By early morning, House Artos’ scribes rode out from the manor.
Split into smaller groups, their goal was to cover the majority of the territory before winter roads became impossible to traverse.
Horses, supply wagons, and armed escorts departed one after another through the fortress gates beneath a sky still painted in pale shades of dawn. The cold air bit through wool and leather alike, while frost clung stubbornly to the stone walls of the keep.
Orders had spread quickly through the administrative wing overnight.
Every village was to be documented.
Every household counted.
Every field, livestock pen, grain store, and trade road inspected and recorded.
The scale of the operation alone unsettled many within the manor.
For decades, House Artos had ruled through old ledgers, outdated assumptions, and quotas copied year after year without question. Entire settlements existed on paper despite having vanished long ago, while others had quietly shrunk beneath the weight of famine, raids, and winter hardship.
Now, for the first time in years, riders bearing the crest of House Artos traveled not to collect—
but to observe.
Among them rode Senior Scribe Matthus.
A stern middle-aged man wrapped in layered wool and dark green administrative robes, his satchel overflowed with parchment, ink, wax seals, and census ledgers copied directly from the manor archives the night before.
Beside him rode two guards clad in winter cloaks over chainmail, while a hired local guide led the group further north along a narrow road buried beneath patches of old snow and hardened mud.
"Can this even be considered a road?" One of the guards remarked as he scanned the surroundings. "Our horses may very well break their legs in these conditions."
"Wasn't always like this" answered the guide who accompanied them. "Unfortunately, this is our condition now."
No one spoke further.
After passing a few dilapidated and abandoned houses, the guide pointed on a smoke atop of a hill. "That there is Ravenhill" he stated, "they used to supply surrounding smaller villages with beef and mutton."
Matthus grabbed a small ledger from his satchel, "how many people reside in this village?" He asked as he looked towards another scribe trailing behind him.
The younger scribe fumbled briefly through a bundle of copied records before answering.
“According to the previous registry… one hundred and twelve residents, Senior Matthus.”
Matthus lifted an eyebrow.
“According to the previous registry,” he repeated flatly.
The younger man swallowed. “Y-yes, sir.”
One of the guards snorted quietly beneath his scarf. “Meaning nobody actually knows.”
No one contradicted him.
As they continued up the slope, Ravenhill slowly came into clearer view.
The village looked tired.
Not ruined entirely, but worn thin in the way only long hardship could accomplish. Fences leaned unevenly beneath frost, rooftops sagged under old repairs, and the fields surrounding the settlement looked barren save for patches of stubborn winter grass.
A few sheep wandered near a collapsed pen.
Thin things.
The guide noticed where Matthus was looking.
“They had more livestock before,” he explained quietly. “Especially cattle.”
“Where are the men tending to them?” asked one of the guards.
The guide hesitated.
“Some died during the harsher winters,” he answered carefully. “Others went south for greener pastures.”
“And the rest?”
The man looked toward the hills beyond the village.
“…Hard times make people do difficult things.”
Silence followed.
The meaning settled easily enough without further explanation.
Matthus made no comment, though he quietly adjusted the ledger beneath his arm.
By the time the riders entered Ravenhill proper, villagers had already begun gathering near the center of the settlement.
Doors remained half-open behind nervous eyes. Mothers held children close while older men stood near tools that could become weapons if desperation overcame caution.
House Artos riders rarely arrived without bringing suffering behind them.
The guide slowed his horse beside a weathered stone well.
An older man stepped forward from the crowd, heavy furs hanging from his shoulders.
“My lords,” he greeted carefully. “I am Oren, chief of Ravenhill.”
Matthus dismounted stiffly, boots crunching against frost.
“Senior Scribe Matthus,” he introduced himself. “By order of Lord Edric Artos, we are conducting a census of the territory.”
At the mention of House Artos’ lord, visible tension spread through the villagers.
Oren bowed his head slightly lower.
“If this concerns winter collection…” he began carefully, “we ask only for mercy, my lord. We've given all we can, any more and we won't have enough for the winter.”
A murmur of quiet agreement followed behind him.
One woman instinctively pulled her young son behind her the moment she noticed the armored escorts scanning the square.
Matthus opened his ledger.
“This is not a collection,” he stated plainly. “No grain nor payment will be taken today.”
The villagers exchanged uncertain looks.
Oren frowned. “Then, why?”
“To count,” Matthus answered.
The chief blinked.
Matthus continued evenly.
“The lord has ordered a complete accounting of the territory. Population, livestock, grain stores, roads, occupations, winter conditions.”
