Under the warmth of the midday sun, Alaric stood atop the ancient stone ramparts of his castle. His eyes swept over the training field just beyond the moat, where fifty new recruits were being vigorously trained and drilled under the watchful gazes of a sergeant and two corporals.

The recruits, a mix of eager youths, most hardened farmhands, formed ragged lines across the field, their movements clumsy and somewhat awkward as they struggled to respond to the crisp commands barked by their instructors. The air was filled with the sounds of clashing wooden practice swords and shields, along with the rhythmic thud of boots stomping in unison. These were the men who would bolster the ranks of his forces, the raw material from which he would mold protectors of his earldom and, by extension, the kingdom.

Beside him stood Grayson, occasionally pointing out a recruit whose stance was particularly promising or another who needed to tighten his grip on his weapon. Alaric knew Grayson would be speaking with the instructors later, for he was supervising the recruitment and training process for Alaric. It was why they met here, to discuss it.

From behind, across the bustling castle grounds, the clatter of daily life drifted up to the walls: the blacksmith’s hammer ringing loudly, the stable boys’ laughter, a man shouting to another. The other walls were thick with scaffolding and workers. There was hammering and scraping as the repair work continued as it had for months. There was so much to be done renovating the castle, Alaric wondered if the work would ever be completed.

“These lads show promise,” Grayson remarked. “They are youthful and full of vigor, convinced of their own immortality—just how we want them. They should make good soldiers.”

“I agree,” Alaric responded, his voice carrying a note of approval. Grayson had done a remarkable job growing Alaric’s army. He focused on a pair of recruits sparring, their practice swords clacking loudly against one another as they struggled mightily to best the other.

“Most are second and third sons of farmers who have recently received land grants. Others walked here, looking to join up, for pay and regular food. There are another seventy-five alone who have arrived within the last week wanting to enlist. We are waiting for them to be examined by Dark Forge’s doctor.”

“That many?” Alaric’s eyebrows rose in surprise as he looked over at Grayson. “With rumors of war on the horizon, I’d expect there to be fewer recruits.”

“Word has gotten out,” Grayson explained. “There is money to be made in Dekar, land to be had in exchange for service. That is a powerful incentive. In some of the other realms of the kingdom, food and work are scarce. I hear there is even famine abroad. That is driving people too.”

“Famine?” Alaric asked. “Where?”

“In Averndale. It seems Thorold is starving his own people to feed the army he has assembled.”

Alaric had not heard that one. If true, it was a very troubling sign. It meant the war would be on them sooner rather than later. Alaric let go an unhappy breath. Not for the first time, he considered that he needed a spymaster, someone with a network of eyes and ears across not only the kingdom, but abroad as well. It would be good to know what was going on beyond the confines of Dekar’s border.

“Still, those are just rumors,” Grayson admitted. “That we feed our soldiers well helps steer prospective recruits our way.”

“I suppose it also helps we pay better than the neighboring lords,” Alaric mused.

“There is that too, my lord, the land and a pension upon retirement,” Grayson agreed. He then waved a hand toward the training grounds. “About forty washed out of this group for one reason or another over the last two weeks. Some we sent on to Smuggler’s Landing as laborers. Others… were simply dismissed. Sergeant Miks thinks this bunch will complete their training and make solid additions to our forces.”

“This group will be sent as replacements to our existing companies, correct?” Alaric asked, looking for confirmation.

“Yes, that’s right. They will fill out the ranks in preparation of the coming campaign.”

“And when will that be? When will this bunch wrap up their training?”

“Likely within the next two weeks,” Grayson said. “Miks can end it early if needed. Their training can be completed hands-on in the companies.”

Pleased, Alaric nodded and then turned to watch intently as Miks’s harsh tones echoed off the stone walls, berating a flustered recruit who had evidently tripped and fallen, dropping his practice shield and sword in the process. The young man scrambled back to his feet and came to attention before the irate sergeant.

“By the bloody gods,” Miks roared. “Darvus, I swear you are a complete idiot, one only a mother could love. Do that in the press of a battle and you are a dead man, good for nothing but worm food. Bloody idiot! Keep your feet planted and that nonsense won’t happen.”

