The heavy iron-studded gates of the inner keep groaned open, allowing Edric and Serah to pass through on horseback.
Beneath them lay Galehelm, the historic capital city of House Artos.
Surrounded by towering granite walls that rose high above the sweeping northern plains like a sleeping stone leviathan, the stronghold was massive. It had been built generations ago to serve as an unyielding shield against the fierce winds of the frontier, yet Edric’s sharp eyes didn't miss the subtle, unmistakable signs of structural decay clinging to its grand facade.
There was still business happening, merchants calling out their wares and wagons moving through the streets, but Galehelm was visibly fracturing under the weight of decades of negligence.
Looking closely, Edric noticed that many of the steep granite buildings had roofs sloppily patched with rotting thatch instead of proper slate tiles. The cobblestone roads were cracked and neglected, collecting pools of stagnant water.
Worst of all were the commonfolk. They looked hollow-cheeked and dirty, their clothes faded and heavily mended. For generations, House Artos had ruthlessly exploited them, squeezing every last copper from Galehelm's laborers to fill the manor's vaults, leaving the people with barely enough to survive the approaching cold.
As Edric's horse trotted down the main thoroughfare, the bustling murmurs of the market district died down instantly.
The crowd huddled along the walkways, their reactions a sharp cocktail of fear and deep-seated resentment. An old man quickly pulled his young grandson behind a stack of grain barrels, shielding the boy from view. Women lowered their eyes to the cobblestones, tightening their shawls, while several blacksmiths and laborers glared openly from the shadows of their stalls, their faces twisted with silent disdain.
To them, Edric was still the depraved tyrant who had continued his family's legacy of bleeding them dry.
Serah’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the crowd, her hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of her sword. "They forget their place, young master," she muttered, her horse sidestepping closer to his. "Shall I have the guards disperse them?"
"No," Edric replied calmly, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "Their ire is of no consequence to me, let them be."
They continued riding through the massive, towering outer gates, leaving the protective shadow of the walls behind.
Outside, the vast northern plains stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was a sea of golden-brown grass swaying under the autumn wind, dotted by patches of ancient woods whose leaves were just beginning to turn amber and crimson. It was a flat, brutal, yet beautiful landscape that practically vibrated with raw, untapped agricultural and strategic potential. In the right hands, these endless plains could feed an empire.
Edric pulled gently on his reins, bringing his horse to a halt on a low-rising mound. He took a deep breath of the crisp air, letting the sheer scale of the land wash over him.
As he did, a sudden wave of fatigue washed over his chest, and his lower back twinged with a dull, aching soreness. He adjusted his grip on the leather reins, holding back a grimace. He was barely doing anything more than sitting astride a trotting horse, yet his thighs were already burning, and his breath felt shallow.
Damn it, Edric thought to himself, a flash of irritation crossing his mind. This body is completely pathetic!
The old Edric had spent years drowning himself in wine, rich food, and sedentary indulgence. His muscles were soft, his stamina non-existent, and the core was utterly weak. If he were caught in a sudden ambush right now, he wouldn't even have the strength to swing a sword effectively, let alone run. He was going to have to fix his physical conditioning, and fast, if he wanted to survive the dangers to come.
Suppressing his fatigue, Edric cleared his throat and broke the silence. "Serah, we have a standing force of two hundred men, correct?"
Serah pulled up her mare alongside him, her posture rigid. "Yes, my lord. Two hundred standing soldiers currently garrisoned."
"And what is the exact breakdown of that force?" Edric turned his head slightly to glance at her. "How many are actually trained with arms, how many are knights, and how many war horses do we have fit for active service?"
Serah didn't answer right away. Behind her visor, her sharp eyes narrowed as she stared intently at the side of his face.
What is the young master playing at? she thought, a cold wave of suspicion washing over her.
The old Edric didn't know the first thing about military logistics. He had treated the standing force like a decorative, expensive nuisance, complaining about the cost of maintaining their leather and iron. Yet here he was, asking for granular troop quality with the focus of a true lord.
"Our standing force is heavily divided," Serah replied carefully, masking her internal alarm. "We have sixty dubbed knights pledged to House Artos, though fewer than half have seen real, bloody combat. Most of their experience comes from clearing out minor bandit raids along the borders. We also have fifty trained bowmen."
"Only fifty?" Edric pressed, his brow furrowing.
"Good archers take years to train, young master, and our numbers have always been few," Serah explained. "The remaining ninety men are standard infantrymen, equipped with spears and basic shields, but they have very little actual training or field experience. As for our war horses... we have barely forty fit for a proper cavalry charge. The rest are moreso for transport."
Edric didn't flinch. He merely let out a low hum, processing the dismal breakdown. Sixty knights, fifty bowmen, and ninety raw infantry.
If a rival house or a coordinated bandit coalition decided to push past their borders, their lines would buckle instantly. They had no heavy ranged superiority, and their infantry was practically just a speedbump.
"Pitiful," Edric murmured aloud. "We are practically an open invitation. We need to bolster our manpower. Rapidly."
Serah’s brow furrowed, her suspicion deepening into genuine confusion. "Bolster our manpower?"
"Yes," Edric answered quickly. "If we want to secure these lands, we'll need more than two hundred."
