The administrative wing of the Artos manor was dead silent in the hours past midnight, save for the rhythmic, soft scratching of a quill.
Inside his private office, Gareth sat perfectly upright, his posture as impeccable in the dark of night as it was during the frantic rush of dawn. A single oil lamp cast long, amber shadows across the dark oak of his desk, illuminating a stack of neatly categorized ledgers.
Gareth dipped his quill into the inkwell, paused for a fraction of a second, and then precisely noted the day’s grain distribution metrics. He set the quill aside, leaning back slightly into the shadows. For the first time all day, the stoic mask slipped from his face, replaced by a look of deep, calculating intensity.
He was thinking about Edric.
For the past year or so, Gareth’s role had been simple: observe, document, and catalog. Edric Artos had been a textbook monster, bloated by gluttony, blinded by unearned arrogance, and utterly bankrupt of any leadership capability.
He was a man who wrung his territory dry merely to fund his own lavishness, a man whose vicious whims made him a plague upon his own lands.
And yet, over the past month, everything had changed.
Gareth stared into the flickering flame of the lamp, his mind reconstructing the puzzle pieces.
It makes no logical sense, he thought.
If a man were faking incompetence, he wouldn't have allowed his territory to get so close to the brink of ruin. But if a man were truly a fool, he could not suddenly wake up one morning possessing the tactical and economic genius of a seasoned politician.
Gareth went over the changes in his mind, cataloging them with mechanical precision.
First was the census the lord had ordered. Edric had reduced everything in his territory to raw numerical figures, making the lands vastly easier to manage and secure.
Then there was his newfound mercy. Edric had spared the terrified maid accused of poisoning him, and he had even elevated a low-born girl like Lira into a position of high standing within his house.
Then came the rapid, almost unnatural discipline regarding his physical health. The young lord who used to throw violent tantrums if forced to walk across the courtyard was now willingly enduring brutal, grueling physical training every single morning under Serah’s unforgiving eye.
And then there was Javier, the peddler. Edric had bypassed the suffocating monopoly of the Golden Hands Company by actively funding a desperate, ambitious, high-risk merchant, completely ignoring traditional trade politics to secure exactly what he wanted.
And finally... the army.
Template conscription in the frontier was standard and brutal, a practice that always bred deep resentment and potential rebellion among the populace. Instead, Edric had framed military service as a corporate privilege.
“Steady coin, full bellies. A life where your future is determined by the strength of your arm.” Gareth repeated the lord's words internally.
It was a terrifyingly brilliant piece of manipulation. Five hundred desperate second sons, landless commoners, and outcasts were now positioned to make something of themselves. Even the rejected men had been given a lifeline in the mines, ensuring the entire lower class now viewed the young Marquess not as a tyrant, but as a savior.
Who are you, Edric Artos? Gareth thought, his eyes narrowing. What game are you playing?
The silence of the room stretched. Slowly, deliberately, Gareth reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, ornate brass key. He inserted it into the hidden keyhole beneath the lip of his bottom desk drawer.
With a soft, metallic click, the false bottom shifted.
Gareth reached inside and pulled out a thick, heavy parchment envelope. Rolled tightly across the back, sealing the flap shut, was a thick dollop of black wax. Stamped clearly into the center of the hardened wax was the sharp, unmistakable imprint of a crow perched atop a skull.
Gareth stared at the black seal, the lamp fire reflecting in his dark eyes.
But then, Gareth hesitated.
For the first time in his life, he was experiencing a sensation he hadn't felt in decades: genuine, unadulterated curiosity. Edric was fixing a broken territory with tools and concepts that were entirely unfamiliar to the medieval world. He was a variable that defied all calculations.
Gareth's thumb grazed the edges of the parchment.
"Not yet," he murmured into the empty room, his voice a low, chilling whisper.
He wanted to see just how far the young lord was willing to go.
With a practiced, fluid motion, Gareth placed the envelope back into the hidden compartment, locked the drawer, and slid the brass key back into his vest. He blew out the oil lamp, plunging the office into total darkness.
By the early dawn, the five hundred chosen recruits were already assembled in the massive main training yard. The mud from the previous day had frozen solid overnight, crunching loudly beneath their mismatched boots.
