Chapter 60 (Patreon)

The TOC smelled like cold coffee and lamp oil.

Harold stood at the map table, watching a clerk pin a new marker south of the river while another scribbled notes from whatever coded message had just come through the forum. The tribune running the operation had three more clerks cycling through posts, cross-referencing timestamps, flagging anything that matched their cipher keys.

It was ugly, tedious work, but essential.

"Haven update," the tribune said, not looking up from his tablet. "Assault repelled. Enemy casualties estimated at one hundred dead, with similar wounded. Our losses—" He checked the figures. "Fourteen dead, thirty-one wounded. Walls and gate secure."

Harold's hands found the edge of the table. Fourteen dead. Thirty-one wounded. Acceptable losses for repelling a force four times their size, but every one of those fourteen had a name, and Josh had been standing on those walls. The only way the losses were so low was because they all had healing potions.

"Josh?" Beth asked.

She'd been hovering near the entrance for the last hour, arms crossed, not quite glaring at Harold but not quite not glaring either. She'd shown up shortly after the first Haven update came through and hadn't left since.

The tribune glanced at his notes. "Uninjured. Confirmed in the latest cipher."

Beth let out a breath and uncrossed her arms. Then crossed them again.

"Councilor Mark took a bad hit," the tribune continued. "With Mana-edged weapon. Something is interfering with the healing potions. They're asking for guidance."

Harold rubbed his temple. Mana-edged wounds were tricky—the hostile mana clung to the tissue, fought the potion's regenerative effects. 

"Tell them to wait," he said. "One week minimum. Let the hostile mana dissipate naturally, then apply the strongest healing potion they have. He'll recover, but rushing it will make things worse."

The clerk was already writing.

"Evan's status?"

"Functional. He's taken field command while Mark recovers." The tribune flipped to another page. "They gave updated numbers on supply, all within the parameters. Also—" He paused. "Josh is requesting permission to collapse the southern approach entirely. Says he can drop half the hillside if they give him two days to prepare."

Harold's mouth twitched. Of course Josh wanted to collapse more hillsides. The man had found his calling.

"No, he may not collapse the hill. Pin Henri in place—don't let him withdraw, don't let him advance. All other limits removed." He looked at Beth. "Josh can collapse whatever he wants if Henri tries another assault."

Beth's jaw tightened. "You're keeping him there."

"I'm keeping him where he's most useful."

"He's an engineer. Not a soldier."

"He's the only person besides you in Haven who can reshape terrain on demand. The other earth crafters don't have your mana quality" Harold met her eyes. “And I didnt send him there.”

Beth's expression flickered—anger fighting with something else. Pride, maybe. Or fear wearing pride's mask.

"He's an idiot," she said.

"He's your idiot."

"That doesn't make it better."

Margaret appeared in the entrance, a leather folio tucked under one arm. She took in the scene—Beth's rigid posture, Harold's careful neutrality—and her mouth curved slightly.

"Am I interrupting?"

"No," Beth said.

"Yes," Harold said.

Margaret ignored both answers and moved to stand beside Beth. "Any word from the northern front?"

"Just coming in," the tribune said. Another clerk handed him a fresh sheet. "Captain Hale's current pace puts him at unknown Lord's village to the west in... a day, maybe two if the path doesn't clear up."

"Too slow," Harold said.

The tribune looked up. "Sir?"

"Send word. He needs to pick up the pace. I want him at those walls today, not tomorrow."

"That's a hard march. His men are already tired from the nest assault and then marching long hours."

"Then they'll be more tired when they arrive." Harold's hands sliced the air. "Henri's pinned at Haven, but he won't stay pinned forever. If Hale takes Lady Aiko's village before Henri can withdraw, we own the entire southern flank, and we can flip half his force. Henri's people will have nowhere to retreat to."

“And give Lord Dalen the go-ahead to move; he needs to be there by tomorrow evening.”

The tribune nodded and turned to relay the orders.

