The fortress gates groaned open, a cry of old wood and iron, as Anund rode beneath their shadow. His wolf-pelt cloak, once white as snow, now hung grimy and matted with blood. Dust caked his boots and hardened in the creases of his worn leathers. His sword hung low at his side, splashed with black stains that no polish could remove.

  Irineus stood in the courtyard, waiting. Martin and Sebastian flanked him, each armored and armed, a silent reminder that alliances—however necessary—were built on caution as much as trust.

  Anund dismounted in a single, fluid motion, the weariness of a dozen battles carved into his face. He approached without hesitation, dropping the reins into the hands of a stable boy too wide-eyed to move.

  “The Black Flag is no more all of their remnants have been destroyed,” Anund said without preamble, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Their last stronghold was burned to the ground. Their leader’s head rots on top of a pike.”

  He unfurled a tattered map, the parchment fluttering weakly in the cold wind.

  “But victory breeds new enemies,” he said grimly, stabbing his scarred finger against the crude outlines of southern valleys. "Goar of the Scyldberend has bent the knee to the Hornbreakers. Together, they gather five thousand warriors—perhaps more. They mean to take my father’s valleys first. And when they have drained them dry, they will march north."

  His eyes locked onto Irineus’s. "And they will come for you."

  The words rang through the courtyard like a death knell.

  That night, the great hall of the fortress was alive with flame and fury.

  Torches lined the stone walls, casting long shadows over the assembled council. The banners of the old empire hung limp overhead, their colors faded, their edges frayed—symbols of a glory that had long since rotted.

  Gunnar stood with his arms crossed, soot smeared from his beard to his elbows. Elara, wrapped in a shawl the color of ripe wheat, leaned on her walking stick, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Lucius perched by the hearth, scrolls spread across his lap, his mouth tight with disdain. Alexios, as ever, scribbled feverishly in a ledger worn thin by overuse. Livia stood near the dais, a calm stillness in her that drew every eye sooner or later.

  Anund strode before them like a wolf pacing a pen of sheep.

  Anund spoke first, his voice a low growl. "My father asks for your assistance. Five hundred warriors to reinforce our lines. In return, he offers more than horses—he offers land. Settlements under your banner, paying tribute in grain and labor."

  He tossed the map onto the table, the parchment curling like a dying leaf. "Or refuse, and face five thousand blades without a us."

  Sebastian leaned forward, his fingers tracing the map. "If the Hornbreakers unite the clans, they’ll be unstoppable. We must strike now, before their numbers swell."

  Lucius scoffed. "And when has aiding barbarians ever ended well for us? Let them bleed each other dry. We fortify, we wait."

  Martin shook his head sharply. "And if the Hornbreakers stand victorious? They'll come north with ten thousand swords, not five. Better to strike while the iron is still soft."

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  The arguments swirled like a storm gathering in the rafters—hope clashing with fear, ambition wrestling with prudence. Through it all, Irineus sat silent, his face a stone mask.

  When he finally spoke, the hall fell into stillness.

  "We send four hundred cavalrymen," Irineus declared. His voice was calm, but each word struck like hammer-blows. "Under Martin’s command. They will fight alongside Harrkun’s warriors—but their loyalty remains to this fortress, first and last."

  He pointed to the map. "Pharis and the abandoned military outpost must not fall fall in the hands of our enemies.. We secure the southern trade routes. We hold the line."

  Alexios stepped forward, his voice measured and precise. "I propose we settle the slaves we've purchased, along with the refugees, in the abandoned villages. In exchange for their freedom and our protection, they will owe a share of their harvests. This will not only secure our trade routes and strengthen our food supply, but also expand our hold over the surrounding lands. However, we must move carefully—our growth has been rapid. If we stretch ourselves too thin, public order in both the fortress and the market town will begin to falter."

  Irineus met Alexios’s gaze and nodded. "Then it shall be done," he said.

  Anund turned to Irineus and offered to send a few smaller clans, exclaiming that they numbered only a few hundred people in total, to help settle and develop the villages.

  The fortress became a living, breathing machine of war.

  Smiths worked by torchlight, forging blades until their hammers sang like iron birds. Wheelwrights reinforced carts with iron bands. Armorers polished breastplates and hammered dents from battered helms.

  The granaries disgorged their contents—salted meat, hardtack, dried fruits, and barrels of sour wine packed into wagons. Horses were shod and saddled, their nervous whickers filling the dawn air.

  Out in the fields, the riders drilled endlessly. Banners snapped above them—the crimson phoenix of the fortress beside the snarling silver wolf of Harrkun. The earth shook beneath the thunder of hooves, and the air grew thick with the sweat of preparation.

  In the infirmary, Livia oversaw the stockpiling of herbs and bandages. Her hands were deft and steady, but in her heart, a silent dread unfurled like a winter frost. She packed salves, stitched rough cloth into tourniquets, and mixed jars of honey and vinegar for wounds that would not close.

  At night, the fortress trembled with the beat of a hundred preparations. And still, the horizon to the south remained dark—waiting.

  On the eve of their departure, Irineus found Martin alone in the armory. The old soldier tightened the straps of his breastplate with sharp, efficient tugs.

  "You know what you must do," Irineus said quietly.

  Martin gave him a crooked smile, worn and weary but still burning with pride. "Since when did you doubt me, lad?"

  They clasped forearms, warrior to warrior, blood-brother to blood-brother. No further words were needed. The bond between them had been forged in older battles, tempered by older losses.

  "If you fall," Irineus said softly, "I will carry the burden. Not you."

  Martin's fingers tightened briefly. "If I fall," he said, voice rough, "you will stand. You must."

  At dawn, the gates swung wide once more.

  Four hundred riders poured forth, the rising sun catching their spears and shields, turning them to a river of light. The banners streamed high, fierce against the morning sky.

  At their head rode Martin, his sword lifted high in silent salute.

  Irineus watched them go, his heart heavy. His hand gripped the stone of the battlements until his knuckles whitened.

  Another piece of himself riding into the storm.

  With Martin’s departure, the fortress turned its will toward the land.

  ...

  Barbarian settlers arrived in slow, cautious waves—grim-faced men leading oxen, women carrying sleeping children on their backs, warriors with hard eyes and callused hands.

  They set about rebuilding the ruined village of Pharis, mending broken walls and clearing blackened fields. Smoke rose once more from chimneys that had not seen fire since the last harvest before the wars.

  At the old imperial outpost, the stronger settlers repaired the stone keep, refortified the gates, and dug fresh wells to replace those fouled in the wars.

  Alexios counted and measured everything—every sack of wheat, every nail hammered into timber, every acre turned to seed.

  "If the harvest is good," he muttered one evening to Irineus, "we will be much stronger. If not..." He left the rest unsaid.

  Irineus walked among the settlers daily, learning their faces and their fears. Children followed him shyly. Elders blessed him with rough hands. Warriors watched him with cautious respect.

  "You keep your word, Tiberian," said a grizzled hunter one afternoon, dropping to one knee in the muddy road. "We’ll keep ours."