourself this day."
She pointed her gauntleted finger down toward the mud. "Form lines! Move!"
The next four hours were a descent into pure, physical hell.
The recruits were subjected to a brutal, relentless physical evaluation designed to test their raw strength, agility, speed, and endurance. They were forced to lift heavy stones, run laps around the perimeter walls under the weight of chainmail vests, and strike wooden targets with blunt iron bars until their palms blistered and split.
Near the front of the testing area, sitting at a covered wooden table, was Lira. The common-born girl Edric had elevated sat perfectly poised, her ink-stained fingers moving with rapid, mechanical precision as she noted down every recruit's name, their lift weights, their sprint times, and any specialized skills they possessed. She didn't offer a single word of comfort, only a cold, evaluating gaze that made the men push themselves past their limits.
Rorik felt his lungs burning by the third hour. During the endurance run, his legs turned to lead, the heavy mud suctioning his boots with every agonizing step. He tripped, falling chest-first into a puddle of freezing slush.
"Get up, Rorik!" Brand yelled, pacing him from a few feet away, his own chest heaving violently. "Don't you dare quit! Push forward with everything you've got!"
Gritting his teeth until they ached, Rorik swallowed a mouthful of muddy water and forced himself back to his feet. He was only fourteen, smaller than many of the grown men around him, but he and Brand both strived to make something of themselves.
His hands were raw and his muscles screamed in agony, but he pushed forward, driving his boots into the earth until he crossed the final marker, collapsing against a wooden post as Lira quietly logged his completion.
He had made it. They had survived the gauntlet.
By late afternoon, the brutal sorting was complete.
Out of the hundreds who had arrived at the gates, Serah stood before a tightly packed block of men. "Listen up!" she shouted. "Only five hundred of you have passed the standard required to bear the arms of House Artos. Step forward when your name is called to receive your vanguard tokens."
Rorik’s heart stopped until he heard Lira’s clear voice call out: "Rorik of Ingstead. Brand of Ingstead."
The two friends exchanged a wild, breathless look of pure triumph as they stepped forward.
But Edric did not leave the rest behind. He stepped back onto the balcony, looking over the remaining able-bodied men who were hanging their heads in defeat.
"For those who did not meet the commander's martial standards, your journey does not end in starvation," Edric announced, stretching his arms forward. "You are able-bodied men of Galehelm. House Artos is officially reopening the Dunmere Mine. Every man here who is willing to swing a pickaxe is offered an immediate contract. The wages are stable—less than those of my soldiers, but more than enough to feed your families."
A collective gasp rippled through the rejected men. Instead of being cast back out into the cold as failures, they were being handed a lifeline.
Then came the final stroke. Several large wagons were wheeled into the courtyard, their canvas tops pulled back to reveal mountains of golden grain.
"To celebrate the formation of the new vanguard," Edric declared, "every man who passed the examination will receive a full sack of grain to take home to his household today, the rest of you get half a sack."
"Your loyalty begins with bread in your bellies."
The courtyard erupted. The five hundred selected soldiers cheered, tossing their worn caps into the air, while the newly hired miners wept openly with relief, shouting praises to the sky. The name Edric, once whispered in fear and hatred, was now being roared with a newfound, profound reverence.
High above the chaotic joy of the courtyard, Edric stood on the stone balcony of the inner manor, his hands resting lightly on the cold iron railing. The distant, booming cheers of the five hundred men echoed up the stone walls. Standing a step behind him was Celia, her fingers nervously pleating the fabric of her apron.
Edric watched the stable hands distribute the grain wagons before turning his head slightly. "Celia," he asked softly, his golden eyes unreadable. "What do you think of what we are doing down there?"
Celia flinched slightly, startled to be addressed directly. She looked over the edge of the balcony, watching the sea of commoners clutching their food, before looking back at Edric with wide, worried eyes.
"I... I think you are being very generous, my lord. The people are happy. But..." She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I am worried. A lord does not build an army unless he intends to use it. Are you... are you planning to start a war soon, my lord?"
Edric offered a faint, enigmatic smile but didn't answer. Just then, the balcony door opened, and Lira joined them.
"My lord," she greeted, offering a small bow.
Edric looked back at her and offered a small smile. "What about you, Lira?"
Lira looked at him with confused eyes. "My lord?"
"What do you think about our new recruits?"
Lira looked over the railing at the men below. Five hundred men of every background who would soon become the fist of House Artos. She could even recognize a few faces from her own village.
She turned back to the young lord, her eyes meeting his intense gaze. "You have far too few men to protect a territory of this size, my lord. Five hundred more is a step in the right direction." She clutched the ledger tight against her chest. "But these men show promise. You've shown them another path. If what you said to them is true, and they receive proper training, I think they will not disappoint you."
Edric stared at Lira for a long moment. In her cold, pragmatic calculations, he recognized the exact rhythm of his own modern strategic mind. She didn't see people as mere tools or objects of pity; she saw them as resources to be managed, fortified, and utilized for the preservation of the state. His trust in the young auditor grew.
"Well said, Lira," Edric murmured, a cold, satisfied smirk touching his lips as he turned back to look over his roaring courtyard. He leaned forward over the iron rail. "But this is just the start. I have big plans for my territory, and this is only the first step."
He then faced Celia who was hanging her head down.
"I'm not planning a war," he said as he walked past her, into the manor, "but I will make sure we're prepared for it."