Paul’s POV

Paul made his way to the new keep’s motte in the making. There he found Howard, the master builder, directing workers in how the motte was supposed to be.

“How is the keep coming along?” Paul asked, “How long until work on the actual keep begins?”

“With the large fort, library, and shrine, it will take another two months to build the motte. Work can start on the fort immediately after that. Should take a month to build them once the motte is done.” The man walked over to a large tent covering some parchment on a table.

On the parchment were two simple large square buildings. One said library and the other said keep. Paul flipped through the parchment under them and there were designs of the interior of the buildings. He was not overly impresses. The tower in Angla was a massive stone project, and Angla had a massive stone castle.

“Can they not be made more… grand?” Paul asked.

“Grander how, my lord?” Howard responded.

“I don’t know, like in Angla.” Paul said. “Have you seen their castles and forts?”

“I have, my lord, but a grand stone castle or keep would require more materials.” Howard picked up a drawing of the keep. “Angla has access to stone and steel. We only have wood and scrap iron and steel. The only blacksmith we have is working double time with his apprentice to try and keep up with us. I was on a project in Angla once where they had 30 smiths. Also, we don’t have a mason.”

Paul frowned; his crimson eyes glowing. The plainness of the drawing irritated him. The faint noises of digging irritated him more than ever now that he saw what the final project would be.

“This will not do.” Paul replied coldly, his voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the air. “I did not conquer villages and enslave men, goblins, hobgoblins, and ogres, to produce mediocrity.” He waved his hand over the parchment.

Howard stiffened; the weariness of his workday momentarily replaced by a subtle unease. “My lord, I understand your frustrations, but…”

“No,” Paul interrupted, his tone sharper. “You do not understand. What I build here must endure. It must inspire dread in my enemies and awe in those who serve me. A wooden fort? A box for books? That’s not awe. That’s... mediocrity.”

Howard swallowed, choosing his next words carefully. “My lord, I can design something grander. But without the resources of Angla or Reinstrowd, we can only build with what we have—wood and scrap. Unless you secure a quarry or bring in masons and smiths, there are limits to what we can achieve.”

Paul narrowed his eyes. He hated the sound of limits, especially when they stood between him and his goals. His gaze flicked to the edges of the camp where goblins, ogres, and enslaved humans toiled in the shadow of the rising motte. His forces were growing, yes, but they were still primitive, barely a shadow of the grand armies he imagined leading one day.

“Fine. Build this, but design a grander project. One day we will be as great as Angla, and one day…” Paul stroked his hand through his beard.

“Yes, my lord.” Howard said, sounding relieved.

Paul left the tent, his crimson eyes flickering with barely restrained frustration. The skeletal trees of the Deepwood stretched around him, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky like the twisted aspirations he harbored. Liora emerged from the shadows near the edge of the clearing, her translucent form gliding toward him like smoke caught in a stray breeze. Her dark, ethereal eyes met his, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Howard seemed eager to crawl out of your presence,” she remarked, her voice smooth and laced with amusement. “You’ve a talent for inspiring both loyalty and terror, Paul.”

“He should be terrified,” Paul replied, his voice edged with irritation. “He speaks of limits as though they’re immutable truths. Wood and scrap? Mediocrity, all of it.” He gestured toward the motte-in-progress, the faint noise of hammers and shovels underscoring his frustration. “This will never suffice. Not for what I envision.”

“And what do you envision?” Liora asked, tilting her head curiously. Her spectral form shimmered faintly in the twilight.

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Paul paused, his gaze drifting beyond the motte toward the distant horizon. “A fortress that rivals Angla’s grandest towers. A place that embodies power and permanence. I want black stone walls that rise like mountains, a library that holds the secrets of eternity, a shrine where Shiiraviia herself would deign to dwell. Not just a keep, an empire's heart.”

Liora’s smirk widened, and she folded her arms. “Grand aspirations, as always. But even you must admit the irony, this empire of yours begins with goblins, wood, and a builder who likely dreams of simpler projects.”

Paul shot her a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. “Empires begin as ashes, Liora. It’s the will to rise from them that defines greatness.”

She nodded, her tone turning thoughtful. “And yet, greatness requires patience. You cannot conjure black stone and masons from thin air, no matter how much power you wield. The Deepwood is no Angla. It’s a savage frontier, your frontier. Perhaps you should embrace that for now.”

