Millford did not look like a village preparing for war.
That was the first thing that struck me as we crested the low rise and saw it spread out below—half a dozen timber houses, a stone mill squatting beside the stream that gave the place its name, thin trails of smoke rising from cooking fires meant for supper, not alarms.
Life, stubborn and small.
But as we rode closer, the second thing became impossible to ignore.
Ash.
Gray handprints smeared across doors and shutters. Crude symbols scrawled along fence posts. A line of powder poured deliberately across the road leading into the village, thin but unmistakable.
A boundary.
The men saw it too. Conversations died. Hugh shifted in his saddle. Orren spat to the side and muttered something uncharitable. Tom leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the markings like they were a personal insult.
I raised a hand, and we slowed to a walk.
"Formation," I said. "No steel out unless I say."
They obeyed.
Villagers emerged cautiously as we entered—men holding tools instead of weapons, women clutching children close, faces drawn tight with fear and sleeplessness. An older man stepped forward from near the mill, posture stiff with the weight of unwanted responsibility.
"Are you… are you Tully men?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I'm Captain Storm."
Relief flickered across his face—brief, fragile.
"They said you wouldn't come," he blurted out. "Said Riverrun's too weak. That no one cares about places like Millford."
Tom stiffened beside me.
"When did they come?" I asked.
"Yesterday morning," the man replied. "Six of them. Well-armed. Polite, even. Told us what would happen if we didn't pay."
"And what was that?" I asked, though I already knew.
He swallowed. "They'd come back tonight. With more."
A murmur rippled through the villagers.
"How much did they demand?" I asked.
"Grain. Livestock. Two young men to carry messages." His voice broke on the last. "They said that was mercy."
Tom's hands clenched.
I looked at the ash again.
Not random. Not vandalism.
This was administration.
"How many men do you have who can fight?" I asked.
The man hesitated. "Fight? None worth the name."
"Then you won't," I said.
That drew confused looks.
I turned to Merrick. "Post Hugh and Calder at the north road. Pate and Orren at the south. Lewin with me. No fires brighter than this one." I nodded at the village hearth. "Anyone comes in armed, you send for me. You don't confront them."
Tom opened his mouth.
I held up a finger without looking at him.
He closed it.
The villagers watched in silence as my men moved—limping, bruised, but purposeful. The simple act of being organized steadied them more than any speech could have.
I turned back to the miller. "You'll gather everyone at the mill after dark. No one leaves their homes unless told. And no one crosses the ash line."
"They said—"
"I know what they said," I cut in. "Tonight, they talk to me."
The sun dipped low, dragging long shadows across the village. Supper was eaten in uneasy quiet. Children were hushed faster than usual. Dogs were locked inside.
I stood at the edge of the ash line as dusk deepened, hands resting loosely at my sides, cloak stirring faintly in the breeze.
Tom approached, stopping a step behind me.
"Captain," he said quietly. "If they hurt anyone—"
"They won't," I said.
"How do you know?"
"Because this isn't about violence," I replied. "Not yet."
He frowned. "Then what is it about?"
"Control."
The first torch appeared just after full dark.
Then another.
Then four more.
Six men emerged from the trees, just as the villagers had said. They stopped at the ash line, confident, unhurried. Their leader stepped forward—a broad man with a trimmed beard and armor that had once been good quality. He carried himself like someone used to being obeyed.
"You crossed the line," he called.
"I did," I replied.
He looked me up and down, eyes lingering on the greatsword.
"You're not the boy we spoke to," he said.
"No."
He smiled thinly. "Good. Boys make mistakes."
"So do men who underestimate where rivers flow," I said.
His smile faded a fraction.
"You have until dawn," he said. "Pay the toll. Or we come back with fire."
"No," I said.
A pause.
The men behind him shifted, hands drifting toward weapons.
"No?" the leader repeated.
"No toll," I said. "No fire. You leave."
He laughed then, loud and genuine. "You're alone."
I gestured behind me.
The villagers stood watching from the edge of the mill light. My men were barely visible, but present—enough to be counted.
"You already lost your scouts," I continued calmly. "You know that. You know I know you didn't bring enough men tonight."
That landed.
The leader's eyes sharpened. "You killed one of mine."
"Yes."
"Then you'll pay for him."
"Not tonight," I said. "Tonight, you bring a message back to whoever you answer to."
"And what message is that?" he asked.
"That the Riverlands are no longer unguarded," I said. "And next time, you'll need more than ash."
Silence stretched.
Then the leader grinned again—this time without humor.
"Dawn," he said. "That's the deadline."
They turned and vanished into the trees, torches swallowed by darkness.
Tom exhaled sharply.
"You didn't kill them," he said.
"No," I replied. "Because tonight wasn't about winning."
He looked at the villagers—frightened, hopeful, watching us like we were something fragile and new.
"What's it about then?" he asked.
I looked toward the treeline where the bandits had gone.
"Making them choose," I said. "And living with the consequences."
The system stirred faintly, like a distant drumbeat.
Dawn was coming.
And so was the real test.