Standing atop a wooden mounting block at the front of the yard was Commander Serah, her arms crossed over her steel breastplate.
"Listen up, you mud-brained lowlifes!" Serah’s voice boomed, instantly cutting through the chattering of teeth. "The Lord Marquess has an optimistic heart, but he is not a fool. You are not soldiers yet. You are raw meat. Starting today, you will be following a training regiment designed specifically by the lord himself."
Rorik, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Brand near the front, blinked in surprise. Designed by the lord? He exchanged a quick, skeptical glance with his friend.
"First, know that you will now be living near the manor!" Serah spiked a gauntleted finger toward a group of men working outside the perimeter walls.
'We're going to live in the manor?'
'An actual warm place to sleep in??'
'What about my family?'
A mix of quiet excitement and worry began filling the crowd.
"The lord has graciously ordered the construction of a dedicated barracks for you. Six days out of the seven, you will live in these barracks and train, and one day you can go home to your families, if you have any. If you wish, you may even live permanently in the barracks."
Serah then pointed towards the open ground, "next you will run laps around the battlements until your lungs bleed."
The men followed her gaze and worriedly looked towards each other.
"Third, strength training. The blacksmiths have been working through the night under the lord's direct orders to forge heavy iron plates. You will lift them, carry them, and stack them until your muscles tear and rebuild themselves."
Then finally, Serah clenched her fist. "Fourth, you will receive individual weapons training from the household knights, before learning formations and tactical drills."
As Serah continued to shout out the morning details, Rorik subtly shifted his gaze toward the edges of the courtyard. A dozen or so of the estate’s knights were leaning against the stone pillars of the stables. They weren't wearing their full armor, just their tunics and training gear, their expressions dripping with visible scorn as they looked over the crowd of commoners.
"Hey," Rorik whispered, nudging Brand with his elbow. "Look at the knights. They look like they'd rather feed us to the hounds than teach us how to hold a sword."
Brand didn't look over. His jaw was set, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. "Pay them no mind, Rorik," he hissed back softly. "Let them stare. We survived the gauntlet yesterday. We're going to prove everyone wrong."
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the inner manor opened, and the low murmurs of the knights abruptly died down.
Edric strode out into the freezing morning air, dressed not in his heavy aristocratic furs, but in a simple, tight-fitting linen training tunic and leather trousers. Walking half a step behind him was Gareth, his expression a mask of flawless professionalism, alongside Celia and Lira.
The entire courtyard, including Serah, froze in sheer surprise. No one had expected the young lord to be awake at this hour, let alone dressed for manual labor.
Serah stepped down from the wooden block, offering a crisp salute. "My lord," she said, her brow furrowing. "To what do we owe this honor? The men are just about to begin their laps."
Edric stepped forward, his sharp golden eyes sweeping over the five hundred anxious faces of the commoners.
"This training is just the first step," Edric addressed the crowd, his voice remarkably clear and steady in the crisp air. "Look around you. This territory has been broken, neglected, and bled dry for far too long. But we are going to change that. Together, we are going to work, we are going to build, and we are going to bring Galehelm back to its former glory."
He paused, letting the words sink in, before dropping a massive bombshell.
"And because I will not ask any man to endure what I am unwilling to face myself... I intend to join you in this training. From the first lap to the final drill."
A collective gasp rippled through the courtyard. The commoners stared at him in utter disbelief. The knights by the stables openly gaped, their aristocratic sensibilities completely shattered by the sight of a Marquess lowering himself to the level of mud-streaked peasants.
Serah’s eyes went wide. She looked completely caught off guard, a flash of genuine worry crossing her face. She instinctively shot a look over Edric's shoulder at Gareth, her eyes practically screaming, What is the meaning of this? What is he doing?
Gareth stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back. He merely offered a subtle, elegant shrug, his eyes conveying a silent: I could not stop him.
Serah turned back to Edric, stepping closer to lower her voice. "My lord... please, I ask you to reconsider. This regiment is brutal. It’s designed to break grown men. It could be dangerous for your health—"
"I have made my decision, Commander," Edric cut her off smoothly, his voice leaving no room for argument. He looked back out at the sea of recruits. "If I intend to lead these men into the future, then I should suffer alongside them in the present."
