Chapter 3
The silence at the Greene farm was not peace; it was a rope stretched to its limit, about to snap under the weight of a hundred hungry savages and the suffocating Georgia heat.
I stood on the porch of the main house, watching my host begin to claim the land. The Free Folk did not sit around waiting for orders; they were a people of action. Torgad was already organizing squads to watch the perimeter, while the women searched for containers to store water from the well that Otis had shown them under Maggie's watchful, suspicious eye.
But there was an immediate problem, one my Vision detected as soon as Herschel tried to give an instruction and received only confused stares and grunts of suspicion in return.
My people did not speak a single word of English. To them, the language of this world was merely a collection of nasal sounds and meaningless noises, as alien as the heat burning their skin. If I wanted this farm to function as the base of my empire, communication could not be a barrier.
"Torgad, Jarl—come," I ordered in the Old Tongue of the North.
The two approached. Torgad walked with a new heaviness, adapting to his dense musculature; Jarl moved like a shadow, his feet barely brushing the wood of the porch.
"This world has its own tongue," I told them, looking them in the eye. "We do not have years for you to learn it. My Majesty will give you what you need, but the process will not be pleasant."
Torgad nodded, jaw set. Jarl simply bowed his head, ready for whatever burden his lord would impose.
I reached out and placed a hand on each of their foreheads. I activated my gift of Majesty. I didn't seek to optimize their bodies this time; I sought their minds. I took my knowledge of English, absorbed and refined by my Canvas gift, and projected it into them like a tide of raw information.
It was not a whisper; it was a mental wildfire.
I felt Torgad stagger under my hand. Inside his brain, the structures of the Northern tongue twisted to make room for an entirely new lexicon. Concepts like "highway," "rifle," "gasoline," and "fear" were seared into his consciousness. Jarl let out a muffled groan, his eyes rolling back as his mind processed thousands of words and grammatical rules in a single second of intellectual agony.
I withdrew my hands. Both stood motionless, panting, sweat pouring down their temples.
"Speak," I commanded, this time in English.
Torgad blinked, looking at his hands as if he didn't recognize his own body. His lips moved awkwardly before making a sound.
"...I... I can hear it," Torgad whispered, his voice deep and strange, still heavy with his Northern accent but perfectly intelligible. "The words... they are there, Valthor. It is as if they were always hidden beneath my tongue."
Jarl looked up. His adaptation was faster, as was everything with him.
"The language of the thunder-tubes," Jarl said, testing the taste of the syllables. "It tastes like rust and old metal."
"Good," I nodded. "Pass this skill to the rest of the primary warriors. I will handle the Greene family. Torgad, stay here and maintain order. Jarl, return to the woods. There is a hunter moving nearby. Find him, but do not kill him. I want to see what he is made of."
Jarl vanished in a breath, a blur of motion toward the eastern grove.
I entered the Greene house. The air inside was slightly cooler, but it smelled of mothballs, candle wax, and that rancid desperation that accumulates in the rooms of the sick. Herschel led me down the wooden hallway, his boots creaking with every step. He stopped in front of a white door at the end of the corridor.
"Beth hasn't eaten in two days," Herschel whispered, his voice barely a thread. "She just stares at the wall. She says the world outside is hell and she doesn't want to be a part of it."
I opened the door without knocking.
The room was small, decorated with the innocence of an era that no longer existed. Beth was lying on her side, her back to me. Her energy was a gray, stagnant smudge in my Vision. This wasn't a sickness of the body; it was a soul surrendering to the entropy of this dead world.
Maggie was sitting in a chair by the bed, her eyes red, a kitchen knife in her lap as if she expected me to do something terrible to her sister. She looked at me with a mix of hatred and a hope she loathed to admit.
"Out," I said. My voice, charged with the authority of the Sanctuary, made Maggie stand up by pure instinct. "Everyone."
"I'm not leaving her alone with you," Maggie snapped, gripping the knife handle.
"Maggie..." Herschel put a hand on her shoulder. "Let it be. If anyone can bring her back, it's him."
They left reluctantly, closing the door behind them. I approached the bed and sat on the edge. Beth didn't even move.
"Beth Greene," I said softly. "You have decided that dying is easier than watching the world burn."
"Go away," she whispered, her voice hollow. "You aren't real. None of this is real. We're just meat waiting to be eaten."
