A row of miners sauntered out from the cave tunnels, pushing mining carts along the old tracks they had cleared up when taking over the place.

As the tunnel opened up into the main chamber, Rudez, the mine chief, stood tapping his foot against the ground by a large bucket.

“Don’t forget your donations, boys,” he shouted. “Beer ain’t cheap no more in the Frontier.”

“Like it ever was,” one of the miners sneered.

“Well, yes, you’re right. But it’s more expensive now. Either way, quit yapping and make ye damned donations!”

A couple of men grunted but did as they asked. The chief said the ore would be split among them later, but few believed him. Not that most cared too much. They had already filled their pockets with stolen ore down in the tunnels.

The mentality among the men was universal. They would work and steal as much ore as possible and then leave. There plan was simple: in a couple of months, they would return home rich men.

Even the mercenaries were in on it. They lived separately, near the mouth of the cave in a small camp, guarding the entrance. But all ore leaving the cave came by them before being collected by Callum, and they were sure to take their cut.

The handful of support staff included a chef if you could call him that. He was feral and had previously cooked for large clans, but he wasn’t particularly good. However, the dishes had served their purpose and kept the dragonite master of the mining content in his chamber below.

And then there were the little hovlings. They were an interesting bunch, often coming to spy on the mining operations, but it caused little concern. Their nature seemed closer to children or animals rather than adult humans, and their behavior was curious but not cunning.

The little creatures had taken an interest in the cooking, and eventually, the chef had relented and thrown them a little food to try. It turned out that the culinarily challenged creatures loved cooked food; they just didn’t know how to make it themselves. So the following day, they returned with a fresh hunt of bunnies and snow foxes, which they traded for cooked food.

This continued, the hovlings returning with more and more food. They mightn’t have been particularly smart, but they seemed more than capable hunters, especially considering their minor calorie requirements, and soon, they were providing far more food to the camp than they ate.

During one of his visits to collect ore, Callum entered the camp and observed the little exchange, asking the chef what it was all about.

“They bring me fresh meat, unlike your lot. Heck, it's most of what we got down here since you just come with more rigar bark all the time. Gives the boys the strength they need to mine.”

"Really," Callum had nodded.

Noting the exchange down, Callum informed Mark of this when he returned to Fort Winterclaw.

This was an interesting development since it meant that the camp had begun to work its way to food self-sufficiency despite not officially having any workers collecting food.

Since expansion had been moving along smoothly in other directions and they were already producing some food in the mine, Mark decided to go ahead and settle more people outside of the mine, with the intention to begin harvesting rigar and developing the surrounding area.

Up until now, he had wanted to hold off expanding the operation. Building an above-ground settlement might bring more eyes to the mine and endanger it. But he wasn’t in a position to play it safe. More land meant higher yields and a chance that any ferals still living in the region would come seeking safety and security in his settlement.

To begin with, he sent Trayox and his boys to build a palisade around the mouth of the cave. It wasn’t to be overly grand and had no wall-walk. But it would at least give them some defense from attack, and since the cave entrance sat on an elevated platform of rock, it was already relatively easy to defend. Thanks to the natural terrain, the addition of a wall would require an attacking force to field a decent numerical advantage to have any chance at successfully overwhelming them.

****

Back in Fort Winterclaw, Mark waited until a couple more rooms in the new keep were constructed before announcing his ceremony. The difference was marginal. The keep was far from complete, but at least it had the semblance of something that would eventually look grand.

Archways lined non-existent corridors, and walls were missing, but regardless, he led a small procession of mercenaries, acolytes, and tested feral warriors through them into a room missing a ceiling at the keep’s center. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but thanks to its stone walls, which were essentially unheard of in the Frontier, it still kind of gave off an impressive feeling.

Stolen novel; please report.

Several dozen people watched on as Mark called Erin, Callum, Radic, and Clay to the front.

He knew there were rumors about the timid boy he had chosen as one of his elites, with most thinking it was an insane choice. However, when he received a debriefing from Leonard, Mark was impressed with how the kid had managed to push through his fear when visiting the trading post. The boy was rough and needed work, but something told him that his heart was in the right place and that a little investment in him would go a long way.

The other three were the obvious choices. Radic and Callum were undoubtedly the strongest and most skilled fighters among the acolytes, and Erin had always been fierce, not to mention her character. She was by far the acolyte Mark trusted most after Elowen, who was much better utilized elsewhere.

Dyes weren’t easy to come by in the Frontier, but Mark had managed to get some old, leftover dyes from the trading post, thanks to the hasty flight of the guilds. Using blue dyes, he had blue cloaks created for his four disciples.

