Way up north from Galehelm, inside an old library, an old man sat behind his desk rustling pieces of paper.
Baron Alric dragged a calloused hand through his thick, greying beard, his eyes strained under the flickering light of a tallow candle.
At fifty winters old, Alric looked less like a noble and more like an old cliffside oak; weathered, scarred, and deeply rooted into the rocky earth of the northern border.
He looked down on a parchment sealed with black wax. It was an updated report from his contacts in Galehelm, the fortress city of the lord he serves.
Just a few weeks ago, representatives from House Artos came and snooped around his village, and now...
Five hundred men.
The young Marquess had assembled an army of five hundred low-born commoners. Not low ranking nobilities, not highly trained mercenaries, just simple and pure low-born peasants, outcasts even.
Alric leaned back, his joints popping with a dull ache that always worsen when the biting winter winds begin to sweep down from the peaks.
Decades ago, he had been a vanguard captain under Edric’s grand father, the old Marquess. When the fierce and brutal mountain clans had poured down from the northern crags to pillage the lowlands, it was Alric’s shield wall that had held the pass.
He had given his youth, his health, and a dozen scars to House Artos. In return, the house had granted him these rugged northern borderlands—a reward that was as much a shield for the territory as it was an honor. Alric’s duty was to keep the deep north safe from the wild clans.
And for decades, he had done exactly that. But he had done it by learning the harsh reality of survival under the silver serpent banner.
House Artos had been a rot on these lands ever since he could walk. For generations, the family had been defined by corruption, depravity, and an absolute indifference to the people who broke their backs to feed their lavishness.
They bled the territory dry to fund their vices, and the young Edric was no different.
Alric had realized quickly that if he sent his full, mandated tax quotas to Galehelm, his five vassal villages would starve before the first frost of winter ever arrived.
So, he chose to lie. He falsified the ledgers, underreported the harvests, and quietly hoarded the surplus grain in fortified mountain granaries. He became a thief in the eyes of the law, but a savior in the eyes of his people.
But now, this news changed everything.
'Why build an army' Alric thought heavily, a knot of genuine worry tightening in his gut. A spoiled child of a corrupt lineage does not suddenly wake up, audit his lands, and arm the peasantry, unless he is desperate.
Or unless he is preparing for tyranny.
If the lord had run out of coin to fund his lifestyle, he will surely come looking for more. He will come and squeeze the land even drier. And with his new army, he could very well do so.
A sharp, rhythmic knock broke his thoughts.
"Enter," Alric called out, his deep voice scraping like gravel.
The heavy oak door swung open, and his elderly steward, a thin man named Harlen who had served him since the mountain clan wars, stepped inside. Harlen’s face was uncharacteristically pale, his breathing shallow from rushing up the spiral stone stairs.
"My lord," Harlen said, his hands gripping his robes tightly. "A rider from the southern crossroads just arrived. We have been informed of an approaching party."
Alric frowned, his hand instinctively dropping toward the heavy broadsword leaning against the side of his desk. "Is it a raiding party from the peaks? Have the clans crossed the lower ridge?"
"No, my lord," Harlen swallowed hard, looking directly into Alric's weathered eyes. "They carry the serpent's banner. Lord Edric himself is marching north into the deep frontier. He has crossed into our territory."
Alric froze. His heavy brow furrowed in utter disbelief. "The Marquess? Here? He left the comfort of Galehelm with winter just around the corner?"
"Yes, my lord. The report states he travels with a modest escort, but he is moving directly toward our estate. He will be at our gates by nightfall."
Alric stood up slowly, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the solar. His mind raced through a dozen dark possibilities.
'Did he find out about the ledgers? Is he coming to strip my title? Or is he trying to seize our food supply by force to fund his new army?'