I placed my hand on her shoulder. I did not use gentleness. I activated my Majesty and my healing capacity, but I didn't aim for her cells. I aimed for her will. I injected a spark of my own internal fire—that stubbornness that allowed me to survive the void eons after my death.
"The flesh is only the vessel, Beth. But the will... the will is what separates kings from corpses."
I felt the resistance of her mind, a wall of cold glass she had built herself. I shattered it. I let my essence flood her consciousness, showing her a flash of the North—of the absolute cold my people had conquered—and then of the Sanctuary, that warm cabin where death has no entry.
Beth let out a choked cry and sat up abruptly, eyes wide, gasping for air as if she were drowning. Her pupils were dilated, and a small tear ran down her cheek, but they were no longer gray. There was fire in them.
"What... what did you do to me?" she wheezed, clutching her chest. "I feel... I feel like I'm burning."
"I have given you back your life," I replied, standing up. "But you are no longer the Beth you knew. You have been marked by the Sanctuary. Now, get up. There is work to be done, and I do not tolerate weakness under my command."
Beth looked at me, and for the first time, I saw the spark of devotion. It wasn't love; it was the recognition of a superior power. She got out of bed, her legs trembling slightly, but with a firmness Herschel would not have recognized.
As Beth put on her boots, I stepped out of the house. The sun was still punishing the earth, but the air had grown heavier. Torgad was waiting for me at the foot of the porch, pointing toward the barn.
"Valthor, the stench is unbearable," Torgad said in English. "My men are restless. They say they cannot eat knowing those things are locked in there."
"You are right, Torgad. It is time to clean the house."
I gave a signal, and the Free Folk warriors began to surround the barn. Herschel and Maggie stepped out of the house just as Beth appeared on the porch, pale but on her feet. Herschel let out a sob of relief at the sight of his daughter, but stopped dead when he saw my armed men in front of the barn doors.
"No! Valthor, you promised...!" Herschel cried, running toward us.
"I promised to save your daughter, and I have," I replied, intercepting him with a look that froze him in his tracks. "Now I am going to save your farm. What is in there are not people, Herschel. They are parasites consuming your hope."
I gestured to Torgad.
"Open the doors."
Herschel fell to his knees, Maggie clutching him, as the heavy wood of the barn groaned. The sound of the walkers inside increased—a chorus of hungry snarls that chilled the blood.
The doors swung wide. A tide of gray, putrid bodies began to emerge, staggering toward the light. There were twenty, perhaps more. Relatives, neighbors, friends of the Greenes.
"Torgad—Jarl is away. Show them how the North fights," I ordered.
Torgad let out a roar that made the farmhouse windows vibrate. He lunged forward, not as a man, but as a whirlwind of controlled violence. His double-edged axe, now blessed by the strength of my Majesty, cut through the air with a lethal whistle.
The first walker—a bald man who was once the local mailman—lost his head before he could even raise his arms. Torgad didn't stop; he spun on his heels and split a dead woman in half with a downward stroke that cleaved her spine like rotting wood.
The other savages joined the purge. They didn't use bows; they preferred the crunch of bone beneath their bone spears and stone axes. It was a dance of efficient death. There were no cries of fear, only the rhythmic sound of destruction.
Herschel sobbed, hiding his face in Maggie's shoulder, while Beth watched the carnage with an unsettling calm. She didn't look away once.
In less than five minutes, the ground in front of the barn was littered with inert remains. Black blood stained the green Georgia grass. Torgad stopped, resting his axe on the ground, his chest heaving rhythmically. He looked at the Greenes with a neutral expression, as if he had just finished plowing a field.
"Cleanup finished, Valthor," Torgad said.
"Burn the bodies," I ordered. "I will not have their rot infecting this soil."
As the black smoke of the pyre began to rise toward the sky, my attention shifted toward the forest. My Vision detected an energy disturbance. Someone was approaching, and it wasn't Jarl.
About five hundred meters from the farm, deep in the thicket, Daryl Dixon moved with the caution of a ghost. He was following a trail of small footprints—Sophia—but he had stopped dead. His hunter's instincts, honed in the Georgia woods long before the outbreak, screamed that something was wrong.
Daryl crouched behind a fallen log, tensioning his crossbow. There was something in the air, a smell of iron and a ferocity that didn't belong to the walkers.
"I know you're out there, you bastard," Daryl whispered, scanning the bushes.
