Captain Ulric Dane sat in his quarters, the Viscount's sealed approval in hand. The parchment was crisp, the ink still faintly scented with the manor's beeswax. Permission granted—dispatch one hundred militia to AshenVale. Fairbourne's script was terse, laced with an undercurrent of strain that Dane couldn't quite place. No matter. The wilds waited for no man's worries.
He spread the roster across his table, names blurring under lantern light. Five hundred strong, but not all equal. Some squads drilled like clockwork; others stumbled like foals on ice. Dane's quill hovered, then struck decisive marks. He'd send the reliable ones—veterans' sons, quick learners—but push the quota to one hundred and five. A small overage, unnoticed in reports, but enough for his purpose: the Tenebrae brothers.
Byrt's lads had proven themselves with the goblin skirmish. Roland's squad moved like a single blade, no hesitation, no waste. But command in isolation? That was the true forge. Dane would send all seven squads— one hundred and five men total, sergeants included. Let the wilds test their mettle. If they bolstered AshenVale without crumbling, they'd be leaders worth forging further. If not… well, the frontier claimed its due.
He summoned a runner. "Fetch the Tenebrae sergeants. All seven. Now."
Minutes later, they filed in—Roland at the fore, Chris and Tom flanking, Sam, Harold, Jeffrey, Matthew bringing up the rear. They stood at rigid attention, faces a mix of curiosity and wariness. Dane let the silence stretch, watching beads of sweat form on brows despite the cool evening. Nervous silence was a tool, sharpening focus, revealing cracks. Matthew shifted once; Jeffrey's fingers twitched as if longing for a spell. Good. They felt the weight.
"At ease," Dane finally said, voice gravel-rough. "You've heard the whispers about AshenVale. Harpies nesting in the cliffs, lizardmen choking the rivers. Their militia's thin—eighty at best, green as spring grass. Road's finished, though. Wagons roll by dawn."
He paced before them, eyes locking on each in turn. "I'm sending one hundred and five men south. Your squads—all seven. You'll lead the column, secure the path, then dig in at AshenVale. Bolster their defenses, train their recruits, hunt the beasts. Give them spine, lads. Show them Eldermere's resolve."
Roland spoke first, voice steady. "Sir, we're honored. But why us alone?"
Dane's gaze hardened. "Because this task is yours. No reinforcements trailing. No couriers for aid. Fail, and AshenVale falls with you. Succeed, and you prove what Tenebrae blood can forge. Dismissed. Relay to your men: pack tight, eat hearty, sleep well. Dawn muster."
They saluted sharply and filed out, the tent flap whispering shut behind them. Dane exhaled, leaning on the table. Byrt would understand the test—had faced worse in the old days. These boys would harden or break. Either way, the militia grew stronger.
Outside, the brothers gathered in a tight knot under torchlight, voices low.
Chris broke the hush first. "All seven? That's the whole family on the march."
Tom grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Think of it as a Tenebrae holiday. Minus the stew and plus harpies."
Sam snorted. "Father'd say we're finally earning our crests. No aid if we fail? That's cheery."
Harold glanced south, toward the unseen road. "We won't fail. Squads are solid. We've drilled them hard."
Jeffrey nodded, fingers tracing an absent ward. "Roselda'd say weave protection into every step. Clarice and Tyrell might even delay the wedding for our triumphant return."
Matthew, the youngest, puffed up. "I'll lead my fifteen like Roland did with those goblins. Quick and clean."
Roland clapped his hand on Matthew's shoulder. "We all will. Now go—tell your men. Pack light, but bring extra oil for the blades. Dawn comes fast."
They dispersed to their squads, voices carrying orders in clipped military monotone.
"Squad, attention! Mission briefing: AshenVale deployment at dawn. One hundred five total—our seven squads lead. Secure the road, reinforce their militia, hunt threats. No backup. Pack rations for seven days, bedrolls, spare boots. Weapons check at first light. Questions? None? Dismissed."
Fireside murmurs followed—nervous jests, quiet prayers—but the camp settled efficiently, the weight of command pressing like a helm.
That night, Roland gathered his brothers one last time in the sergeants' tent. They penned a joint letter home, quills scratching in unison.
Dearest Father, Mother, sisters, little twins—
Captain Dane tests us. All seven squads march to AshenVale at dawn—105 men under our lead. Road's open; we'll secure it, bolster their defenses, train their militia. Harpies and lizardmen await, but our squads are ready. No aid comes if we falter, but we won't. Black sun guides us.
Tell Clarice to save us cake from the wedding. Tell Belfin and Ophelia their pranks are missed—camp's too orderly without them. Father, your words echo: shining armor falls first. We keep ours scarred and sharp.
Love from the front,
Roland, Chris, Tom, Sam, Harold, Jeffrey, Matthew
Sealed and handed to a courier, it would reach the Tenebrae compound by midday.
Dawn broke crisp, mist curling off the ground like smoke from a forge. One hundred five men lined the gates—shields strapped, packs shouldered, swords at hips. Dane inspected the column personally, voice booming.
"Eyes front! Shields true! You march for Eldermere, for AshenVale, for Fatum. Sergeants Tenebrae lead—follow them well."
Roland raised his fist. "Forward!"
The column moved out, boots thudding in unison on the fresh-packed road. Strict formations held: scouts ahead, flanks guarded, rear secure. Internal monologues flickered in minds like lantern flames.
Roland: Steady pace. Watch the treelines. One slip, and we bleed.
Chris: Harpies dive fast—keep shields high. My fifteen know the drill.
Tom: Lizardmen in water—avoid fords if we can. Banter later; focus now.
The brothers rode at intervals, calling corrections.
"Left flank, tighten! Eyes on the brush!"
"Rear guard, no straggling! March as one!"
Banter slipped in during brief halts—water breaks, boot adjustments.
Sam: "Bet Mother enchants the whole compound worrying about us."
Harold: "Father's probably mining twice as hard to distract himself."
Jeffrey: "And the twins? Plotting worse pranks for our return."
Matthew: "If we bag a harpy feather, Clarice can use it in her veil."
Laughter rippled, lightening the march without breaking discipline.
Back at the Tenebrae compound, the courier arrived mid-morning. Byrt accepted the letter, Cindy at his side. They read it on the porch, faces paling then flushing with pride.
Byrt's voice cracked once. "All seven… alone. Dane's testing them hard."
Cindy gripped his arm, magic sparking faintly at her fingertips—a reflexive ward. "They're ready. Our blood, our teaching. They'll come home heroes."
Byrt nodded, folding the parchment carefully. "Aye. But gods, the house feels empty."
Inside, Clarice teared up reading over their shoulder. "No aid? That's cruel."
Roselda: "They'll weave their own protection. Like we do here."
The younger girls—Eden, Landina, Elizabeth—huddled close, whispering prayers. Belfin and Ophelia, sensing the mood, abandoned mischief for solemn hugs.
Byrt straightened. "We'll work twice as hard. Mine deeper, garden fuller. When they return, it'll be to a home unbreakable."
The column pushed south, the road winding through thickening woods. AshenVale lay three days distant—tests awaiting along the way. Dane watched from the gate until they vanished, a quiet prayer on his lips. Byrt's boys would shine or shatter. Either forged the future.