Beth hadn't moved, but Margaret touched her arm lightly.

"Hale will be fine," Margaret said. "He's been doing this longer than any of us."

"That's not—" Beth stopped. Started again. "I'm not worried about Hale."

"I know." Margaret's voice softened slightly. "But worrying about Josh won't bring him home faster. It'll just make the waiting harder."

Beth looked at her. Something passed between them—an understanding Harold wasn't fully part of.

"Your boyfriend is out there, too," Beth said.

"He's not my—" Margaret stopped. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "We haven't labeled it."

"I think that hickey you had labeled it."

Margaret's composure flickered. Just for a moment. Then she straightened and turned to Harold, all business again.

"Did you read my report?"

Harold winced. "Which one?"

"The one on internal security. The leaks."

"I haven't had time." He gestured at the map table, the cycling clerks, the chaos of a war run from a basement. "Summarize the critical points."

Margaret opened her folio. "We found a flaw in the standard oath. The language specifies that oath-takers will not share sensitive information with 'those outside the oath's protection.' The intent was clear—don't leak to enemies, don't post on forums, don't compromise operations."

"And?"

"And some people interpreted 'outside the oath's protection' very narrowly. They read it as applying only to people who could take the oath but haven't—meaning enemy lords, enemy soldiers, unsworn civilians." She flipped a page. "Adventurers who've taken different oaths, or no oaths at all, fell into a gray area. Several people convinced themselves that sharing information with adventurers wasn't technically a violation."

Harold's jaw tightened. "How much got out?"

"Less than you'd fear. Troop movements, mostly. Some supply information. Nothing about the tunnel network or the specific defensive preparations." Margaret closed the folio. "And critically, none of it reached outside entities. No forum posts, no messages to Henri's people. The leaks stayed within the adventurer community. Gossip, essentially. Dangerous gossip, but contained."

"Who was it?"

"Three clerks from various sections. All have been identified. All genuinely believed they weren't violating the oath—they weren't being malicious, just... interpretive."

Harold rubbed his temple again. "What do you recommend?"

"Dock their pay. Formally reprimand. And update the oath language before the next round of swearing, then make everyone retake the revised oath." Margaret's tone was crisp. "I've drafted revised wording that closes the loophole. 'Those outside the oath's protection' becomes 'any person or entity not explicitly cleared by command authority.' It's clunky, but it's unambiguous."

"Alright, let's do it."

"Already in progress." Margaret tucked the folio back under her arm. "Anything else?"

Harold looked at the map. Henri pinned at Haven. Hale marching south. Lady Aiko's village waiting to fall. The pieces were moving, but there were still gaps—places where information hadn't arrived, where he had to trust that people were doing their jobs without confirmation.

"Sarah," he said. "Any update?"

The tribune checked his notes. "Last contact was... twelve hours ago. They made it through the mountain pass. Continuing toward the Blackjaw range."

Harold frowned. "They should have cleared that pass two days ago."

"The message mentioned delays. No specifics."

Something had happened. Sarah was too competent to lose two days without a reason. Monster encounter, most likely—the mountains were full of things that could slow a team down. But she was alive, and she was moving.

He'd have to trust that.

"Keep monitoring," he said. "Flag anything from her team immediately."

"Yes, my lord."

Caldwell appeared in the doorway, ledger tucked under one arm, eyes already scanning the room for whatever number he'd come to track down. He spotted Harold at the map table and started toward him, then stopped.

His gaze had landed on the cold coffee cup.

"Is that—" He picked it up, sniffed it, and his face went through something complicated. "This is the Umbic blend. The one we traded three crates of healing potions for."

"Is it?"

"It's cold." Caldwell set the cup down like it had personally offended him. "You let it go cold."

"I got distracted."

"By the war. Yes. I understand wars are distracting." Caldwell's thumb tapped against the spine of his ledger—a rapid, irritated rhythm. "Do you know what that cup cost? In real terms? If I converted it to labor hours—"

"I'll heat it up and drink it," Harold said. "I promise."