“Seven companies of heavy infantry, and one of bow, two hundred men to a company. I have raised a small army,” Alaric remarked as he tapped the stone battlement he had leaned forward upon.

“Not counting our militia, nearly sixteen hundred men, all regulars,” Grayson confirmed. “They are well trained and led by experienced men. Yes, my lord, you have raised a small army, and a good one at that.”

“I have a feeling it is not going to be enough.”

Grayson considered this. “I know war is coming, but our military power is already stronger than the other earldoms. If you take into account the militia, we have another four thousand men under arms—fifty-six hundred men total. Then there are the bannermen, say another five hundred men-at-arms.”

“Sixty-one hundred fighters,” Alaric breathed. “We could have used them in the holy land.”

“We could have,” Grayson acknowledged. “But we have them now, and only the dukedoms have larger standing armies. If what we have isn’t enough, how many more companies do you want? My lord, how many more can Dekar afford to maintain?”

“With war on the horizon, eight companies of regulars might not be sufficient.” Alaric’s gaze roved the training field below. He was thinking on the unknowns of campaigning.

“Should we have need, we can call upon the town and village militias as a last resort,” Grayson offered, hopeful. “That is a significant force. I am sure we could muster more levies if needed.”

“The militias, though effective for their current assignment and strong in size, protecting the peace and patrolling the countryside, are poorly trained and equipped amateurs,” Alaric dismissed quickly. “In a stand-up fight against experienced regulars, their quality will be questionable at best.” His expression darkened. “I worry the problem we face is that we’re out of time. The heavy spring rains are done, and with every passing day, the ground is hardening. If Averndale is going to march against Kavahn, it will be any time now.”

“Then what are you thinking? It takes time to train new companies, two months at a minimum if you want them to stand firm in a line of battle, more if you expect to push with them, to attempt to break the enemy’s line.”

“Boys, take a break,” Miks called out below. “Get some water. The day’s only gonna get hotter, and we have a lot to do before the midday meal. Drink up ‘til you gotta pee something fierce.”

Grayson scowled as he turned his attention back to the training field below. The recruits broke formation and moved to the water buckets that had been placed at the edge of the field.

To Alaric, they looked weary and tired, but their spirits were clearly high, which was a good sign. There was talking and laughing amongst themselves as they moved to the buckets and drank from the communal, taking turns with the ladles.

“Good soldiers are not made overnight, my lord,” Grayson added.

“I know it. I want to raise three more companies at the minimum, five ideally, with one being composed exclusively of bowmen. You will supervise that effort, make it happen for me.”

“Me?” Grayson asked, betraying a mix of surprise and a hint of concern. “What you are asking—that means I will remain behind when you march to war.”

“That’s right,” Alaric said.

“As it always has been, my place is at your side.”

“It was, but not this time.” Alaric’s tone was firm, yet not without warmth.

“Why?” Grayson asked, clearly bewildered.

“While I am gone and taking the bulk of our forces off to war, I need someone with strength to take charge here in Dekar. That someone must not be afraid to make hard decisions, to act on their own initiative. That is you, my old friend.”

Grayson scowled, returning his focus to the recruits below and considering them for several heartbeats.

“I would not ask this of you if I did not believe you capable and the need great,” Alaric continued. “You have the respect of the people of Dekar and the tactical mind I need here. Dekar must remain strong, its people protected, and its garrison ready for whatever is to come. For all I know, while away, Laval may strike or try to drum up trouble at home. I can’t have that. I need peace of mind that our home is looked after while I am away.”

Grayson nodded slowly, the weight of his new responsibility clearly beginning to settle on his shoulders. Though he had not yet accepted the offer, it was obvious he understood the importance of what Alaric was asking. The stability and survival of Dekar could very well depend on his ability to lead in Alaric’s absence.

“I am not sidelining you. This is important, critical. Will you remain behind and keep an eye on things for me?”

“I should be going to war with you,” Grayson countered, displaying firm conviction, mixed with a trace of regret and perhaps even guilt that he would be remaining behind. “You know that.”