"My lord, should we call the men-at-arms from the lower villages?" Harlen asked, panic bleeding into his tone. "If the Marquess intends to—"
"No," Alric cut him off, raising a calm but authoritative hand. "If we arm the borders, it will look like treason. If he really wants a fight, fifty men-at-arms won't stop the weight of House Artos."
Alric turned toward the window, watching the dead autumn leaves whip across the stone battlements in the cold wind. "Tell the kitchens to light the fires. Prepare the guest quarters and have the servants ready for his arrival. Let us see what the young serpent wants from the old hound."
Meanwhile, several miles to the south, a heavy wooden carriage rolled steadily along the rocky northern road. The iron-rimmed wheels groaned against the hard earth, accompanied by the rhythmic, steady thud of forty heavily armored Knights riding in a tight formation around the vehicle.
Inside the carriage, the air was surprisingly warm, insulated by thick furs and a small, enchanted charcoal brazier, resting in the center of the floor.
Edric sat with his back to the horses, his golden eyes fixed on a map of the deep north spread across his knees. He wore a dark, practical autumn coat trimmed modestly with wolf fur.
Though he sat upright, every bump in the road sent a dull, lingering ache through his shoulders—a stubborn reminder of the brutal training sessions he'd gone through with his new army.
Across from him sat Lira and Celia, while Serah sat silently by the left window, her hand resting naturally on the pommel of her sword, her sharp eyes constantly scanning the shifting treeline outside through the glass.
Master Gareth had been left behind at Galehelm to hold the fort down as Edric handles the northern issue personally.
"You look deep in thought, my lord," Celia murmured softly, her hands folded neatly over a basket of warm bread she had been keeping insulated near the brazier.
The young maid had grown noticeably more relaxed around him over the past weeks, though she still watched his expressions with careful attention.
Edric looked up from the map, offering a faint, tired smile. "Just calculating distances, Celia. The deep north is further than it looks on paper. The terrain changes drastically once you approach the crags."
Lira, who had been quietly reviewing a small slate of financial projections, leaned forward. Her dark eyes were sharp, reflecting the analytical mind that had made her so valuable.
"My lord," Lira spoke up, lowering her slate slightly so the others wouldn't see the specific figures. "If I may ask... what exactly is your plan once we arrive at Baron Alric's estate? The census data is damning, but he is a war veteran. If we push him into a corner with accusations of tax fraud, the northern villages might riot out of loyalty to him."
Serah shifted slightly by the window, her gaze momentarily drifting toward Edric. "He has fifty seasoned men-at-arms at his direct command, my lord, and the people closest to the border are fierce fighters. A forced arrest may not be possible with our current man-power."
Edric leaned back against the plush leather seating, his expression entirely unbothered.
"Who said anything about an arrest?" Edric asked calmly, his voice smooth and even over the rumbling of the carriage.
Lira blinked, her brow furrowing. "Then... what are we doing here, my lord?"
Edric reached out, gently folding the parchment map and placing it inside his coat pocket. He looked out the window as the carriage began to ascend the winding paths of the northern hills, the jagged, grey peaks of the frontier rising like dark teeth against the pale autumn sky.
"I simply want to survey my territory," Edric answered casually, a faint, unreadable glint in his golden eyes. "A good lord should know his lands, shouldn't he? I want to see the man who has managed to keep his people well fed while the rest of my estate starves."
The steady rhythm of the carriage wheels ground to an abrupt, jarring halt. Inside, the sudden deceleration sent the map sliding off Edric’s lap, and the horses outside whinnied in a chorus of tense, nervous agitation.
Serah’s hand was on the pommel of her sword before the carriage had even fully stopped. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she peered through the frosted glass.
"What is it?" Lira asked, her voice tight as she gripped her slate.
Outside, the muffled voice of the vanguard guard captain cut through the chilly autumn air. "Hold! What is the meaning of this?"
Edric leaned slightly toward the window, straining to see past the broad shoulders of his mounted household guards.