He had also ordered Payon to prioritize the smithing of four sets of armor. They were suits of folded plate with rounded shoulder pads, a broad chest plate, chain mid-section, with metal greaves, vambraces, and gauntlets. Unlike the others, Callum’s was a little different, with the metal being worked in a way that weaved around his Imperator suit.

Winterclaw might have had a lot of iron compared to most places in the Frontier. However, the metal was still a precious commodity, and the four fully armored acolytes with sheathed swords at their sides were quite the sight marching down the corridor toward Mark, where he awaited to decree their new ranks.

As gasps filled the room, Mark knew that his plan had worked. People already envied the kids, and he hadn’t even provided them with new titles yet.

He had intentionally chosen worthy warriors to fill the room. People he had taken notice of and considered for recruitment into his new order, and by seeing the flashy display, he hoped to instill a sense of desire in them.

Some were no doubt angered by the display as well. The kids were hardly the greatest fighters, with the exception of Callum, who could probably hold his own in a sword fight against all but the most skilled mercenaries. Something not even Radic would be capable of, despite his strength. Mark knew this and decided to tread the tightrope regardless. Even though he was trying to move away from the Imperium’s image of nepotism, he still needed to have loyal people close to him.

When the four teens reached Mark, he gave them each a nod and turned to the man beside him, who held out the blue cloaks, ready for them to dress.

“Approach,” he said, taking the cloaks.

All four took a step forward, bringing them within arms reach of Mark.

“From this day on, I name you Knights of the Order of Winterclaw. Bestowing this honor, I give you the right to carry out laws at the highest level within the kingdom on my behalf. You will become a paragon that the people residing in these lands can look up to and instill hope in. You shall protect the weak and seek out evil. You shall uphold justice and cast down judgment. Now, I must ask, are you ready for such responsibility?”

“Yes!” Radic barked, his big eyes fiery with determination.

“It is,” Callum nodded, a stoic resolution stiffening his almost blank face.

“Yes,” Erin said, her eyes shaky and jaw gritted tight.

“Aye, I mean, yes,” Clay said, fumbling his words and quickly stiffening his trembling posture.

“Good. Then, as the Lord of Winterclaw, I proclaim you four my Knights,” Mark said, handing each of them a blue cloak as they fell to their knees.

“Ahem,” Payon cleared his throat and pushed through the crowd. “I have something to add. Please, my lord, hear me out.”

“Oh?” Mark raised a brow.

“We need more than a lord,” Payon said, drawing an excellent blade of ribboned steel from a sheath at his side that twisted colors as the light hit it. “We need a King!” he added, falling to his knees as he reached Mark and offered the sword to him.

“A king?” Mark looked around. He half expected outrage and objection, but the people were still and silent. They were waiting for him.

Gingerly, Mark took the hilt of the magnificent blade and raised it above his head, marveling at the rainbow of colors reflecting off of it as light pierced down from the clouds above.

It’s amazing. Besides the Imperator suit and the throne ships, this is easily the greatest work of craftsmanship I’ve seen since arriving here.

“Then so be it,” Mark bellowed. “Let me be the King of Winterclaw—the only true King of the Frontier.”

Cheers erupted across the crowd, and runners fled from the scene to spread the news across the fort and beyond it.

Some doubt lingered on Mark's mind about the proclamation. It would no doubt draw attention to him, and likely, more refugees would charge toward his lands to be recruited into his infantile kingdom, but in one swoop, he had placed himself on an unavoidable collision course with his enemy.

What does it matter? If the Imperium has chosen not to attack me yet, there’s likely a reason. What crime can be worse than stealing their ship and killing an Imperator? I am no doubt an enemy of the state already.

Fighting back his concern, Mark glanced out across the crowd with a look of determination.

This was the step up he needed. If he was going to confront a state, he would need to build one.

Moments later, as the crowd still cheered, runners came charging back into the partially constructed keep, calling for Atlas.

“What is it?” Mark said as the two men toppled over themselves in front of him, gasping for quick breaths.

“A clan from the west,” one man said between deep breaths. “Ancient and famous.”

“They’re coming,” the other said.

“Calm down and speak sense,” Mark huffed.

“Through the forest, en route for Winterclaw. Dozens of them, marching in formation.”

“Heavily armored,” the other said, the two men seemingly taking turns to speak. "They carry flags with a beautiful woman on them."

“Servants of the Wind Goddess,” a barbarian in the crowd said, stepping toward Mark and his knights. “The believers are isolated clans from the west that have little to do with the rest of us. I should warn you that meeting them is often quite dangerous.”

A few dozen? That’s hardly an army that can threaten us, but if these guys are so worried, I can’t take it lightly.

“Alright, then lead me to them,” Mark ordered and followed the two men from the keep. "I will see the followers of this goddess for myself."