Rorik felt a sudden, electric shiver run down his spine. He looked at Brand, whose eyes were wide with a newfound awe.
To the common folk, lords were distant gods who stayed in their warm castles while peasants died in their names. But Edric was standing in the freezing fog, dressed exactly like them, ready to bleed.
As Edric turned to walk toward the front row of the formation to take his place, a heavy boot stepped into his path.
"A moment, my lord Marquess," a gruff voice called out.
It was Ser Corin, one of the most prominent, veteran knights of the Artos household. He stood with his arms crossed, a look of deeply offended pride masking his face.
Edric stopped and looked at the knight calmly. He turned his head slightly toward Serah. "Begin the first set of laps, Commander. I will join the men presently."
"Form lines! Double time around the perimeter, go!" Serah’s bark shattered the tension, and the recruits immediately began to jog, their eyes still glued to the unfolding scene as they moved past.
Ser Corin stepped closer to Edric, completely ignoring the departing commoners. "My lord, I must petition you to reconsider this."
"Is that so? May I ask why?"
The knight looked back to his comrades before facing Edric again, "several of the household knights are not in agreement with this arrangement."
"When your house appointed Lady Serah as the commander of your household guards, we quietly swallowed the shame of being led by a woman. But this.." he continued as he gestured towards the rabble now running around the perimeter, "this is too much."
Edric flashed a subtle scowl at the knight.
"We were trained in the Royal Academy in the kingdom's capital. Some are from prominent noble families. Our skills are sacred." The knight stated.
"It is entirely beneath our station to train low-borns and share our martial secrets with peasants."
Edric listened quietly, nodding slowly as if deeply weighing the man's words. "You were trained at the Capital Academy, and as such you believe sharing your skills with commoners degrades your noble status."
"Exactly, my lord," Corin said, a smug wave of relief washing over his face. "I am glad you see reason."
"I do," Edric said smoothly, his golden eyes turning ice-cold. "Which is why I am ordering you to pack your belongings and leave my manor and territory, at once."
Ser Corin froze, his smug expression instantly evaporating into utter confusion. "I... what? My lord?"
"I have no need of insubordinate knights who question my decisions," Edric reiterated, his voice sharp and carrying a terrifying weight. "I need loyal soldiers who do exactly as they are told. If your noble blood prevents you from following orders, then you are a liability to me."
Corin’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. "You cannot simply exile me! I am a landed knight! I—"
"There are plenty of other lords near my territory who may be in need of noble and highborn knights," Edric interrupted, stepping firmly into Corin's personal space. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "You will be compensated for your land, go speak to Matthus."
"Now, go. Leave my sight before I change my mind and hang you from the battlements as a deserter."
The word deserter hung heavily in the freezing air. Ser Corin stared at Edric's hardened posture, seeing the complete lack of hesitation in his golden eyes, and realized the young lord was entirely serious.
With a low, humiliated snarl, Ser Corin spun on his heel and stormed out of the courtyard gates, his cape billowing behind him.
Edric watched him leave for a split second before turning his gaze toward the remaining knights who were still standing by the stables, paralyzed with shock.
"Do any of you share the same sentiment?" Edric called out, his voice echoing across the courtyard.
Four more of the knights looked at the ground, swallowed hard, and quietly turned around to follow Corin out of the gates to pack their things. The remaining knights exchanged nervous glances, but ultimately refused to move.
They had chosen to stay.
"Good," Edric muttered.
Without another word, the young Marquess turned away from the nobility, stepped directly into the frozen mud of the yard, and sprinted forward to join the back of the running formation alongside Rorik and Brand.
By the third grueling lap around the frozen battlements, Gareth had silently slipped away from the courtyard, returning to the depths of the manor to attend to his endless logistical duties.
A short distance from the chaotic shouting of the training grounds, tucked away in an elevated stone courtyard, Lira and Celia sat together at a small, ornate garden table.
Gareth had arranged a warm pot of herbal tea and a small plate of delicate, dusted sweets to ward off the morning chill. The cold wind still nipped at their cheeks, but the vantage point gave them a clear, unobstructed view of the training grounds below.