“In an ideal world, yes,” Alaric responded, his tone understanding, yet resolute. “But you saw what became of Dekar in the absence of strength. You recall those early days…”

Grayson nodded but did not speak.

“I need you here, to watch over things—and my mother. In the event the war goes badly, I also need additional men trained and ready, something to fall back on. I don’t know anyone better I can rely upon to do that, to make it happen for me. I am asking this of you—not commanding. Can I count on you?”

Grayson hesitated, his jaw tightening as he considered the gravity of his new assignment. Finally, he gave a slow, determined nod. “You can, my lord. I will do as you ask.”

Alaric clapped the older man on the arm. Grayson had not only been a mentor, but a pillar in his life, a near father figure when it had been needed most. Alaric well understood the sacrifices Grayson had made on his behalf.

“I will do all that is asked of me and more,” Grayson declared, his voice thick with emotion and an unspoken promise to uphold the safety and honor of Dekar.

“I know you will, Grayson, and I’ll feel better knowing you have your eye on things here. It will allow me to do what needs to be done.” Alaric turned and began walking along the wall as the wind gusted lightly, bringing a brief relief from the sun. The day was growing hotter with every passing moment.

“When do you expect the king to send his summons?” Grayson inquired, falling in beside him.

“I had already expected it,” Alaric admitted, gaze lingering on the distant hills beyond Dark Forge, where roads converged and led off toward the kingdom’s heart. “It has been four weeks since I sent Roderick word of what I’d learned from Bramwell. I’ve heard nothing in reply, not even a peep. Should he have any sense, his army will be in the process of gathering, preparing for what is to come.”

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“You have heard nothing back?” Grayson’s tone was laced with worry and not a little amount of surprise. “Truly?”

“Not a bloody word.”

“Have you considered sending another messenger?” Grayson’s suggestion was cautious.

“I’ve already taken that step. I dispatched Jasper with a squad of his rangers.”

“An entire squad?” Grayson frowned.

“I want to make sure they get through. I told Jasper to stay off the roads. With luck, they should be back any day now.” Alaric turned to look at Grayson. “I have enemies in court, chief amongst them Laval. Arranging for something to happen to the king’s messenger or my men would be an easy way for him to cause trouble and earn me the disfavor of the king. I cannot afford that, not now.”

“You are thinking the king sent you orders—they just never arrived, his messenger having been intercepted and waylaid?”

“I do. Communications with the king and his administrators have been regular and without issue until now.”

“That would be treason.”

“It is but a possibility,” Alaric admitted. “Though he has not troubled us, at least overtly, Laval’s ambition knows no bounds. I would not put it past him to interfere.”

“Then again, the king might just have his head in the sand.”

“He might,” Alaric admitted, “but I am thinking not. My gut tells me otherwise.”

“That is why you’ve ordered the marching of six of your companies to the keep. You expect the call to come any day, especially if Jasper confirms it, yes?”

“That is the exact reason.” Alaric’s gaze shifted to the horizon, where dark clouds hinted at a brewing storm, perhaps a shower, which would cool things off some. “I have also commanded the supply train be assembled, that goods be moved immediately to Dark Forge for staging. Within a week, all should be ready. My soldiers will be concentrated here with sufficient supplies for an extended campaign. Shortly after, if called, we can begin the long march north, toward Kanar and beyond.”

“I see.” Grayson was quiet for a long moment, the weight of the situation settling in his mind. Finally, he spoke again, “In your absence, do you wish me to move into the keep? To watch things from here? It would be easier to govern, my lord.”

“I do,” Alaric responded. “Feel free to bring your family and anyone else you deem necessary to help you. While I am gone, you will be in charge.”

“And what of your mother?” Grayson’s question carried a hint of concern. “She will think she is in charge.”

Alaric gave a shrug. “Be diplomatic if you can. Ultimately, your decision on all matters is final.” Alaric stopped walking and faced Grayson. “I expect her to leave you mostly alone when it comes to the day-to-day issues and headaches. I will also speak to her.”