Caldwell stared at him for a long moment, clearly weighing whether Harold's promise was worth the paper it wasn't written on. Then he sighed and pulled out his ledger.

"I need updates on the supply wagons. The northern route and the southern resupply both."

Harold gestured to the tribune, who began pulling the relevant dispatches. While they sorted through the logistics—wagon positions, estimated arrival times, losses to the various monsters—Adeline slipped in through the side entrance, a stack of papers in her hands.

She looked tired—everyone looked tired—but her eyes were sharp as she approached the table.

"Reports from the mining villages," she said. "Northern village is ahead of schedule. The southern village had a shaft collapse—no casualties, but they'll need structural support before they can resume. Veridia is requesting additional seed stock for the western fields."

Harold took the papers and began flipping through them. The war was the loudest fire, but the other fires didn't stop burning just because he was focused elsewhere. Mining output, farming schedules, construction timelines—all of it mattered, all of it needed attention, all of it was one more weight on a pile that never got lighter.

"Approve the seed request," he said. "Pull crafters from here for the southern mine—we need that ore more than we need faster construction on non-essential buildings. Northern site..." He checked the numbers. "Never mind, Lira has done good work there. If that continues, I’m going to shift her south."

Adeline nodded and made notes.

Caldwell was heading for the door, ledger updated, when Harold remembered.

"Caldwell. Wait."

He turned, eyebrows raised.

"I need you and Adeline to work together on something." Harold set down the mining reports. "In about a month, we're going to have guests. Lords, probably. Maybe some adventurer representatives. I need a reception—something that makes the Landing look like a place worth allying with and surrendering to."

Caldwell's coin stopped clicking. "You want me to spend money. On a party."

"On a diplomatic investment."

"That's what people who spend money on parties always call them."

Adeline had gone very still. "Haro- My lord, I'm—" She stopped, started again. "I was a contract administrator. Before that, I was a soldier's wife. I don't know how to throw a reception for lords."

"You know how to organize. You know how to delegate. And you know how to make people feel like they're being taken care of without actually giving them anything they didn't earn." Harold shrugged. "That's most of diplomacy, honestly."

Adeline's mouth opened. Closed.

Caldwell was doing math in his head—Harold could see it in the way his eyes unfocused. "If we source locally... use the keep for the venue... food costs could be managed if we're strategic about the menu..." He trailed off, then refocused. "It'll be expensive. But you're right—the return could be substantial. New trade, and routes opened, access to resources we don't have..." He tucked the ledger more firmly under his arm. "Fine. But I'm keeping receipts, and you're going to hear about every chit."

"I'd expect nothing less."

Caldwell nodded and left, already muttering numbers under his breath.

Adeline was still standing there, papers clutched against her chest.

"I don't—" She shook her head. "I'll figure it out."

"I know you will."

She gave him a look that said she wasn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed, then followed Caldwell out.

Beth was still standing near the entrance, but some of the tension had gone out of her shoulders. Margaret stood beside her, not quite touching, but close enough to matter.

Harold looked at them. Two people trusting that the plan would work, that the pieces would fall into place, that the chaos of war would resolve into something that looked like victory.

He didn't have the luxury of waiting. But he could give them something.

"Josh is going to be fine," he said. "He's exactly where he wants to be—making things explode and annoying Henri. When this is over, you'll have to drag him away from the fortifications."

Beth's mouth twitched with almost a smile.

Harold turned back to the map. Henri was pinned. Hale was moving. Sarah was delayed but alive. The mines were producing, the farms were planting, and somewhere out there, his people were fighting a war he'd started.

Two more days. Maybe three. That's how long Henri could hold before the walls closed around him completely.

Harold reached for his coffee—then stopped, remembering Caldwell's face.

He found a brazier and heated the coffee a little before taking a satisfying sip.

It wasn't bad, actually. For the price of two healing potions.