Suddenly, a branch snapped to his left. Daryl swung the crossbow, but saw nothing. Then, a whisper to his right.
"You move well, hunter," a voice said in rough English, laden with an accent Daryl couldn't identify.
Daryl fired by pure instinct toward the source of the voice. The bolt thudded into a tree. Before he could reload, an iron hand clamped around his neck and slammed him against the trunk.
It was Jarl.
Daryl tried to pull his knife, but Jarl squeezed his arm with a force that made his bones creak. Jarl's eyes glowed with an unnatural intensity, studying him like a curious insect.
"You follow a small trail," Jarl said, nodding toward Sophia's tracks. "But you have entered the territory of the Sanctuary. My King wants to see you."
Daryl struggled, kicking the air, but Jarl was like a mountain.
"Who... who the hell is your king?" Daryl wheezed, his face turning blue from the pressure.
Jarl smiled, a wild expression showing no mercy.
"Someone who makes the dead look like children at play. Come, hunter. Walk or I'll drag you."
I was waiting at the edge of the white fence when Jarl emerged from the trees, shoving a haggard man with a crossbow slung over his shoulder and a look of pure hatred.
Daryl Dixon.
I recognized him immediately. Not by his appearance, but by the energy he radiated: a mix of fierce loyalty, loneliness, and a resilience that made him one of the best specimens of this world.
Jarl pushed him forward, and Daryl fell to his knees on the grass, right in front of my black boots. Torgad stepped closer, gripping his axe, looking at the newcomer with suspicion.
"He found me, Valthor," Jarl said. "He is a good tracker. Better than the ones on the road."
Daryl looked up. He looked at the hundred half-naked savages, looked at the pyre of bodies burning in front of the barn, and finally, he looked at me. His face was dirty, sweaty, but his blue eyes showed no fear, only a lethal caution.
"What are you people?" Daryl spat, glancing toward the barn. "Some kind of crazy cult?"
I walked toward him and knelt to his level. I didn't use Majesty to intimidate him; Daryl was the type to break before bending under direct pressure. I used my Canvas to project a sense of calm, of order.
"We are the new world, Daryl," I said in impeccable English. "And you are trespassing on my property."
Daryl frowned at the sound of his name.
"How do you know my name? I haven't told you shit."
"I know many things. I know you're looking for a girl lost in the woods. I know you belong to a group camped on the highway. And I know that if you go back to them right now, you will only bring them news of death."
I stood up, looking toward the farmhouse. Beth was slowly approaching us, an expression of serenity on her face that contrasted with the chaos of the pyre.
"Listen well, hunter," I continued. "This farm is now the Sanctuary. There is water here, there is food, and there is safety. But only for those who follow my law."
Daryl looked at Beth, then at Herschel, who was sitting on the porch staring at the fire with empty eyes.
"Looks like you've brainwashed 'em all," Daryl said, trying to stand. Jarl put a hand on his shoulder, pinning him back into the grass.
"I haven't brainwashed them. I've given them a reason to keep breathing. Something your leader—that man in uniform who keeps looking for rules in a world without laws—will never be able to give them."
I turned to Jarl.
"Give him back his weapon."
Jarl hesitated for a second but obeyed. He tossed the crossbow to Daryl. The hunter caught it mid-air, surprised.
"Go back to your people, Daryl Dixon. Tell them what you've seen. Tell them the Greene farm has a new owner. If they come with humility, perhaps they will find refuge. If they come with weapons..." I pointed to the pyre of bodies "...they will end up fertilizing my fields."
Daryl stood up, adjusting his crossbow. He looked around one last time, searing every detail of the savages' camp into his memory.
"I don't think Shane's gonna like sharing the neighborhood much," Daryl muttered.
"Shane is a man of yesterday," I replied. "I am tomorrow. Go."
Daryl was silent for a moment, then turned and headed into the forest without looking back. Jarl watched him go, ready to pounce if the hunter tried one last shot.
"Why let him go, Valthor?" Torgad asked, stepping closer. "He could be a good warrior. His eyes are those of a wolf."
"Because a trapped wolf only bites the hand that feeds it. I need him to see the difference between my order and the chaos of his group. He will return. They all return when hunger and fear squeeze hard enough."
Valthor's POV
The sun began to dip, staining the Georgia sky a bloody orange. I felt my Domain settle in permanently. The purge of the barn had been the necessary sacrifice to cleanse the land of Herschel's old faith. Now, the soil belonged to me by right of conquest and protection.
