They stood on hollow ground— Not sacred, not consecrated. But claimed.
Ash still clung to the wind where the last township burned, smoldering just behind the hills, distant enough to ignore, close enough to remember. Two hundred men gathered—bandits, survivors, mercenaries shaped by frost and fire, some still wearing Dragunov blood beneath their coats.
Lionel stood atop the broken archway of what used to be the governor's hall.
His armor gleamed—not gold, not polished steel, but deep bronze, the kind earned from melted blades and tarnished coins repurposed for authority. Around him, silence held—not because they feared him, but because they believed him. And belief is louder than loyalty when sharpened.
He raised one hand.
No signal needed.
They listened.
"I was born beneath stone," Lionel said. "Not beside a cradle. Not inside walls painted with warmth. Not with a name. Just beneath—where the weight lives. The kind that doesn't let you breathe without permission."