“Why?” someone asked quietly from the crowd.
That question lingered heavily in the cold air.
Matthus paused for only a moment.
“Because the existing records are incomplete,” he replied.
The woman holding the child tightened her grip slightly.
“And… there will be no conscription?” she asked hesitantly.
Fear flickered openly across several faces now.
One older villager lowered his gaze immediately.
Matthus looked toward her directly.
“There is no levy order,” he said firmly. “No war summons. This is only a census.”
The mother still looked uncertain.
For years, House Artos had only counted people when they intended to take something from them.
Taxes.
Labor.
Sons.
Matthus slowly reopened the ledger.
“Very well,” he said. “We will begin with household counts.”
The villagers exchanged uneasy looks, but no one objected openly.
Oren motioned weakly toward the clustered homes beyond the square. “I’ll guide you.”
The group moved through Ravenhill beneath wary eyes.
One of the younger scribes followed closely behind Matthus, ink-stained fingers already trembling from the cold as he prepared fresh parchment sheets for documentation.
The guards remained alert, though even they seemed less tense now that no immediate confrontation had erupted.
Still, distrust lingered in every doorway.
The first house they entered smelled faintly of smoke and damp straw.
An elderly woman lived there alone.
According to the old registry, the home housed six people.
Her husband had died three winters ago.
One son had disappeared along the southern roads.
The other never returned after being conscripted by a minor lord two years prior.
The younger scribe hesitated before scratching lines through several names in the copied ledger.
Deceased.
Missing.
Unconfirmed.
The next household was worse.
Four children.
No father.
The mother avoided eye contact while answering questions, as though expecting punishment for every answer she gave.
“How much grain remains?” Matthus asked.
The woman hesitated before opening a storage chest near the hearth.
Almost empty.
One of the guards frowned beneath his scarf.
“That won’t survive winter,” he muttered quietly.
The woman stiffened immediately, mistaking the observation for accusation.
“We stretched what we could,” she said quickly. “Please, my lord, we paid what was demanded after autumn harvest. We did not withhold—”
“This is not an inspection,” Matthus interrupted, more sharply than intended.
Silence followed.
The woman lowered her gaze at once.
Matthus exhaled slowly through his nose.
“…Continue,” he said quietly to the scribe beside him.
House by house, the pattern repeated.
Shrunken families.
Empty grain stores.
Collapsed roofs abandoned after storms.
Entire homes standing vacant with frost gathered inside through broken walls.
Yet many still appeared within the official tax records.
One home had burned down entirely years ago.
Another family had fled north after repeated raids along the trade roads.
A shepherd listed in the ledgers as owner of thirty sheep had died the previous winter.
By midday, even the younger guards had stopped making casual conversation.
The numbers spoke loudly enough on their own.
Near the edge of the village, Matthus paused beside a small fenced field overtaken by dead grass and patches of snow.
Several crude wooden markers stood beyond it.
Graves.
Too many for such a small settlement.
The guide followed his gaze quietly.
“Last winter was harsh,” he said.
Matthus looked back toward the village.
Old men hauled water buckets instead of younger laborers.
Children wore oversized coats stitched repeatedly at the sleeves.
Several homes housed multiple families beneath a single roof to conserve firewood.
And everywhere—
thinness.
Not starvation yet.
But close enough that another bad winter might finish what the previous years had started.
The younger scribe approached carefully, fresh pages in hand.
“Senior Matthus,” he said quietly, “I’ve completed the preliminary count.”
Matthus extended a hand.
The scribe swallowed before passing him the parchment.
Official registry: 112 residents.
Current confirmed population: 67.
Of those, only 18 were adult men fit for heavy labor.
Livestock totals had fallen by more than half.
Grain reserves were critically low.
Several surrounding hamlets listed in the ledgers no longer existed at all.
For a long moment, Matthus simply stared at the numbers.
Then he looked down at the older copied registry from the manor archives.
The quotas had not changed once.
Not once.
Even after nearly half the village disappeared.
Behind him, Oren spoke carefully.
“My lord…?”
Matthus did not answer immediately.
His eyes lingered on the neat columns of ink copied year after year by obedient hands.
Harvest quotas.
Livestock expectations.
Tax projections.
All calculated for people already dead.
A cold weight settled in his stomach.
Not simple negligence.
Systemic blindness.
Or worse.
Slowly, Matthus closed the ledger.
“We’ll require revised maps,” he murmured.
The younger scribe blinked. “Sir?”
“Some of these settlements no longer exist.”
The words felt strange spoken aloud.
As though acknowledging a death long ignored.