“I understand and I can be diplomatic, my lord. I will keep her informed and solicit advice. Good enough?”

“Yes.”

Alaric began walking again, with Grayson falling in step beside him. They passed a pair of sentries, who snapped to attention and then relaxed after they passed. Alaric noted their focused gazes, alert and watchful, both looking diligently outward.

“Do you have any questions?” Alaric asked, giving Grayson the opportunity to voice his concerns or seek clarification on the plans he’d laid out.

“I have plenty of questions,” Grayson admitted, “but I will not trouble you with my thoughts, not yet at any rate. I will get them together and then sit down with you.”

“That works,” Alaric said, pleased. He’d expected this conversation to be harder. It had gone surprisingly easy.

“You are marching into trouble.”

“I am inclined to agree with you on that point,” Alaric said. “The kingdom is filled with nobility that would sell their own mothers to achieve an advantage.”

“And you will find yourself in a camp full of such snakes.”

“It will not be all that different than the Cardinal King’s court, now, will it? Those bastards would sell their own children, given the chance.”

Grayson gave a chuckle at that. He sobered after a moment and came to a stop. “Some did. Still, this may be different.”

“Different, how?” Alaric asked, coming to a halt himself. He sensed there was more that the man wanted to say but that he was hesitant to do so, which was very unlike Grayson. “Always speak your mind with me. You have more than earned that right.”

“They will be jealous of all you have accomplished and are doing here in Dekar.” Grayson paused a moment as he sucked in a breath and glanced at his feet. When he looked back up, there was a hard look to his gaze. “And there is your heritage to consider.”

Despite the warmth of the day, Alaric found himself going cold. He studied the older man for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

“Your line is an old one, my lord,” Grayson said. “A very old one, dating back to the last days of the Ordinate. Everyone knows that, but I know a little more…”

Alaric gave a nod as he studied Grayson carefully, searching for any hint of what might lie behind the bannerman’s straightforward declaration. Grayson met his gaze stoically, his own eyes reflecting a depth of loyalty and hardness that had been forged over many years of service.

“Your father entrusted me with some knowledge before we left. He believed I should understand the weight of what I was protecting, at least to a degree. I am certain he kept some things from me, the important bits.”

“Go on…”

“Some other lords of the land claim to be descended from royalty, but your family has ruled Dekar for time immemorial. And now, a lumina has come to serve you, though we both know it is more involved than that. Don’t we?”

“Yes, indeed, it is more involved,” Alaric agreed. “Rikka and I are involved. She has my heart.”

“I know. But it is more than that. Even I can put the pieces together,” Grayson said as he moved to the other side of the wall and glanced down into the courtyard. Alaric went with him. Grayson pointed. Alaric followed the gesture and saw Eld with Torrin.

The latter had regained consciousness the day before last. Though he wasn’t out of the woods, the doctor was cautiously optimistic that he might survive his wound and recover—though recover was a generous term. He was being helped along by Eld, who had a hand around the other’s waist. Torrin was limping badly and clearly very weak.

“Two knights of Saint Vinthus have taken service under your banner,” Grayson said, his tone carrying a weight of significance. “I had never heard of their order, so I did some digging, and it seems theirs is an old one. They are focused on the restoration. I suspect you know that.”

“I do,” Alaric admitted, unhappy with the turn of the conversation.

“If I can put the pieces together, so too can others, my lord, for there is no other reason for them to take service with you, to swear themselves to your banner. They have only one loyalty.” Grayson paused again and looked over at him. “Then there is your Shadow Guard. We both know why they swore to you.”

“Have you spoken about this to anyone else? Family, your wife?” Alaric’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard, even here up on the wall. He glanced around. No one was within easy earshot, not even the sentries who were yards away and focused on looking outward beyond the castle.

Grayson shook his head, his expression serious. “No, my lord. I understand the delicacy of the situation. This information, if it gets out, could be used to rally support or to stir dissent, depending on who wields it. I was careful with my inquiries.”

“Has anyone spoken about this matter to you?” Alaric probed.