Serah thought for a bit before turning to Edric, "why not hire a mercenary company? Your treasury has more than enough for at least three large companies."
"That would be unwise." Edric said smoothly.
"How so?"
"Mercenaries are unreliable, they fight only for coin, which means they can be bought." Edric continued, turning his gaze back to the vast, empty plains. "Plus it's unsustainable. Sure we can hire two large companies, maybe for a year or two, but then what happens after."
He shifted slightly in his saddle, his tone turning colder, more calculated.
"No, we will need to increase our standing force, loyal to House Artos."
"Loyal, huh" Serah thought to herself.
"But.." She stared at him, the sheer authority radiating from his posture was entirely alien. It was as if a completely different soul had taken up residence inside the young lord's body. "Maybe you can do it "
"Young master," Serah called out, her voice dropping its usual formal edge, replacing it with a raw, searching intensity. "What is it that you actually plan to do with this territory? What is your goal?"
Edric finally turned his head, meeting her piercing gaze directly. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no flicker of the weak, depraved boy she had protected out of obligation for years. There was only an unshakeable, iron will.
"I am going to restore House Artos to its past glory," Edric answered with absolute, ringing honesty. "And then, I may even take it farther."
Miles away from the sweeping plains of Galehelm, inside a small, cramped wooden house in the village of Sunspeak, the air was thick with suffocating dread.
Brenn paced frantically across the uneven floorboards, his heavy, dirt-stained hands gripping his hair. Every few moments, he would stop, stare blankly at the cold hearth, and let out a breathless, panicked mutter.
"What have I done? What in the gods' names have I done..."
The memory of his recent journey to the Artos manor still haunted him. Lord Edric had surprised him, agreeing to reduce Sunspeak’s tax burden and had even promised to increase patrols on their roads to keep the villagers safe from bandits.
It had felt like a miraculous victory. Until the price was named.
“Bring me someone who can read and write,” Edric had commanded.
"I can't do it," Brenn whispered, his voice trembling as he stopped pacing. "I'll just tell them she fled. If I send her to that manor... to a den of wolves..." He swallowed hard, the horrific rumors of the young lord’s past cruelty and indulgence flashing vividly in his mind. Safety on the roads meant nothing if his daughter was ruined for it. "No. Let them take the full tax. Let us starve. I won't do it."
"Father."
The soft, steady voice cut through his spiral.
Brenn spun around. Standing near the narrow doorway to the back room was Lira. She wore a simple, heavily mended woolen cloak over her faded dress, a small canvas bundle resting securely in her hands. Her dark hair was neatly braided, and though her face was pale, her green eyes were remarkably calm.
"Lira," Brenn choked out, stepping forward, his hands shaking. "You... you aren't going. You can't. I will not hand you over to House Artos. I'll ride back to the manor. I'll tell the lord I take it back."
Lira stepped into the dim light of the main room, a gentle, sad smile touching her lips. She placed her small bundle on the wooden table and reached out, wrapping her hands over her father's rough, calloused knuckles.
"There is no taking it back from a high lord, Father," she said softly, her voice steady despite the faint tremor in her fingers. "If you break the contract, the guards will return, and they will take every last grain of wheat. Sunspeak will not survive the winter. I am prepared to do this."
"But you don't know what he's like!" Brenn cried, tears finally stinging his eyes as he gripped her shoulders. "He's a tyrant, Lira! A spoiled, fickle viper! I am your father, I am supposed to protect you... and instead, I bartered you away because you could read a few lines of script. Forgive me... gods, please forgive me..." He dropped his head, his shoulders shaking as he cursed their miserable, powerless situation.
"Father, look at me," Lira urged gently, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her expression was fiercely resolute. "You did what a chief must do. You saved Sunspeak. Do not feel guilty for a choice that was forced upon us. I have already accepted it."
She took a deep breath, tightening the clasp of her cloak. "Whatever he demands of me, I will bear it, so long as our people can eat and the roads are safe. Do not let my sacrifice be weighed down by your regret."
Before Brenn could speak, the sharp, rhythmic clopping of hooves echoed from the dirt path outside, accompanied by the cold clinking of iron armor.
The guards had arrived to collect the reduced harvest and their new prize.
Lira offered her father one last, lingering embrace, burying her face into his shoulder for a brief second before pulling away. She picked up her canvas bundle, turned toward the heavy wooden door, and pushed it open.
Outside, the autumn chill rushed into the house. Three mounted Artos household guards sat atop their horses, their dark cloaks shifting in the biting wind. Behind them stood the wooden wagons, already loaded with the reduced portion of Sunspeak's grain tax.
The lead guard looked down at Lira, his face hidden behind his iron helm. He didn't speak, merely gesturing with a gauntleted hand toward the the luxurious wagon stationed at the back.
Lira didn't look back at her father, knowing that if she did, her resolve would break. She walked forward through the damp mud, her grip tightening on her bundle. With a quiet, steady breath, she climbed up the wagon, settling into the worn leather seat.
"Move out," the lead guard barked.
With a crack of a whip, the wagons groaned to life. Lira rode silently within the iron-clad escort, her eyes fixed straight ahead as the small, impoverished village of Sunspeak slowly faded into the bleak, grey horizon behind her, carrying her straight toward the manor of the young lord.