Oren lowered his gaze quietly.
No one in Ravenhill looked surprised.
Only tired.
One of the guards stared back toward the village square where several children watched them cautiously from behind the well.
The truth was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
House Artos had not been governing its territory, merely collecting from it.
And now, for the first time in years, someone was finally counting what remained.
Back at the manor, Gareth and the other administrators began receiving trickling reports sent by the envoys.
Messenger birds arrived throughout the day, their feathers dusted with frost from long flights across the northern territories.
Servants moved constantly through the narrow stairwells carrying small leather message tubes, while clerks hurried between offices with fresh copies of incoming reports.
What had begun as unease was steadily becoming tension.
Inside Gareth’s office, candlelight flickered across stacks of opened correspondence spread neatly over the desk.
The old steward sat in silence as another message was placed before him.
A young servant bowed quickly. “Report from the western river settlements, Steward Gareth.”
Gareth gave a small nod.
The servant withdrew immediately.
He opened the tube and unfolded the parchment within.
Population lower than previous registry by approximately forty-three percent. Trade road partially collapsed after early snowfall.
Two hamlets abandoned.
Insufficient grain reserves for prolonged winter.
Bandit activity increasing along southern forest paths.
Gareth’s eyes lingered briefly on the final line.
Then he calmly placed the parchment aside atop another growing pile.
Not surprising.
Another knock followed shortly after. A clerk entered carrying fresh copies of summarized tallies. His expression looked increasingly strained.
“Steward Gareth,” he said carefully, “additional northern reports have arrived.”
“Speak.”
The clerk swallowed.
“Most settlements are reporting lower populations than official registries.” He hesitated. “In some cases… drastically lower.”
“How drastic?”
The clerk glanced toward his notes.
“One village listed with ninety-one residents currently has forty-two confirmed survivors.”
Survivors.
Interesting choice of word, Gareth noticed it immediately.
“And livestock?”
“Declining nearly everywhere. Especially cattle.” The clerk shifted uneasily. “Several settlements report selling breeding stock during previous winters to meet tax obligations.”
Gareth’s gaze sharpened slightly.
Short-term survival at the cost of long-term sustainability.
Disastrous.
The clerk continued carefully.
“There are also… inconsistencies in prior collection records.”
“Inconsistencies.”
Another careful word.
Gareth folded his hands behind his back.
“Explain.”
The clerk visibly straightened.
“Some villages appear to have paid quotas based on outdated population estimates for years,” he answered cautiously. “Several records do not match current treasury projections.”
Not theft necessarily.
But enough to suggest either negligence or manipulation somewhere within the administrative chain.
The clerk lowered his voice slightly.
“There are concerns among the scribes.”
“Regarding?”
“…How long this has gone unnoticed.”
Silence settled briefly across the office.
Outside the narrow windows, snow drifted slowly across the fortress courtyards below.
Gareth turned his gaze toward the stacks of reports covering the desk.
He had known the territory was weakening.
One would have to be blind not to.
Harvests had worsened steadily over the years. Trade revenue fluctuated unpredictably. Villages increasingly requested delayed collections each winter.
But these reports painted something different.
Total collapse.
Dead villages, missing laborers, collapsed roads, livestock long since sold or slaughtered.
And somehow, despite all of it, the the House was indifferent.
A quiet knock interrupted the silence once more.
Another servant entered hurriedly carrying a fresh message tube. “Urgent report from the eastern survey teams, Steward Gareth.”
Gareth accepted it personally this time.
The parchment inside was shorter than the others. His eyes moved across the page once.
Then again.
For the first time that day, Gareth went completely still.
The clerk noticed immediately.
“…Steward Gareth?”
Gareth lowered the report slowly.
“The eastern mining settlement of Dunmere,” he said calmly, “was listed in the treasury records as operational.”
The clerk blinked.
“Yes, sir?”
Gareth looked at him. “It no longer exists.”
“The settlement was abandoned two years ago after a tunnel collapse.” Gareth’s voice remained perfectly level. “It hasn't produced a single ore in over two years.”
The clerk’s face lost color.
“But…” he stammered weakly, “the ledgers have records of maintenance costs and wages.”
He merely looked back down at the report in his hand.
Production quotas.
Transport allocations.
Tax projections.
All continuing neatly on parchment for a settlement already buried beneath snow and stone.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Slowly, Gareth folded the report closed.
Then his gaze drifted toward the distant upper floors of the manor.
Toward the chambers of the young lord who had ordered this census with seemingly little thought beyond a simple question.
"This is worse than I imagined."