Chapter 35 (Patreon)

Wood struck wood again. The sound snapped across the training yard, a sharp thump that made two nearby legionaries glance over their shoulders.

Harold lunged forward, shield first, axe arcing low. Dirt shifted as he forced the pace, already breathing hard from earlier rounds.

Jack Churchill slid half a step sideways.

The movement looked small. It ruined the entire attack.

Jack's blade struck Harold's shield, rolled across, and snapped against Harold's helm with a wooden crack.

"Dead," Jack said.

Harold reset his stance without answering. Sweat ran down his spine beneath the padded gambeson, the cool morning air cutting across the damp cloth at the collar. He drove forward again, shield first, forcing mana into his legs to close the distance faster. Heat flared in his calves, muscles tightening almost to the point of pain. He was pushing his will as hard as he could, and his body was paying the price.

Jack stepped inside the swing.

Jack's blade tapped Harold's ribs, twisted his shield aside, and clipped his knee.

His shoulder hit the dirt, and Jack stood over him before he could roll, practice sword resting across Harold's chest.

"You're not fighting with discipline," Jack said. "Your head sits somewhere else entirely."

Harold rolled to his feet, breath rougher.

"Again."

They circled, boots scraping across packed dirt, and small stones shifted underfoot. This time, Harold pressed harder. He chained strikes together in a rhythm meant to keep Jack reacting, not thinking. For a heartbeat, Jack's defense faltered as his heel slid on a loose stone, but his balance recovered smoothly just in time to parry the next blow.

Jack caught Harold's axe with a turn, sidestepped a shield bash, and cracked the sword against Harold's shoulder.

They traded a few more blows before Jack stepped back and lifted his hand.

"That's enough."

Harold kept his stance another moment before lowering the axe.

"You're burning mana chasing something that isn't in this yard. I am teaching you to fight with a calm, collected mind. Not whatever this is," Jack said.

Harold's pulse thumped against the inside of his skull, the edges of the world sharpening. He wiped his forearm across his face, smearing sweat across the bridge of his nose.

"Go meditate."

Harold's jaw tightened. "I don't have time for—"

Jack pointed the practice blade toward the keep.

"Roof," he said. "Before you say or do something you regret."

Harold left the training yard and cut through the settlement toward the keep.

Wind hit him as he stepped onto the roof, carrying woodsmoke and the smell of the outdoor kitchen.

He gripped the low wall, looking down over the Landing.

The wreckage of the potion hall had already begun to vanish.

Stone masons worked through the rubble with hammers and iron wedges, knocking loose the blocks that had survived the blast. Good pieces were loaded onto wagons. Another crew sorted them by size before hauling them toward the growing road network winding through the settlement.

A line of men dug nearby, their shovels biting into the packed soil where roped sections showed the outline of the new potion complex. Stone was already being gathered for the foundations.

The new complex would have reinforced walls between rooms, separate ventilation, failsafes the old hall never had. It would be the largest building in the Landing besides the guild house and the new storehouse that had been built for Caldwell.

No single mistake would tear it down again. If someone's brew failed, the room would burn, but the building would survive.

Harold leaned over the wall, looking farther out.

The woods were retreating.

Lumber crews moved along the edge of the tree line with practiced rhythm. Swing. Crack. Shout. Axes struck deep and clean, each impact echoing through the morning air. Mana strengthened their swings. Trunks groaned and split. Another swing. Another shout. Then they crashed into the brush where other teams waited with ropes and iron bars.

Tatanka strained in their harnesses as they dragged stubborn stumps from the earth, hooves digging deep into the churned soil. They needed more of those animals.

More tatanka meant more timber hauled, more fields opened, more stone dragged from the quarries. More convoys could be run to the outlying villages.

Harold's gaze shifted again.

The fields south of the settlement spread wider each week. Rows of new soil turned dark beneath the sun while farmers moved through them with slow, steady motion.

Those fields chased a surplus as the main food supply would come from Veridia, the farming village, to the west.

Grain for soldiers. Food for caravans. Stores that could survive a long march. Soldiers moved on their bellies, and they would need the surplus.

Most of the plots would only grow one or two seasons before the land folded back into the city.

Beth's plan shaped the entire district.

Roads widened first, allowing four wagons abreast on the main thoroughfares. Workshops moved into zoned clusters, storage, and housing following behind in careful stages. Already, Harold could see the bones of the future city forming in the way the crews moved through the work.

Beth and Josh ran that system well. He would leave it in their hands.

Harold exhaled slowly and stepped back from the wall.

He crossed the roof and lowered himself against the stone of one of the towers, folding his legs beneath him.

Slow breath in. Slow breath out.

Mana moved through the familiar internal pathways, rising and falling in quiet currents. He closed his eyes and followed the breath, let it fill his chest and stretch into long, calm spaces inside him. In, slow and steady, almost endless, his heartbeat slowing a little further with each inhale. He coaxed the tension from his shoulders and arms, one muscle at a time. Exhaling, his thoughts tried to creep back—sharp, clipped, much too quick—so he let the air leave his lungs in short bursts. Another breath, drawn out, gentler, emptying him out. Still, stray worries darted in, breaking the rhythm, sentences in his mind growing short, ragged, until he pulled himself back to the slow pulse of air, muscles unknotting, thoughts stretching out again as he breathed in.