Again, Grayson shook his head. “No, my lord, they have not.”

Alaric let go a long, relieved breath.

“But word has gotten out about Rikka and Kiera,” Grayson added. “I hear there is talk about them. You have a lumina and Luminary under your roof, in your service.”

Alaric felt himself scowl.

“May I ask a question?” Grayson seemed once more hesitant. “If you wish not to answer, I will accept that, as you are my sworn lord. But, with all we have been through, I would not ever betray your confidence. I believe you know and understand that.”

“I do,” Alaric said, suspecting what was coming. “You have earned this question. I will do my best to answer.”

Still, Grayson hesitated. Then, he spoke. “How pure is your line—your lineage?”

Though he expected it, Alaric did not want to answer. Yet if he was to trust anyone outside of close family, it would be Grayson. Heck, in a way, the man really was family. He had earned that right. At the risk of his own life, he had proven that time and again, even once taking a wound for Alaric.

“Pure.”

“How pure?” Grayson pressed.

“I can directly trace my line back to Ixarius,” Alaric said.

“The last emperor?” Grayson breathed.

“That’s right.”

“The great betrayer? The one who crossed the gods themselves and caused the Great Sundering?”

Alaric gave a slow nod. “Yes, that is him, though I wish he wasn’t my direct ancestor. Grayson, I am the heir to the throne.”

“Dear god above and below,” Grayson breathed and stumbled back a step. He placed a hand upon the nearest battlement to steady himself. He’d paled considerably. “Are you certain this is true?”

“I am, and so too is Rikka. It is why she sought me out. God directed her to find me.” It was Alaric’s turn to hesitate. “I may be an instrument of destiny.”

“The prophecy…” Grayson breathed. “I expected you to be minor nobility, but not royalty.”

“Yes.”

“Good god…”

“I do not want this,” Alaric said. “I do not seek the restoration.”

Grayson sucked in a breath, recovering a measure of himself. He straightened, becoming grave. “You may not have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Word is bound to spread,” Grayson remarked gravely. “When it does, you will become a direct threat to the king, to the other nobles, to your enemies.”

Alaric, feeling a surge of terrible frustration, rubbed his jaw. “The king will come after me. Is that what you are saying? If so, I already know that.”

“I think it more likely the dukes and some of the other nobles will take action first. They will move to halt your rise in power, for a new order would threaten their power bases, all they possess.” Grayson shifted his stance and glanced around them, clearly searching for anyone who might overhear. When he looked back, his gaze was intense. “Everything I have heard about Roderick suggests he is weak, feckless. No, he will not act first, but last, and when forced to by circumstance.”

At that, Alaric gave a nod, his mind racing as he absorbed the counsel of one of his most trusted advisors. His gaze wandered back out to the training field, where the sounds of rigorous training once more drifted up to them. Indistinct from this distance, Sergeant Miks’s voice echoed across the open space as he directed the recruits.

“You must begin preparing for that now,” Grayson added firmly, drawing Alaric’s attention back. “There is no time to waste. Being heir does not make one an emperor.”

Alaric placed both hands upon the sun-warmed stone of the battlement. He gazed out past the training ground at the expansive fields in the distance, where the gusting wind whispered of a coming storm. “I should raise a true army, hold my banner high? That is what you are counseling, a real army, one that might even contest the king’s?”

“Might, not right, makes a king or even an emperor,” Grayson said. “I would be prepared to raise a larger army. Make Dekar a true power, one to be reckoned with, one even the dukes would hesitate to march against, no matter your heritage. That means you will need additional companies of infantry, bowmen, and cavalry. At least double what you have now and are planning. Also, I would expand and step up the training of the militia, give them better arms and equipment. Should word get out… you will be prepared with real strength. Picking up that banner or not will then be your choice.”

“You are talking about putting more than ten thousand men under arms,” Alaric said, his voice laced with apprehension as he considered the financial implications. Could he afford to do that? Just arming and feeding such a force would be a colossal undertaking, a monumental effort.

“At least that much, my lord,” Grayson affirmed. “You may, and likely will, need more if it comes to it.”

