“Come in.”

Callum stepped in and closed the door behind him. “You wanted to see me, Imperator?”

“I did. I wanted to ask you about what happened to you.”

“About what? I already told Master Mira and Master Henric. I really don’t remember anything.”

“Understood,” Mark swirled on his chair to face the stiff-faced boy. “What about the wound on your forehead? Do you have any idea why or who might have done that to you? It seems rather deliberate.”

“Imper—” Callum swallowed. “You… you know…”

“Huh, know what?” Mark raised a brow.

“Wh-what you asked. About the feral. You know.”

“So, you believe this attack was related to lying about the feral who attacked Dober? And what reason do you have for believing that?”

“I–uhh,” Callum gritted his teeth.

“Speak plainly, Acolyte. Don’t forget that you’re talking to your Imperator.”

Callum nodded. “It’s just a theory. Please, I don’t know,” he trailed off into a whisper.

“Right,” Mark held his narrow gaze on the boy for a moment before waving him away. “Fine. Dismissed then.” He knew he was lying. But it didn’t seem like there was much to gain from pushing the matter—and ultimately, Radic healing up was in the best interest of everyone. As long as he didn’t attack another acolyte, Mark was perfectly happy with his punishment, remaining at a crossbow bolt to his thigh.

***

Mark stood by the gate as another family shuffled through the snow. It was the fifth family they had accepted into the walls in the last couple of days.

Just outside the walls, eight acolytes were busy preparing trunks and branches that Mark had felled. So far, the exchange had worked well for them, and they had collected a considerable amount of rigar bark.

At first, the barbarians struggled with log cabin construction, but Mark allowed a couple of the older boys alongside Henric to assist—mostly just instructional, though. He didn’t want to risk dissuading any of them. The most important thing was that they kept building since downing trees with his Imperator suit was his only available commodity.

Thanks to this, groups of gathers coming and going from the fort had become a regular occurrence. It is evident to Mark that it wasn’t just because they wanted to trade. The ferals understood what was coming, and they wanted to stay here. That meant a food supply was vital, not just to fill their stomachs. But to keep the peace.

No one had been left out of this arrangement. All day and all night, pots boiled away—filled with rigar bark. Just about every hut with a nursing mother now held one of these boiling pots. Conditions were rough. The glowing embers and small fires they cooked over were usually placed at the center of their huts, beneath a narrow gap they left at the top of the thatch roofs. Thanks to the rather shoddy construction of the simple homes, when the wind blew, it came in through the sides. That same wind then funneled up and through the center of the roof, taking with it most of the smoke from their fireplace. There was still a layer of soot over anything that wasn’t regularly moved within the homes, but it was surprisingly smoke-free, considering their lack of chimneys.

Once the rigar bark was drained and ready to eat, the processed bark resembled mashed potatoes, unfortunately, only in appearance.

Mark had local women prepare a bowl of it for him. The texture was rubbery and had almost no flavor. Thankfully, It turned out that while the ferals around here didn’t have fletchers or bow skills—although Mark had heard many barbarian clans did—they were decent trappers. The ladies made a rabbit stew, mixing root vegetables and cooking it from bone broth for several hours. He had forced himself to try the processed version of rigar bark by itself first, for science, and was more than glad for the stew once it was added. The texture still wasn’t great, but the salty broth and tender meat more than made up for it.

Not that taste mattered all that much. He knew the biggest hurdle would be the perceived disrespect of eating barbarian food rather than the taste. But wheat was running dangerously low, and they wouldn’t have much choice soon.

Sighing, Mark scooped up the last of his plate and pushed the thoughts aside. He wouldn’t force it on the other Imperials until they were completely out of wheat and flour. Saving some for the sake of variety would be nice, but it wasn’t worth the potential uproar. Not when he knew people would eat whatever was given to them when they didn’t have any other choices.

As important as food was, it often seemed to come second to his other troubles. Rumors had spread across the acolytes and possibly even the other masters. Everyone knew what he was up to, even if he didn’t openly admit it, and sour expressions often followed him through the fort.

If it wasn’t for the same laws and religion, he was perceived as breaking—sometimes correctly and other times not—upholding his own authority; he guessed he would already be in shackles. Still, he knew he couldn’t rely on that forever. He either needed to convince the majority of other Imperials that his decisions were correct or find a counterbalance.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Leaving his cabin, Mark made for the wall. Staring out across the outer wall, where the ferals lived, had become his hobby. It had only been days, but the outline of a basic economy was already forming.

But he knew they needed more. There was still plenty of feral manpower in the surrounding region he could leverage if he played his cards right. But they wouldn’t just continue to feed his retinue for free once they built their cabins. Perhaps he could force them, but he not only found that morally reprehensible but inefficient. The ferals would work far harder for their own gain than they ever would as slaves or hostages of the fort. However, there was a sliver of hope. Unfortunately, it was almost fifty miles south.