Paul frowned, considering her words. He hated to admit it, but she wasn’t wrong. The Deepwood was a land of untamed chaos, its denizens little more than beasts and savages. And yet, there was potential here, a raw, malleable power waiting to be shaped.

“Patience is not a virtue I enjoy,” Paul muttered, though his tone softened slightly.

“Then channel your impatience,” Liora replied. “Build your empire in steps. Strengthen your forces, seize better resources, and let your enemies fear what you will become. Let Angla’s lords’ quake at the rumors of the king rising from the Deepwood.”

Paul’s smile returned, this time with genuine satisfaction. “The king,” he echoed, testing the title on his tongue. “I rather like the sound of that.”

Liora’s laughter was light and haunting, like the wind through hollowed reeds. “Good. Now stop sulking over Howard’s practicalities. You have bigger conquests to plan.”

Paul nodded, his frustration melting into cold determination. The motte and its wooden fort might be a humble beginning, but it was just that, a beginning. One day, the world would look upon his fortress, his empire, and tremble. And Liora, as always, would be there to remind him that empires were not built in a day, but they could be destroyed in one.

“Let’s go see this blacksmith.” Paul said.

Paul turned, the weight of his ambitions settling back into place like a mantle of purpose. Liora followed, her spectral form gliding effortlessly beside him.

“Do you think this blacksmith will meet your lofty expectations?” she asked, her tone tinged with mild sarcasm.

“If he doesn’t, he’ll learn quickly,” Paul replied coldly. “Or he’ll serve another purpose.”

They strode through the camp, the makeshift settlement alive with activity. Goblins hauled logs toward the construction site, ogres stacked massive timbers with casual ease, and enslaved humans moved in hushed silence. All of them avoided Paul’s gaze, his very presence a constant reminder of their servitude.

The blacksmith’s workshop was a crude affair, a lean-to of rough-hewn wood sheltering an anvil, a small forge, and a scattering of tools. Smoke billowed from the forge, carrying the acrid scent of burning coal. Inside, the blacksmith, a burly human with soot-streaked skin and a perpetually furrowed brow, worked tirelessly, hammering a jagged piece of scrap metal into something resembling a blade.

Paul stepped into the workshop, his shadow stretching long against the firelight. The blacksmith looked up, his hammer stilling mid-swing.

“My lord,” the man greeted, his voice cautious but steady. He set the hammer down and wiped his hands on a filthy rag.

Paul’s crimson eyes flicked over the workspace, taking in the crude tools and the pile of misshapen weapons and broken armor waiting for repair. “Is this the best you can manage?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild.

The blacksmith hesitated, his jaw tightening. “With respect, my lord, this is what I have to work with. Scrap metal, a forge barely hot enough for iron, and no proper tools. I can make serviceable weapons and repair armor, but fine craftsmanship requires better materials.”

Paul’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Excuses seem to be contagious in this camp,” he muttered.

“My lord,” Liora interjected smoothly, her voice cutting through the tension. “You cannot build an empire without investing in its foundation. Even the greatest smiths need proper tools and materials to shape greatness.”

Paul turned to her, his frustration flickering briefly before giving way to grudging acceptance. “Fine,” he said, returning his attention to the blacksmith. “What do you need to make this forge worthy of my ambitions?”

The blacksmith blinked, caught off guard by the question. He quickly composed himself, his tone gaining confidence. “A steady supply of quality iron and steel, proper hammers and tongs, a larger anvil, and a hotter forge. And if I may, my lord, more hands. An apprentice alone won’t be enough to keep up with the demand of your growing army.”

Paul nodded slowly, his mind already turning over possibilities. “I’ll see that you get what you need. But understand this: I do not tolerate failure. If you cannot rise to meet my expectations, you’ll be replaced.”

The blacksmith swallowed hard but nodded. “I won’t fail you, my lord.”

“Good,” Paul said, his voice cold and final. “I’ll expect progress.”

As he turned to leave, Liora’s ghostly laughter followed him. “You’re learning,” she said, her tone half-teasing.

“I have no choice,” Paul replied, his expression darkening. “An empire is only as strong as the hands that build it.”

“And the mind that leads it,” Liora added, her tone softening. “Don’t forget that, Paul. They may be your tools, but you are the architect.”

Paul’s lips curved into a faint smile, the weight of her words settling into him like a seed taking root. “Let’s hope they’re sharp tools,” he said, glancing back at the workshop.

“They’ll have to be,” Liora murmured. “Or they’ll break under the pressure.”