They remained in the room for a further hour as the family swapped stories of the past two days. In time the group started to file out of the room. Finally, it was just Cheese and his father. Rook nodded at his son and said "I`m proud of you boy" and Cheese felt his voice catch.

Then his father continued "Now, go I have work to do" and returned to his files as the younger man quickly exited. The heavy door of the war room creaked open as Cheese stepped out, his mind still buzzing with the details of his father's strategy. He paused, scanning the room beyond. The tension that had filled the air earlier had given way to a more relaxed hum. People clustered in groups, eating, drinking, and speaking in hushed tones.

Across the room, his gaze caught Elder Tompson as he leaned on the long table. The elder stood amidst a group of younger boys, his gnarled hands deftly stringing a large bow. As he did so Cheese could see the man was struggling, as was to be expected of someone in his nineties trying to string such a weapon. Yet despite the evident strain, the elder succeeded, lifting the bow with a satisfied grin as sweat poured down his aged face. The young boys clapped, admiration clear in their wide eyes.

Cheese strode over, curious. "Impressive work, Elder," he said, nodding toward the bow. "What’s your skill level, if I may ask?"

Tompson chuckled, his weathered face crinkling. "It’s a 23 Bladesman," he said, with a hint of pride.

Cheese blinked. "23? " His surprise was genuine. he had never known that the older man had such skill in the bow. He quickly said "And just Cheese. I can't have my elders calling me that"

The elder smiled knowingly then gestured to one of the boys—a slender, bright-eyed youth. "Bladesman, this here is my great-grandson, Nold," he said. "He’s twelve and eager to find a noble to serve. Good with his hands, quick on his feet, and sharper than he looks."

Nold gave a hesitant bow, his gaze flicking to Cheese with a mixture of awe and determination.

Tompson laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked back at Cheese. He said solemnly, "Would you take him under your wing?"

Caught off guard, Cheese hesitated. He glanced between the elder’s earnest expression and the boy’s hopeful eyes. "I... suppose I could" he said, his voice uncertain but kind.

Tompson nodded as if this were the answer he had expected all along. "Come," he said, turning briskly. "I have something to show you."

Cheese followed him up a narrow staircase that wound its way to the second floor. The creak of the wooden steps echoed faintly, adding to the sense of anticipation. At the top, Tompson led him to a small room, sparsely furnished and quite dusty. It was apparent it hadn't been slept in in years.

In the center stood an ancient armor stand. Draped over it was a mail hauberk, its links dull with age but sturdy, and a breastplate that bore the scars of many battles. Beside the stand, a helm rested on a small table, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the lamplight.

Cheese stepped closer, his hand brushing over the mail. The cold metal links jingled faintly under his touch, each one a testament to the craftsman’s skill. The breastplate was solid, its weight reassuring as he ran his fingers over the worn engravings.

"You’ll need these," Tompson said quietly. "A Bladesman’s position isn’t just a title—it’s a burden. We’re scared, all of us, and we need someone who can give us hope. Someone to lead."

Cheese turned to the elder, the gravity of the moment sinking in. He nodded slowly, gripping the helm and lifting it. It felt heavier than it looked, both in weight and in meaning. "I’ll do what I can," he said, his voice steady.

Tompson placed a hand on Cheese’s shoulder. "That’s all we ask."

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The day passed rapidly, a steady march of routine and preparation. Lunch had been a brief affair—bread still warm from the ovens, served with a hearty potato stew thickened with cream and seasoned with herbs from the nearby hills. There had been a plate of pickled vegetables, sharp and tangy, to cut through the richness, and wedges of salty cheese to finish. It was nourishing but plain, consumed quickly as they reviewed maps and exchanged clipped words about the enemy's movements.

It was in this time that Cheese met captain Jean. he was a dense man, who strolled around with an air of self-confidence that was very grating. it seemed that at every opportunity he took the opposite stance of Rook just to annoy the man. Cheese had mixed feelings when his father told the captain that he was placing him in command of the defense. He felt even warier when his father told the man he was also stripping his guard apart and filtering them into units under his sons' command. The guard was a strong unit as far as Cheese knew, but he couldn't think men who were trained by this man were to be trusted. Only time would tell.

Dinner, however, was a quieter, more solemn event. The long table in the hall was set with a mix of food, each dish bearing the mark of effort in difficult times. Cheese and Waff sat near the head of the table; their moods darkened by the day’s reports. They were annoyed that Char, who had failed to kill the giant in their last engagement, wasn’t assigned to kitchen duty. It felt only fair. But their father had sent him to scout the enemy defenses, leaving the meal preparation to others.

The scents of the dinner wafted through the air, comforting yet faintly bittersweet. Roasted venison was the centerpiece, its skin crackling and darkened by an herb crust of rosemary and thyme, juices pooling in the tray beneath. Bowls of wild rice, speckled with dried cranberries and nuts, offered a rich and earthy side, while plates of dark, leafy greens sautéed in garlic and olive oil provided balance. There were also loaves of dense, crusty bread—perfect for sopping up the juices—and a dish of mashed turnips, their creamy texture hiding a slight bitterness.

For dessert, someone had managed to procure honey. It glistened golden over baked apples stuffed with spiced oats and walnuts, the aroma of cinnamon lingering as the steam curled into the cool air. A jug of ale and a bottle of berry wine were passed down the table, their contents dwindling steadily as the tension of the day gave way to murmured conversations.

The reports brought to the table were grim, each one more discouraging than the last. Scouts spoke of the enemy’s growing numbers, their strength bolstered by new arrivals and fortified positions. Cheese found himself distracted, turning the information over in his mind. His father had ordered a frontal assault from both gates, a bold but risky move. Cheese understood the reasoning—speed and strength—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that a smaller, more elite force might achieve the same results with less risk. Why bring all their men when the enemy could be cut off at the head?

But such thoughts faded as the meal stretched on. The flickering firelight softened the lines on his father’s face, and the voices of his extended family, even subdued, carried a sense of unity. For now, Cheese let himself enjoy their company, appreciating the rare moments of connection amidst the growing shadow of war.

Later, when he retired to his quarters, he found a pleasant surprise. Nold had been busy. The boy had swept the room clean of dust; the air now faintly scented with lavender from dried sprigs tucked near the windowsill. Fresh bedding lay on the cot, the blankets neatly folded, and a small pitcher of water stood ready on the table.

Cheese smiled faintly as he settled in. The day had been heavy with worry and decisions, but the quiet kindness of a twelve-year-old boy reminded him that even in dark times, there were sparks of light. He drifted off to sleep early, comforted by the thought that tomorrow was another day to face the challenges ahead.