Positioned directly across the narrow dirt road, cutting off the only passage through the dense northern treeline, was a shattered wooden transport wagon. Its axle was snapped violently in two, and barrels of spoiled grain were spilled across the rocky path.
A handful of raggedly dressed travelers were huddled around the wreckage, throwing their hands up in apparent distress as the armored Artos guards surrounded them.
"Our apologies, good sirs!" one of the travelers, a gaunt man in a soiled tunic, called out, his voice trembling with exaggerated fear. "The wheel hit a frozen rut and snapped! We’re just trying to salvage what we can."
The guard captain, unimpressed, reined in his horse. "Clear the debris. Move it to the ditch immediately. The Lord Marquess's carriage cannot be delayed."
"Right away, sir! Right away, we—"
Thwack.
The sharp, brutal snap of a bowstring echoed from the ridge above, immediately followed by a wet, sickening tear of metal and flesh. The guard captain gasped, his body jerking violently backward as a heavy, black-fletched arrow tore clean through the gap in his shoulder pauldron.
"Gah!" The captain winced as he reeled back.
"Ambush!" the knight beside roared, "Form a ring! Protect the carriage!"
"Take position!" another Knight screamed, drawing his broadsword.
Inside the vehicle, panic hit like a sudden drop in temperature. Celia let out a sharp cry, dropping her basket of bread as the rolls scattered across the floorboards. Lira froze entirely, her breath catching in her throat as the terrifying reality of the situation set in.
"Stay inside," Serah ordered, her tone turning entirely ice-cold and robotic. Without a hint of hesitation, she pulled her heavy steel helm over her head, locking the visor into place with a metallic click.
Edric instinctively reached for the door handle. "Serah, wait—"
"Do not step foot outside this carriage, my lord," Serah commanded, her hand physically blocking his chest for a fraction of a second. "I'll handle this."
She shoved the door open, slipping out into the fray and slamming it shut behind her.
Through the windows, a nightmare unfolded. The peaceful autumn forest erupted into a chaos of violence as roughly sixty bandits poured from the treeline, screaming war cries.
They wielded an amalgamation of rusty iron swords, and axes, some were even carrying hoes and other farming tools.
They were a desperate, starved-looking lot, but they had numbers on their side.
Serah was a whirlwind of steel. The moment her boots hit the dirt, her broadsword cleaved through the throat of the first bandit who rushed her.
The forty household guards, despite the initial shock, rallied quickly. They locked their shields together, forming a wall of solid iron around the wooden carriage, parrying wild swings and driving their spears into the unprotected chests of the attackers.
They were holding the line efficiently, proving why House Artos kept it's strength even if underfunded.
But inside the carriage, Edric’s world was spinning.
For the first time since waking up in this body, his mind completely fractured. In his previous life, violence was something seen on a television screen or read about in the news.
Now, he's experiencing it.
His chest heaved, his lungs burning as he gasped for air. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
'Oh god, oh my god!' his mind screamed in terror. 'This is real, this here is the real deal!'
"Lord Edric..." The sudden call of the two women beside him pulled him from his thoughts. He looked at them looking back at him with fear in their eyes.
'I need to pull myself together' he thought as he approached them, "everything going to be okay, Serah is---"
Suddenly, the side of the carriage violently shuddered. A heavy iron axe smashed repeatedly against the wooden frame. Before Edric could even process the sound, the door splintered inward with a deafening crash.
A massive, bearded bandit with yellowed teeth and bloodshot eyes lunged through the shattered opening.
With a feral grunt, he grabbed the closest thing to him.
Lira was dragged outside.
"Kyaah!" Lira yelped as she was yanked into the chaos outside.
Something inside Edric snapped. The corporate executive, the cautious strategist, the terrified modern man—all of it vanished beneath a surge of pure, primal adrenaline.
"Lira!"
Edric lunged forward, throwing his entire weight through the broken doorway. He collided squarely with the bandit’s back just as the man stepped away from the carriage. The three of them went flying, tumbling violently down the rocky dirt embankment and crashing into the frozen mud below.