Noise from the settlement drifted upward as his senses expanded.

Axes striking wood. Tatanka snorting under strain. Distant hammer blows from the smith district. The sounds threaded through his breathing. His mind kept reaching for the work waiting below.

Reports from Vera still sat unread.

Sarah would be somewhere in the mountains around the Landing soon, and her team would need guidance before they pushed too far into the range.

There was an update on the Cohort being formed near Dalens Hold. Margaret was finishing the final pieces of phase 1 before Harold launched phase 2 of the plan.

Centurion Ayen still worked on the reinforced fort near Haven, and Harold had already sent adventurers to strengthen that line.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The thoughts settled slowly as he let them fall into place instead of chasing them.

The destroyed potion hall pressed more heavily than the rest. Months of work gone.

Elia's face kept surfacing. The smell of the blast. The way the apprentices hadn't even had time to scream. She had pushed the reaction past the limits he set, and now he needed to decide how she would answer for that choice.

The anger tied to that loss sat sharp and clear. Yet something else pressed behind it: Sarah's name floated through the quiet space of his thoughts. That piece fit poorly.

His thoughts lingered on the actions he'd taken and the people he had hurt. Forced the first time, but after, he had welcomed the work—advancing alchemy, or so he told himself. His jaw tightened at the memory: not for what he had achieved, but for who he had become. He remembered almost wanting the pain, the punishment for refusing to work.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He had tried to end it all so many times. Poison. A small knife. Rope. But there were always eyes on him. They called him too valuable to let die.

That was the true irritation, wasn't it? Unresolved memories dragged at him, old failures gnawing beneath the surface. He shoved them aside. Now was not the time to dwell, and the minutes passed as he breathed.

The truth arrived without much ceremony. The campaign.

Harold opened his eyes halfway and watched the wind ripple the new banners along the keep walls. Elia's face again, and the apprentices behind her. As he considered the moves he was about to make, the weight inside him gathered. How far could he march down this path before he became the thing he once despised?

The plan minimized deaths. The idea was to manipulate the other lords into being out of position so Harold could strike quickly, ending it all in a single movement.

The calculation was cold and heavy. Sacrifice lives now to secure the future. Logic held, but where was the line between necessity and cruelty? He could have conquered already, but he needed the enemy lords' steles intact, needed their people to repopulate the Basin. Allowing them to live was pure pragmatism.

The wind shifted. Harold stood, brushed off his trousers, and cracked dried sweat on his back.

Controlling the basin was essential. Without power, promises cracked under pressure. Looking over the settlement, Harold admitted, necessary work usually brought little comfort.

He exhaled and turned from the wall.

With one last look at the banners, Harold left the rooftop behind.

Stone stairs carried the echo of his boots down through the tower, returning him to the quieter halls below. The sounds of the Landing faded as he let his mana relax—axes striking timber, wagon wheels grinding across new cobbles, the low rumble of men arguing over work assignments somewhere below.

By the time he reached the corridor outside his office, the noise had dulled to a distant pulse.

Margaret sat inside when he pushed the door open.

She had claimed the chair across from his desk and had already built a small fortress of reports around herself. Tablets stacked in uneven piles, parchment spread across the table, one hand holding a page close to the window where the light fell across the ink.

Harold did not greet her.

He walked past the desk to the side table, where the kettle was warming on low coals.

Margaret glanced up once as he entered, studied the tight line of his shoulders, then lowered her eyes back to the report without speaking.

The silence stayed in the room while Harold worked.

He poured the water slowly into the grinder, the beans cracking under the pressure of the stone handle as he turned it. The smell rose immediately—bitter, warm, familiar. He tapped the grounds into the percolator pot, poured the water in a steady circle, and waited while the brew settled.

Margaret let the quiet sit. Her stylus moved across the wax slate in short strokes while Harold finished the process.

He poured the coffee with careful hands, the dark liquid filling the cup while a thin ribbon of steam curled upward. He lifted it once, turning the cup slightly as if testing its weight, then took the first slow sip.

The bitterness settled across his tongue and into his chest.

Only then did he set the cup down.

"Alright," he said, voice calmer now. "What do you have for me, Margaret?"

She looked up. And that was when Harold noticed it.

His brow lifted slightly. "Wait."

He leaned back in the chair a fraction and pointed at her. "What are you wearing?"

Margaret froze for a half second before continuing to arrange the papers in front of her as if nothing had been said.

The collar of her shirt climbed unusually high around her throat, stiff and folded close against her neck. "That's new."

Margaret met his eyes across the desk.

Harold watched her for another moment before a quiet chuckle escaped him. "Ah." He leaned back further. "Whatcha hiding under that collar?"