Lira kept a tight grip on her charcoal stick and ledger, though her hands had grown too cold to write. Her dark eyes were entirely fixed on a single figure in the distance—the Lord Marquess, his linen tunic already soaked through with sweat, stubbornly keeping pace with the front line of the commoners.
The silence between the two women stretched until Lira finally broke it, lifting her tea to her lips to steal some warmth. "How are you fairing with your new duties, Celia? I notice you are spending far more time in the administrative wing."
Celia blinked, pulled out of her thoughts, and offered a soft, tired smile as she reached for a pastry. "I am managing, thank you. Master Gareth has been... incredibly thorough. He has been teaching me how to manage the manor's internal inventory and training me to be a proper maid. He is strict, but he is a patient teacher."
She set her tea cup down, her gaze drifting back to the mud-splattered recruits below. "And what about you, Lira? The lord has put so much responsibility on your shoulders. Are you eating well?"
"I eat when the numbers allow me to," Lira replied automatically, a small, rare smirk touching her lips before it quickly vanished. "The treasury is a demanding master, but Master Matthus is a joy to work with. It is... refreshing to be given a purpose that matters."
Celia nodded slowly, but her expression grew hesitant. She fidgeted with the lace edge of her teacup, her fingers tracing the patterns back and forth. She glanced around the quiet garden space, ensuring no guards or roaming servants were within earshot, before leaning slightly across the table.
"Lira..." Celia whispered, her voice laced with a sudden, heavy anxiety. "May I ask you something personal? And please, be honest with me."
Lira turned her head, her sharp brows knitting together. "Of course. What is it?"
Celia swallowed hard, her eyes darting back toward Edric in the distance. "Has... has the Lord Marquess ever forced himself on you? In the solar, or during those late nights when you are analyzing the ledgers alone with him?"
Lira’s entire posture stiffened. She nearly dropped her charcoal stick, a flash of genuine shock gripping her features. "What? No! Absolutely not! He has never laid a finger on me, nor has he ever spoken to me with anything less than professional courtesy."
But as the words left her mouth, Lira’s eyes widened with a sudden, chilling realization. She leaned across the garden table, her voice rising in a panicked whisper. "Celia... did he do something to you?"
"No! No, he didn't," Celia clarified quickly, waving her hands in a frantic, reassuring gesture.
She let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging with immense relief. "He never touched me either. It's just that... the rumors about him were so terrible. The servants whispered about his depravity, his vicious temper, and the things he supposedly did to women in the capital."
"When he suddenly elevated you and kept you by his side into the dead of night, I was... I was so afraid that he was using his power to force himself on you," she continued.
Lira stared at Celia, the tension slowly draining from her chest, replaced by a profound, quiet gravity. She looked back out over the stone railing toward the training yard.
Far across the frozen mud, Edric had just finished his fifth lap. Instead of resting, he immediately moved over to the heavy iron plates. His muscles strained, his teeth bared in pure physical agony as he hoisted a massive plate and began stacking it alongside Rorik and Brand, shouting words of encouragement over the wind to the exhausted teenagers.
"I heard those exact same rumors," Lira said softly, her voice barely audible over the distant shouting of Commander Serah. "When he first called me into his solar, my knees were shaking so violently I could barely hold my slate."
She paused, her eyes tracking the rhythmic, disciplined movement of Edric’s silhouette against the grey morning sky. A strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in her chest, casting away the chill of the winter wind.
"But looking at how things have been going... looking at the man out there right now..." Lira murmured, her tone shifting into something softer, gentler than her usual clinical cadence. "I find it increasingly difficult to believe he was ever that way."
Lira shifted her ledger, unconsciously pressing it closer to her heart as she watched Edric wipe the sweat from his brow and shoulder another heavy iron plate. "The rumors... they feel like a completely different person from the lord we serve."
Celia watched Lira's profile, noting the slight, uncharacteristic softness in the auditor's eyes and the faint tint of color on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the biting cold or the hot tea. A knowing, gentle smile touched Celia's lips, though she wisely kept her observations to herself.
"Yes," Celia whispered, turning back to the yard. "He is entirely different."