The impact knocked the wind out of the bandit, causing him to lose his grip on Lira. Edric scrambled through the dirt on his hands and knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He grabbed Lira by the shoulders, pulling her behind him and placing his own body squarely between her and the recovering attacker.
The bandit rolled over, spitting blood into the dirt, and pushed himself up. He glared at Edric as he reached a rusty iron sword from the ground.
'Draw your sword, you fool!', Edric told himself, his brain screaming, paralyzing his muscles. 'Draw it now!'
With shaking hands, Edric reached down and pulled the ornamental, yet perfectly forged Artos steel blade from his scabbard. The metal rang out, but his grip was so unsteady the tip of the sword wobbled in the air.
'Remember your training,' he forced himself to think, his mind desperately grasping at the agonizing hours he had spent in the mud with Serah.
'Keep your feet planted. Mind your stance. Keep the point between you and the threat.'
The bandit lunged with a wild, downward slash of his sword.
Edric didn't think. His body acted on pure muscle memory. He parried the strike upward, the impact jarring violently up his arms and rattling his teeth.
The bandit stumbled forward from the force. Edric couldn't believe it, the man was nearly twice his size, but he easily deflected him.
The bandit grunted, surprised, and immediately brought the weapon back around in a vicious downward chop.
Again, Edric’s muscles moved almost instinctively. He stepped sharply to the left, pivoting his hips exactly the way Serah had beaten into him during those agonizing weeks.
The rusted blade sliced through thin air, burying itself into the earth where Edric had stood a millisecond before.
It felt incredibly easy. Ridiculously easy. In his mind, Edric was still terrified, his corporate instincts telling him to run and hide, but his physical body was executing maneuvers with a fluid, terrifying efficiency.
Frustrated and bleeding from his mouth, the bandit yanked his sword from the mud and roared, throwing his entire weight into a desperate, overhead killing blow.
Edric planted his back foot, raised his blade, and met the strike with a rigid, flawless high parry.
CRACK.
The violent collision echoed across the embankment, but it wasn't the sound of sliding steel. The structural integrity of the bandit's old, weathered iron simply couldn't withstand the sheer kinetic force of the impact against Artos steel.
The rusted weapon snapped clean in half, the top half of the blade flying through the air and burying itself into the snow.
The bandit froze, staring in absolute horror at the jagged, useless metal hilt left in his fist. He was completely open, his momentum carrying his chest directly into Edric's line of sight.
Edric didn't hesitate. Seizing the fraction of a second, he moved with explosive speed. He stepped inside the man's guard, shifted his weight to his front leg, and drove his sword straight forward with everything he had.
The sword slid through the bandit’s worn leather jerkin with a sickening, frictionless ease. It buried itself deep into the man's chest, right up to the crossguard.
The world fell into a sudden, ringing silence. Edric stood completely frozen, his boots sinking into the wet earth, his hands still rigidly clamping the hilt.
The bandit gasping for air right in front of him wasn't a line of dialogue or a paragraph of backstory; it was a heavy, dying weight.
The man's bloodshot eyes locked onto Edric's golden ones in a glaze of sudden, terrifying shock, his fingers clawing weakly at Edric’s practical coat before his knees buckled.
The weight dragged the sword downward, and the bandit collapsed heavily into the frozen mud, completely still.
Edric stumbled back a step, tearing his blade free. It was coated in a dark, thick crimson.
A violent wave of nausea hit him instantly. In his old life, he had written scenes like this numerous times, he'd describe it in great details to his readers.
But this, this is the first time he had ever taken a life. The first time he'd felt the life leave a man's body.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The adrenaline that had carried him down the embankment vanished, leaving behind a cold, hollow dread. '
I just killed someone. He’s dead. I ended a life.' The thought ran through his mind over and over again.