Margaret's mouth pressed into a line that looked suspiciously like she wasn't trying to smile. Harold lifted his cup again and took another drink.

"About time if you ask me, had to give Hale a soldier's goodbye huh," he said. He gestured lazily toward the reports spread across the desk as he smiled. "What do we have for the morning?"

Margaret cleared her throat lightly.

"I initiated the final portion of phase one this morning."

Harold nodded once, giving her permission to continue.

"As you know, I have several agents working the forums," she said, sliding one of the reports across the desk toward him. "They have been posting complaints about conditions inside the Landing and the other villages."

Harold glanced down but did not pick the page up yet.

"We focused the narrative on Haven," she continued. "Claims that the garrison there is unprepared, that production losses have weakened them, and we are moving people to reinforce it, that the monster raids have strained the outer defenses. There are also posts suggesting people inside the Landing have grown unhappy with your rule."

Harold gave a quiet hum into his cup.

Margaret watched his reaction carefully before going on.

"The intention remains the same. Henri reads those forums constantly. If he believes Haven is the weak point, he will try to strike it. We also assess that he is arrogant enough to try to reclaim what he sees as his. He thinks the escaped people belong to him, and we think Arjun will follow if the opportunity looks clean."

She slid another sheet forward.

"That allows us to move north to south through the basin while their forces are committed across the river. That allows us to conquer the other village north of Arjun and move south to capture them all."

Harold leaned back slightly, his fingers resting against the edge of the desk.

Margaret tapped the page with the end of her stylus.

"I also ran the timelines again. Factoring travel distance, river crossings, and the time it would take us to strike their towns directly, I estimated when Henri would be forced to act if he believed the rumors."

Harold finally picked the page up. Margaret continued.

"Your order to begin phase two aligns closely with the window I calculated for a strike from Henri. It is not exact, but the overlap is favorable."

She paused, shifting the next set of notes.

"I would still like to send several adventurer teams to scout his projected line of advance. Nothing aggressive. Just eyes on the route."

Harold took another drink while she spoke.

"Our original plan called for the adventurers from the southern pass village to move west toward the Henri and stir the centaurs near Henri's territory," she said. "The idea was to keep pressure on him from multiple directions."

Margaret shook her head slightly.

"With the way the centaurs are moving now, I no longer believe that step is necessary."

She set the stylus down and folded her hands.

"I recommend we recall roughly a quarter of those adventurers and reposition them at Haven."

Harold raised an eyebrow. Margaret met his gaze.

"Mark agrees with the assessment," she said. "The centaurs fight irregularly. They move fast, scatter quickly, and strike wherever the terrain favors them. Adventurers match that style far better than a formal formation without a way to force battle."

She tapped the map again, where the river line ran across the basin.

"And they are eager for the perks. Endurance, running, and the weapon perks the centaurs drop. The guild hall is already buzzing with volunteers."

Harold turned the page once more, scanning the lines Margaret had written.

Harold turned the page once more, his eyes moving slowly over Margaret's notes. The cup sat warm beside his hand, the steam thinning now as the coffee cooled.

He spoke after a moment, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

"I am curious about the centaur Jace described."

Margaret's stylus paused above the slate.

"He sounded…organized," Harold continued, his fingers tapping once against the edge of the paper as he thought through the memory. "Not simply a strong beast among beasts. The way he described the encounter—the way he commanded the others, the way he was armed and armored…"

He leaned back slightly.

"That sounds closer to a lord than a monster."

Margaret watched him carefully.

"There have been attempts," Harold said, still turning the thought over. "Some Lords tried diplomacy with monster groups when the world first opened. Goblins, kobolds, and even the smaller beast clans. The most success came from the shifter beast clans."

He gave a faint shake of his head.

"None of them held. Eventually, the monsters turned on them."

His fingers drummed once on the desk before going still.

"Diplomacy with monsters fails more often than not," he said, almost to himself. "Their incentives don't align with ours."

He lifted the coffee cup and took a slow drink before setting it down again.

"But a cavalry force like that…"

He looked up at Margaret. "…is difficult to ignore."

Margaret tilted her head slightly. "You are considering negotiations? That won't be received well after the people they have killed."

Harold rested his forearms on the desk.

"I am considering possibilities," he said. "The basin is large, and our enemies will multiply faster than our soldiers in the coming years."

His gaze drifted briefly toward the window slit where the sounds of the Landing still carried faintly upward.

"If that centaur truly commands the others," he said slowly, "then he possesses authority."

He looked back at Margaret. "And authority can sometimes be bargained with."

Margaret's brow creased slightly.

"You believe an agreement is possible?"

Harold's mouth curved faintly at the corner.

"I believe it is worth learning whether he thinks like a leader or like a beast," he said.

He tapped the map where the centaur territory sat beyond the tree line.

"Because if he thinks like a leader…" He picked up the cup again.

"…then he understands the value of choosing his enemies carefully. Let's see how he responds to Henri's advance through the plains, and we can make decisions based on that."