The sun rose pale over Frostmarch, filtered through clouds that never seemed to leave. I stood on the battlements, watching the wind tear across the broken fields. The land did not speak kindly to us yet; every hill was a wound, every valley a scar. The farms were little more than patches of brown and gray. The roads were fractured, churned mud and broken cobbles stretching like veins across the territory, waiting to swallow any cart, any horse, any man careless enough to traverse them.
I had expected decay. The empire had prepared me for nothing else. But seeing it with my own eyes brought a weight I had not anticipated. Thirty-two soldiers, four mages, and a handful of guardsmen to watch over villages that had been left to starve, to bandits, to frost. And now, it was on me to breathe life back into the bones of this place.
Elizabeth joined me at the wall, carrying a rolled bundle of parchment. She did not speak immediately; she never wasted breath where observation could speak. Ice ran quietly through her veins, but it was steady and unwavering. She had that rare quality—the kind of calm that didn't bend under pressure, that assessed danger and opportunity in the same breath.
"The treasury," she said finally, unfurling the parchment across the railing. "Nearly empty. No coin reserves, no emergency funds. Not a single silver piece to cover even a month's wages at full rate. Copper is barely circulating, and much of it is counterfeit or worn through the edges."
I frowned. "What do you suggest?"
She tapped a long finger along the numbers. "We begin with honesty and structure. No more random payments, no more promises without backing. Every coin counts. We establish a ratio system. Copper is the lowest tier, silver the intermediary, gold the rarest. One gold equals one hundred silver. One silver equals one hundred copper. A soldier's day wage at the militia level will be five copper coins; professional infantry, one silver coin per day." She paused. "It is basic, but it will stop men from stealing and villages from hoarding."
I nodded. Numbers had never been my strength, but sense was not numbers alone—it was trust. Copper could rust away, silver could disappear, gold could vanish into thin air, but a system everyone understood was armor stronger than walls.
Elizabeth continued: "The scribes are in disarray. Many have fled or died. Records are incomplete. Land titles are disputed. Taxes unpaid for decades. Trade agreements nonexistent. I intend to restructure the administration before we even consider rebuilding roads."
I looked at her and realized that what she offered was the backbone of survival. It was not as glorious as magic, or as visible as the strike of lightning in the night, but it was the foundation. Without it, the roads would rot, the soldiers would mutiny, and the land would die again.
We moved into the council hall, where a few remaining scribes huddled over ink-stained desks. They looked up at us with the same exhaustion I had felt when I first arrived. I did not soften my gaze. Authority was not earned by sympathy in Frostmarch.
"Arrange all records by village, by family, by tax obligation," I said. "Every scrap of paper, every ledger, every note. If a name appears more than once, reconcile it. If it does not exist, investigate. We will know exactly what is ours, and what is owed, before any more misfortune strikes."
Elizabeth stood beside me, nodding silently. She had already begun directing the scribes, her commands quiet but precise. Ice magic did not flare for spectacle; it froze space just enough to force order, shaping stacks of parchment, straightening scrolls, and organizing ink. The hall smelled faintly of frost, of chill, and something else: promise.
As the day dragged on, I moved outside to inspect the villages. Each one was a testament to neglect. Roofs sagged under the weight of centuries of snow, fences were broken, animals thin and sickly. The people looked at me with a mix of fear and suspicion, as though I were either a savior or a harbinger of death.
They were not wrong to fear. Frostmarch had devoured lords for generations. I had survived the assassination attempt, but a man could not endure every threat alone. I needed allies, trust, and, above all, discipline.
The first sign of disorder came in whispers, barely audible at first. Rumors of bandit lords organizing in the south, of outlaw mages who had fled the empire and taken refuge in Frostmarch's wilderness. Men who could not be taxed, could not be reasoned with, and had no intention of obeying any viscount.
A man came to me in the afternoon, a farmer whose hands were calloused, his face streaked with soot and sweat. "My lord," he said, voice low, "the Black Banner men have been spotted along the northern road. They took a wagon last week and left the driver tied to a tree. No coin, no word of mercy."
I noted the information, storing it for later. "How many were there?"
"Ten, maybe more," he said. "They move like wolves, come in shadows. And the mage among them… he is no ordinary man. Sparks fly from his fingers, and the air smells of ozone before he strikes."
Lightning hummed faintly along my arms. I had felt it for hours, coiled like a spring beneath my skin, waiting to test itself again. The world was teaching me that Frostmarch did not tolerate inaction.
That evening, we returned to the keep. Elizabeth was already in the council hall, recalculating rations and wages, assigning scribes to travel villages and verify records. She paused as we entered, giving me a measured glance. "The outlaws are a concern," she said. "But more immediate is the threat of hunger and frost. Discipline here will be our first defense. Magic, later."
I could not argue. We would not survive by might alone. Frostmarch required strategy, planning, and a relentless approach to every problem, no matter how small.
The next hours were spent in the treasury. It was nearly empty, just a few coppers, silver coins worn nearly smooth, and one small gold piece that must have been forgotten in some previous lord's hoard. I counted, recorded, and began issuing orders to the steward: proper coin allocation, accounting ledgers, wage schedules. Every soldier and scribe would know exactly what he was owed, and failure to comply would carry consequences. Discipline began with transparency.
Even as I worked, whispers of movement reached my ears—tiny sounds beyond the gates, rustling that could have been wind or something else. My fingers itched, water and lightning quivering under my skin, responding to invisible pressure. Frostmarch had teeth, and even now, it tested its new master.
Elizabeth finished her work with the scribes and came to stand beside me, a parchment in hand. "Tomorrow we ride to the northern villages. Roads must be inspected, supplies counted. Bandit threats verified. If we are to survive, we must know the enemy's reach before it touches ours."
I nodded. "And the mages? The one the farmer spoke of?"
She smiled faintly, the cold kind that spoke of certainty. "We will meet him. And we will survive him. Frostmarch does not take the unprepared, and we are not unprepared."
That night, as I walked the battlements once more, I looked down at the fractured roads. Each one was a vein through which Frostmarch's lifeblood might flow again, if we could repair them. Each village was a node in a network that might thrive or wither, depending on discipline and leadership.
The wind whipped across the stone, and I felt the subtle hum of my magic in response. Lightning curled along my fingertips, water pulsing beneath the skin. It was no longer curiosity. It was readiness. Frostmarch had presented the first tests; tomorrow would bring more. And I would meet them all.
Elizabeth joined me silently, frost faintly coating her boots. Together, we surveyed the land, the broken roads, the villages, the forests beyond, and the horizon where the mountains cut the sky into jagged fragments.
We were not lords here. We were survivalists. Administrators. Builders. And soon, Frostmarch would know that weakness was the only crime not tolerated within these walls.
The first night in the keep had been a warning. The second night in Frostmarch was a promise: to endure, to build, to bend the land itself to our will.
And in that promise lay the first spark of hope—cold, measured, and unshakable.
Tomorrow, we would begin to restore life where death had ruled for generations.