There were dozens of Imperium forts dotted across the frontier, but they would all have Imperators in command, and that was something he absolutely wanted to avoid. But to the south, there was also The Frostwind Trader’s Post—or just Frostwind. It was a combination of a relatively large inn, a trading post, as the name suggested, and a gathering spot for anyone trying to make a few crowns out in the frontier. And this was where Mark hoped to find some skilled individuals to recruit.

Hiring outsiders was another decision he would no doubt be castrated for—even if they were Imperials. Imperators took pride in not requiring outside assistance. And while he couldn’t find any legal reasons he wasn’t allowed to hire what amounted to mercenaries, he knew Henric and others wouldn’t be pleased with the news.

Stubborn bastards. Mark sighed as he watched kids play between the huts as smoke trailed up from the center of their roofs.

Saving people from themselves shouldn’t be this hard. The tense atmosphere in the fort was getting on his nerves, and he would need to stabilize the situation before he could even think about going anywhere. One girl. That was it. Out of everyone in the camp, Erin had been the only person he felt he could trust not to make things worse with the very people they needed if they wanted to survive the winter. And he had no idea where she was.

***Acolytes***

“Come on, stop dragging your feet,” Erin whined as she waved Trayox on.

His wife Arinie carried a bub in either arm and followed a few steps behind. Several bags hung from Trayox’s muscular form, and he held his hatchet in one hand.

The snow was getting deeper. It had gone from barely ankle height to halfway up their calves within a month.

Snow rained from branches as they pushed through, and Trayox nodded to his wife as they reached the last trees before the fort. He turned to face the eyes that followed them. Dozens of ferals gathered in the distance. They had been watching for a while now. Probably sent someone for the cultists, but they were just clanless cowards. None were willing to risk attacking them, and half of them only watched for entertainment.

“Quick. Go,” Trayox gestured toward the wall and tightened his grip around his axe.

Arinie dropped her head and ran across the clearing between the treeline and the fort, passing Erin, who hastily followed.

As they neared, a smile brightened across Erin’s face as she spotted the broad, undeniable figure of Mark—like a stonewall against the snowfall. Imperator Atlas, you did it. You finished the wall.

Trayox watched their backs, scanning the horizon with axe in hand. But no one tried anything.

“Halt,” Mark said, raising his right hand as Arinie reached the gate. “Are you seeking shelter beyond my walls?”

The pretty but gaunt-faced woman nodded, clutching her babies tightly.

“That’s your husband?” Mark said, eyeing Trayox as he turned from the trees and ran toward them.

Arinie nodded.

“Good to see you again, Erin,” he added as Erin reached them panting.

“Same to you,” Erin nodded.

Mark’s thick brow curled as he watched the six-foot-something hulk charge toward them.

Slowing to a trot, Trayox rolled his shoulders and locked eyes with Mark. “Imperator,” he growled.

“Welcome to Fort Winterclaw, feral. Entry is quite simple. Swear to follow my law, and you shall be granted access and safety. Now, please, let me hear you swear to me.”

Trayox and Arinie turned to each other and nodded.

“We swear.”

Mark eyed the large man shrouded in dark dreads. He must have stood at least six feet five inches, and his wife, masked by soft, brown hair and delicate features, looked almost the complete opposite.

“You have a daughter?” Mark said, craning to see the babies held by the woman.

“We do,” Trayox grunted.

“Alright, in you go,” Mark said, stepping aside. “See one of my acolytes if you need materials to build a home. But it’ll come at a cost. As the family passed into the walls, he turned to Erin. “You bought us a big one. He’s going to be your responsibility.

“He’s a softy,” Erin grinned.

“Seems you’re in good spirits. Are you okay for supplies?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Erin said. “Guess that means I can’t come back in…”

“I wish I could let you. But there would be consequences. People need to know there are punishments for their actions. Without that, chaos will quickly take over this little fort.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Erin slumped.

“Sorry, kid. Know that I look forward to having you back behind the walls,” Mark said.

“Yeah… same.” Erin stepped back toward the treeline.

“Keep yourself alive. And if you’re worried about anything, come find me.”

Erin just waved as she turned back to the trees.

***

With nowhere else to go, Erin returned to the hut. They'd taken the pot and just about everything else of value, but a few food scraps remained. She picked at them, but they only made her stomach rumble.

“This sucks,” she sighed, leaning back against the thatch roof.

Footsteps crunched in the snow.

Erin’s eyes darted to her crossbow laying against a sack at the other end of the hut, and leaped for it.

She felt something hard and heavy slam into her, stealing her breath as they tumbled to the ground.

Filthy, rotten breath assaulted her senses as she felt hands wrapping around her wrists. Reflectively, her knee shot out, crashing into the man’s groin and sending him groaning to the ground beside her.

“Watch it,” a man sneered, and she turned her gaze upward.

He stood over her, dagger pointed menacingly, and behind him was another—draped in dark furs.

“I can smell it,” the man in furs said with a deep, long sniff. “She’s a virgin,” he sniffed the air again and shivered. “A perfect tribute to the Wolf God.”

“Come ‘ere!” the other man sneered and lunged for her.

Erin tried to resist, but the first man was upon her a second later. They took her wrists and bound them with ropes. And then her ankles.