Though he found the idea distasteful, Alaric recognized the truth in Grayson’s words. The scale of mobilization Alaric’s former captain and bannerman was proposing would be a colossal financial endeavor, one that would threaten to deplete the last of his reserves, what he had accumulated from his campaigns during the Crusade. Yet the underlying reality was clear—he was not merely making strategic choices for power, but was safeguarding the future of those he held dear: Rikka, his unborn daughter, his family, and the very essence of Dekar itself.

Alaric felt like he was riding a runaway cart that was racing downhill toward disaster. He rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble on his palm. Though he had shaved the day before, he needed another. He was being forced down a path he did not wish to tread. Still, Alaric had never been one to do things by half measures.

With each thought and beat of his heart, the weight of responsibility grew heavier, the understanding of what must be done. Alaric drew in a deep breath, bracing himself against the monumental decision he had to make. He stood up straight as he steeled himself, his resolve hardening. He was beginning to see long-term there may be no way out, other than to raise that dreaded banner, one that had flown during the last days of the Ordinate.

“Very well,” Alaric finally said. He could not believe he was uttering these words, “Start the process of expanding the army.”

“Yes, my lord,” Grayson said without hesitation. “I will begin work toward increasing the number of recruits, aiming to raise at least five to eight more companies in the near term—say, three infantry units, additionally a bow company, and one of horse to start. Our cavalry arm is rather weak. We will need to rectify that, and soon, for as you know, cavalry can make a real difference on the battlefield. After those formations have been raised and trained, there should be three new infantry companies of lesser quality. That will give us a base from which to work, to grow our military power further and contest any move against you and Dekar.”

Alaric gave a nod. Then a thought occurred to him. The last few nights, he’d taken Rikka’s advice and been reading in the library on how the Ordinate went to war, the tools and strategies they’d used. “I have some old tomes that I’ve been reading. They date back to the days of the empire. In them, they detail mobile artillery.”

“Artillery?” Grayson frowned. “Like catapults?”

“Some, yes,” Alaric said, “but these were lighter machines, easily moved and transported, that could throw bolts a long distance.”

“What of them?”

“There are descriptions of how to construct them. If possible, I would like a few of the machines built before I march. I would like to try them out in the field and see if they give us an advantage.”

“Send me the plans,” Grayson said. “I will do what I can.”

Alaric fell silent, gazing out at the horizon for a long moment, considering everything he’d just ordered. He turned back. “You can build me a true army?”

“I can.”

“Can you do it quietly?” Alaric asked. He did not wish to alarm the king, let alone his neighbors and fellow lords. There might still be a way to keep from having to raise that dreaded banner, to put things off. Only time would tell if that was possible. If he was strong and his army powerful enough, he might not have to. Still, he would need to prove his loyalty to the king first, to demonstrate it beyond doubt, and Alaric hoped to do that in battle.

“I can,” Grayson confirmed, his voice low and steady. “The word I will spread is that we are preparing to do our part for the war effort. Everyone knows Dekar is now rich and growing wealthier by the day. It will not be much of a stretch to sell that.”

Pleased, Alaric gave a firm nod. Such an explanation would provide some cover, offering a veneer of normalcy, while simultaneously preparing for the worst. It also positioned him to have a reserve force should things go badly with the war against Averndale. Alaric conceded that such a force might very well be needed. King Thorold was reputed to be a fighter and master strategist. Roderick was not any of those things.

“Raising this army will take time,” Grayson cautioned, his gaze meeting Alaric’s with a somber intensity. “The entire summer at the very least and likely deep into the fall.”

Feeling a surge of helplessness mingling with a growing determination, Alaric pounded his fist lightly upon the stone of the wall. He did not wish to go down this road, but it seemed there was no other option, that ultimately, his hand would be forced.

Rikka, Eld, Torrin, and now Grayson believed him to be the man destined to reforge the Ordinate. Alaric did not wish to be the one who ignited a holy war, but it seemed like that was coming whether he desired it or not. He turned to Grayson, his expression hard, his mind made up.

“Do it. Raise me an army.”