My power system was vibrating. By interacting with Daryl, my Canvas had processed something new: the concept of modern survival. Not just brute force, but the ability to adapt with limited tools.
I needed to start fortifying. The savages were experts at building natural defenses, but in this world, we needed something more. We needed to combine the stakes of the North with the technology of this place.
I looked at Beth. She stayed by my side, watching the flames.
"What do you want me to do, Lord?" she asked. Her voice was firm, with no trace of the doubt that had consumed her just hours ago.
"Go with Maggie. Teach her not to fear the dead, but to fear weakness. Tomorrow, we begin turning this farm into a fortress."
I looked toward the black stone road in the distance. I knew Rick Grimes and his group wouldn't be far behind. And when they arrived, they would find a world they wouldn't recognize.
The era of the Sanctuary had begun.
Daryl's POV
Daryl Dixon didn't stop until his lungs burned from the humid, heavy Georgia air. He stopped in a small clearing, crossbow pressed against his chest, listening with an intensity that made his temples pulse. His ears, trained to detect the snap of a dry leaf from twenty yards away, only registered the incessant buzz of cicadas and his own ragged breathing.
"Damn crazies..." he whispered, spitting a trail of bitter saliva.
Daryl glanced over his shoulder. The place where that Jarl guy had held him still throbbed with a dull, deep ache. It wasn't just brute force; it was as if he'd been caught in a hydraulic press designed to snap bone. In all his life, Daryl had never felt like prey. Not with his old man, not with Merle's outbursts, not with the walkers infesting the woods. He had always been the one tracking—the one who saw before being seen.
But that kid... the one who moved like lightning... he had hunted him like Daryl was a lame deer in an open meadow.
He tried to process what he'd seen on that property. The pyre of bodies in front of the barn was still smoking, and the stench of burnt flesh was stuck in his sinuses—a rancid smell that reminded him of the worst days of the Atlanta outbreak. There were people in that house; an old man who looked like he'd lost his mind sitting on the porch, and a couple of young women looking on with a mix of horror and a strange calm that didn't fit the chaos.
Daryl didn't know who those farmers were, but it was clear they weren't the owners of their own land anymore. They were prisoners—or maybe something worse: believers. He'd seen the younger girl look at the man in black like he was a god come down from the mountain, and that turned his stomach more than the butchery in front of the barn.
"He ain't a preacher," Daryl muttered, adjusting the crossbow strap as he scanned the woods behind him. "He's something else. A cult. A militia of savages."
His mind flew to the man in black. Valthor. The guy didn't sweat under that sun that was melting the asphalt. He didn't blink. He'd looked him in the eye, and Daryl had felt an invisible pressure, a weight telling him his life wasn't worth more than an insect's if the man in black decided so.
But what disturbed him most was what Valthor knew. He knew his name. He knew about the girl, Sophia. No one should know that. No one outside their group on the highway knew they were looking for a kid.
How the hell does he know? he wondered, a shiver running through him that had nothing to do with the weather. Been watching us from the trees? How long?
Daryl punched the trunk of a pine tree. He felt an impotent fury boiling in his chest. That guy had handed him back his crossbow like it was a useless piece of wood, like he didn't have the slightest fear of what Daryl could do to him with it. That was the ultimate insult: Valthor's absolute indifference to Daryl's capacity to kill. To that man, Daryl Dixon wasn't a threat; he was a curiosity.
Shane's gonna lose his mind, Daryl thought, imagining the deputy's reaction to hearing there's a "King" with a private army a stone's throw from the highway. Shane would want guns; he'd want to take that farm by force to secure a refuge. But Daryl could still see Jarl's movement in his mind—that blur of supernatural speed that had cut him off. If Shane tried anything against those people, he wouldn't last ten seconds. Valthor's men weren't survivors; they were warriors who looked like they were born for the slaughter.
He looked at the small footprints of Sophia he was still trying to follow back toward I-85. For the first time since the girl went missing, the trail seemed less important than the danger he'd just discovered. There was something new in these woods—something claiming the land with an authority the dead didn't have.
"I gotta tell 'em," he said to himself, though a part of him just wanted to keep walking and disappear into the thicket. "But Rick ain't gonna believe me. No one's gonna believe there's a hundred half-naked barbarians ruling a farm and a guy who knows your secrets before you open your mouth."
Daryl ad