Around them, the frantic sounds of combat were rapidly dying down. The desperate ambush had entirely disintegrated; the bandits simply couldn't withstand the clinical, brutal efficiency of the elite Artos Knights.
Those who hadn't been cut down were thrown to their knees, their rusty tools and broken weapons tossed into the slush as they begged for mercy.
"Secure the scum! Line them up!" a knight shouted from the road above.
Down in the ditch, the world narrowed to a pinpoint. Edric’s knees buckled. He dropped heavily into the frozen mud, his hands braced against the earth as his stomach violently heaved.
He vomited, the bitter taste of bile and copper burning his throat, his entire frame shaking with uncontrollable tremors.
"My lord!"
A heavy, metallic crash echoed as Serah came skidding recklessly down the rocky embankment. She had torn her visor open, her sharp eyes wide with a rare, unchecked panic.
The moment she saw Edric covered in blood and retching in the dirt, her breath caught.
"Edric!" She dropped to her knees beside him, her iron-clad hands hovering over his shoulders, unsure where to touch. She scanned him frantically for wounds, her voice losing all of its usual robotic restraint.
"Where are you hit? Tell me! Where is the blood coming from?"
Edric couldn't look at her. He wiped his mouth with a trembling, mud-caked sleeve, staring blankly at the dead man just a few feet away.
"I'm not... I'm not hurt," Edric croaked, his voice cracking, barely recognizable. He looked up at Serah, his golden eyes wide, hollow, and utterly terrified. "Serah... I killed him."
Serah froze, her gaze shifting from Edric's pale face to the corpse with the punctured chest, and then back again. To her, this sort of thing was not unfamiliar, this wasn't the first time Edric had taken a life.
'So why is he acting like this?' Her mind raced.
Behind her, Lira and Celia had carefully scrambled down the slope. Celia was weeping silently, her hands pressed over her mouth, completely shaken.
Lira’s face was stark white, her breath hitching as she looked at the blood splattered across Edric's coat.
"My lord..." Lira whispered, stepping forward.
Edric pulled his knees to his chest, his hands gripping his hair as a profound wave of guilt and fear washed over him.
The confident lord who had planned to outmaneuver Baron Alric had vanished. In his place was a man completely unequipped for the horrific reality of medieval slaughter. "He’s dead because of me. I didn't even think. I just... I just stabbed him."
Serah’s expression did not change. She looked at the young lord with discerning eyes.
She then placed a heavy, grounded hand on his trembling shoulder. "He was a threat, my lord. He breached the carriage. If you hadn't acted—"
"He would have killed me," Lira interrupted, her voice shaking but filled with a fierce, quiet intensity.
She bypassed Serah, dropping to her knees directly in the mud in front of Edric. Disregarding the blood and the filth, Lira reached out and firmly took hold of his trembling, dirt-stained hands, forcing him to look at her.
Her dark eyes were bright with unshed tears, but they held a profound gratitude.
"Look at me, Lord Edric," Lira pleaded gently, squeezing his hands tightly to anchor him back to the present. "You did what you had to do. You defended yourself, you defended me."
Edric’s chest heaved, his breathing still shallow and ragged as he looked into her eyes.
"You saved my life," Lira said, a tear finally breaking free and cutting a clean path through the dirt on her cheek. "Thank you, my lord."
Celia stepped closer, kneeling beside Lira, her small hand gently resting on Edric’s coat. "She's right, my lord."
The warmth of Lira’s hands and the quiet sincerity of the two women slowly began to pull Edric back from the ledge of his panic.
The guilt didn't magically vanish, the sensation of the blade slicing and tearing flesh still lingered, but the suffocating terror began to recede, replaced by a grim, sobering understanding of the world he now lived in.
He forced a rigid, fragile nod, pulling his hands back to weakly pick up his fallen sword from the dirt. He had just paid his very first installment in blood, and the deep north was still waiting.