The morning mist hung low across the training yard, blurring the walls in a smoky haze that smelled of ash, damp hay, and singed leather. Edric stood at the edge of the courtyard, eyes fixed on the dummies lined up like condemned men. His cloak hung loose, shoulders bare beneath the cold, his body still aching from yesterday's drills—but the ache grounded him.
Behind him, boots scraped gravel. Brynn's gravelled voice cut through the quiet. "You're not training alone again, are you?"
Edric didn't look back. "Not alone. Just early."
She walked to his side, her one eye squinting at the farthest target. "Still favors your left when tired," she muttered, noting his stance.
"I'm working on it."
Brynn snorted. "You always are."
Before he could reply, a small stone clattered near his boot. Edric turned to find Cress, the wiry urchin-turned-messenger, panting hard with a scrap of parchment in hand.
"Riders spotted near the river fork," Cress said between breaths. "Too armored for scouts. Might be… nobles."
Edric raised a brow. "Colors?"
"None flying. But big horses. Clean boots."
That meant coin.
He took the parchment and scanned the crude map. A red cross marked the southern riverbend—two leagues away. Close enough for concern, far enough to prepare.
Brynn leaned over his shoulder. "Geldar again?"
"No," Edric said. "They wouldn't ride bare like that."
"Who then?"
He didn't answer. His mind was already moving.
Lyra.
She arrived by noon.
The riders wore no banners, but their armor gleamed, polished and proud. Lyra rode at the center, a deep violet cloak draped over silver-plated shoulders. Her face was unreadable as she dismounted. Sunlight hit her like a spotlight—hair tucked in a braid, the faint gleam of a curved dagger at her hip.
Edric stepped forward, jaw tight. "You came back."
Lyra arched a brow. "I never left. Not fully."
Brynn crossed her arms behind him, silent but watchful.
Edric's voice softened. "You didn't send word."
"There was no time," she said. "And no certainty. But now… I bring more than news."
Two of her guards stepped aside, revealing a pair of wagons filled with sacks—grain, bolts of cloth, bundles of forged nails.
"And this is?"
"Trade," Lyra said. "The first of many. My father's council may not yet recognize you… but I do."
Edric's stomach turned. She was risking more than reputation by standing here. He met her gaze. "And what do you want in return?"
"Not want," she said simply. "Invest."
Behind him, Rafe let out a low whistle. "Gods, she's got better margins than our quartermaster."
Brynn nudged him quiet.
Lyra's eyes never left Edric's. "Build something worth believing in, Edric. And we'll have more than trade caravans."
That night, he walked the parapet, thoughts tangled like brambles. Ashcoil curled beneath his cloak, a quiet weight of heat and pulse.
"You trust her?" Brynn asked from behind, voice low.
"No," Edric answered. "But I trust the risk."
Brynn studied him. "Your recruits will see this as a win."
"They need to," he said. "They need to believe we're more than stubborn survivors."
Brynn hesitated. "One of the scouts found something. In the old chapel ruins."
Edric turned, alert. "Show me."
They entered the crumbled stone skeleton by torchlight. Moss clung to broken arches; dust choked the air. In a half-buried chamber beneath the altar, a rusted trapdoor had been pried open.
"It was locked," Brynn said. "Kai picked it. Took him two hours."
Edric dropped into the dark below. The torch's glow caught on shelves—hundreds of brittle scrolls and a cracked stone basin at the center, etched with runes.
He stepped closer, brushing dust aside. The basin hummed faintly beneath his palm.
"This was a rune sanctum," he whispered.
Ashcoil stirred.
Brynn knelt beside the scrolls. "Most are unreadable. But this one…"
She handed him a leather-bound ledger. Old. Faded.
Inside were diagrams—mechanical, magical—sketches of weapons fused with runes. One page showed a bracer with embedded stonework; another, a bowstring spun from bloodsilver.
He turned pages slowly, breath caught between awe and unease.
"This is dangerous," he said.
"Or vital," Brynn countered.
That night, he didn't sleep.
The next morning, training resumed.
Edric watched from the platform as Ronan drilled the recruits. The man moved with ease, barking orders, correcting stances. Edric noted the fluidity in his sword arm—strong, precise, unhesitant.
"He's good," he murmured.
Brynn, at his side, nodded. "Always was. Just needed direction."
Edric folded his arms. "We all do."
From the tower, Cress whistled—a short triple note.
"Message," Rafe called.
Moments later, the boy scrambled down and waved a charcoal-streaked paper. "Spotted a Geldar banner—burned halfway. Near the old mill!"
Edric took the paper, heart steady. They were testing borders again.
He turned to Garrick. "Take ten riders. Don't engage—shadow them. If they sniff a trap, we want them running blind."
Garrick saluted. "As you say, Highness."
Before he left, Edric placed a hand on his shoulder. "And bring back that banner. Let them know we claim every ash-black inch they step on."
Later, they gathered around a slanted table cobbled from a broken door and two barrels. A torch sputtered beside them, casting shadows like war lines across their faces.
Rafe rolled a pebble across the map. "We've got fifty shields, thirty spears, and zero arrows worth trusting beyond ten paces."
Brynn grunted. "Then we teach them to kill before the first volley."
Garrick leaned in, pointing to a charcoal sketch of the outer ridge. "That hill could bottle cavalry if we stake it properly. Could give our archers height too, if we had more than four who can hit a barn."
Edric didn't speak at first. He watched the firelight flicker in their tired eyes. His eyes flicked to the torch, then to the darkness just beyond.
"We dig trenches here," he said at last, jabbing at the ridge with the pommel of his knife. "Lay rope trip lines with embedded runes—nothing lethal, just enough to mark where they fall."
"Traps as warnings?" Rafe asked.
"No. Traps as lessons. If they fail drills tomorrow, they'll fall into the same ones."
A pause.
"Cruel," Garrick muttered. "But clever."
Torches crackled low along the courtyard walls, their flames jittering in the dusk wind.
One boy had fallen asleep seated upright on the steps, a spear laid across his lap like a cradle.
A young girl tried to copy Will's bow stance, earning gentle correction and a rare laugh from the usually sharp-tongued Rafe.
By the well, two recruits argued over which hand to hold a blade in, until Garrick dropped a bucket beside them and showed both how to disarm without drawing blood.
Even in exhaustion, the keep breathed. Tired. Growing.
Edric passed them all in silence, nodding where he needed to, correcting where he must. He didn't need their cheers. He needed them ready.
Behind him, the wind smelled of iron, hay, and hope.
That evening, Lyra stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Recruits drilled below, and torches lit the evening like a festival.
She didn't turn when Edric approached.
"You've built more than I expected," she said.
"I haven't built anything yet," Edric replied.
She finally looked at him. "Then maybe I came just in time."
Silence hung between them—heavy, unfinished.
Ashcoil slithered past their feet, scales pulsing faint blue.
Edric watched it go, voice quiet. "I don't know where this ends."
"Then make it worth the march," she said.
He looked back over the courtyard—walls taller now, soldiers sharper, purpose forming like an edge on steel.
Steel and Sigils.