The knock came before sunrise.
Not hurried.
Not hesitant.
Measured.
The kind of knock that assumed obedience.
Bradley opened his eyes to wooden beams and cold air and remembered—with unwelcome clarity—that this was not a dream.
The headache remained. So did the consequences.
The knock came again.
"My lord," a voice said through the door. Male. Older. Controlled. "The Town Lord requests your presence."
Requests.
Bradley sat up slowly.
That word carried weight. And never good weight.
He dressed with deliberate care.
The tunic was heavier than it looked. Stiff seams. Fabric meant to endure, not impress. The belt hung slightly loose evidence of neglect rather than hardship.
This body had avoided discipline, not labor.
In the mirror, the same youth stared back. Nineteen, perhaps. Lean but unrefined. Shoulders narrow. Arms undertrained.
He flexed once.
The result was disappointing.
"That can be improved," he murmured.
The door opened before he could assess further.
A guard stood there—broad frame, scar across one cheek, armor worn thin at the edges but maintained with discipline. Not ceremonial steel. Functional steel.
"Your father is waiting."
Not "the lord."
Not "his lordship."
Your father.
Pressure clarified.
The corridor was stone and shadow.
Servants moved quietly, heads lowered—but not fully. A few risked glances at him.
Then looked away quickly.
Not fear alone.
Expectation.
They were waiting for him to shout. To stagger. To demand wine before sunrise.
Drunk Bradley.
He walked straight.
No sway.
No complaint.
The difference was subtle.
Two servants noticed.
One blinked.
Data.
The Town Lord's chamber was colder than the hallway.
Wulfsige Tatume stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back. The early light cut across the lines in his face. His armor rested nearby polished, scarred, used.
He did not turn.
"Sit."
Bradley sat.
Silence stretched deliberately.
Not awkward.
Measured.
Wulfsige finally faced him.
The resemblance was unmistakable. Same bone structure. Same eyes.
The difference was control.
"You embarrassed this house again."
No greeting.
No preamble.
Bradley searched the inherited fragments.
Tavern table splitting under impact.
A ring striking wood.
A woman's breath hitching.
A crowd watching.
"Yes," he said quietly.
Not apology.
Not denial.
Acknowledgment.
Wulfsige's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You humiliated your betrothed's family. You struck a merchant's son. You shouted in the square."
Each sentence landed evenly.
Bradley did not interrupt.
"What are the consequences?" he asked.
The older man's gaze sharpened.
There it was.
Not excuse.
Assessment.
"The Sudworthe engagement is dissolved," Wulfsige said. "Publicly."
A flicker of inherited memory shifted—the ring sliding from her finger, the disgust in her expression.
Reputation damage confirmed.
"The merchant has withdrawn funding for next season's grain storage expansion."
Economic strain.
"And" Wulfsige continued, voice cooling further, "this is your final chance."
Bradley held still.
"If you disgrace this house again, you will leave it. No title. No stipend. No claim."
Exile.
Clear terms.
No ambiguity.
That, at least, was efficient.
"I understand," Bradley said.
"You are not arguing."
"No."
"Why?"
Several answers surfaced.
Because I died last night.
Because debt recalibrates ego.
Because shouting improves nothing.
He chose restraint.
"It would not alter the outcome."
Silence followed.
Longer now.
Evaluating.
Outside, a horn sounded in the distance. Short. Urgent.
Wulfsige's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Three patrols reported goblin tracks near the eastern treeline," he said, more to the window than to his son.
The world intruded where it mattered.
Bradley let inherited knowledge align.
Old Dornelis bordered dense woodland. Patrol routes already stretched thin. The Baron's troops were engaged in a land dispute weeks away.
Meaning local defense stood alone.
"How many guards are available?" Bradley asked.
Wulfsige turned sharply.
"You have never asked that."
"I am asking now."
A pause.
"Seventy-six trained guards," Wulfsige replied. "Twelve fit for extended patrol. The rest assigned to gate rotation."
Seventy-six for a frontier settlement pressed by forest.
Tight margins.
"And if goblin movement increases?"
"We respond."
"With what reserve?"
The air cooled further.
"This is not your concern."
Bradley held the gaze.
"It becomes my concern if instability reaches the town."
Another silence.
He had crossed a line—but not loudly.
Wulfsige studied him as if reassessing the shape of something long assumed.
"You are in no position to discuss stability."
True.
Positions, however, shift.
"Then give me one."
The words were even.
Not defiant.
Measured.
The horn sounded again.
Closer.
Voices stirred faintly in the courtyard.
Wulfsige exhaled through his nose.
"You want position? Then prove you can stand without wine."
Bradley waited.
"For six months," Wulfsige continued, "you will remain sober. You will attend council. You will train. You will not disgrace this house."
Six months.
Defined duration.
Clear metric.
"If you fail," the Town Lord said, "you leave."
Bradley nodded once.
"Accepted."
Wulfsige searched his face for mockery.
Found none.
"Report to Captain Hadrik this afternoon. Morning drills begin immediately."
The courtyard was already awake with tension.
Not panic.
Yet.
A farmer stood near the gate, boots caked with mud, hands shaking.
"…three goats taken—inside the fence—"
"Tracks everywhere," another guard muttered.
Captain Hadrik knelt in the dirt, running thick fingers over disturbed earth.
He rose as Bradley stepped closer.
Small prints.
Numerous.
Goblins.
Inside the perimeter.
The farmer's voice cracked. "They were inside. Inside."
That word carried weight.
Bradley looked toward the wall.
Stone.
Solid.
Not tall enough to dissuade persistence.
Hadrik straightened. Broad shoulders. Eyes hard.
"We double patrol frequency," he said. "No one works outer fields without escort."
Immediate response.
Logical.
Costly.
More patrols meant thinner rest.
Thinner rest meant fatigue.
Fatigue meant mistakes.
Mistakes meant breach.
Bradley did not speak.
He had no authority here.
Yet.
But the pieces aligned quickly.
Six months to prove stability.
And the forest had chosen this moment to press forward.
Convenient timing.
Or inevitable.
He turned toward the barracks.
Morning drills awaited.
A body soft from neglect.
A reputation damaged.
No aura.
No hidden advantage.
Just discipline.
"That can be improved," he said quietly.
Not bravado.
Not sarcasm.
Assessment.
Behind him, the farmer was still arguing.
The horn sounded once more—this time not distant.
Closer.
Bradley did not look back.
If instability was rising, then margin for error was shrinking.
Six months.
And something in the forest had already begun testing the walls.