The stench hit them before the outpost was even in sight—a miasma of stagnant water, wet rot, and decay that clung to the air. When they finally broke through the last line of skeletal trees, Blackwood Outpost revealed itself to be less a fortress and more a monument to neglect.
A single watchtower, leaning at a precarious angle, sagged against a palisade wall made of moss-eaten logs. Entire sections of the wall had collapsed, offering a clear view of the muddy, stump-filled courtyard within. The only structure of note was a long, low-roofed longhouse from which a lazy plume of smoke drifted into the drizzling sky, a lone signal of life in a sea of decay. Beyond the pathetic fortification, the Cursed Marshes brooded, a vast expanse of dark water and twisted trees that seemed to actively suck the light from the sky.
"Seven hells," one of the men muttered, voicing the collective despair. "It's a tomb."
Two guards, looking as haggard and demoralized as the outpost itself, emerged from the longhouse. Their surprise at seeing the new arrivals quickly soured when they realized Kaelen was their new commander, and that their tour in this forgotten hell was not, in fact, over.
While his men grumbled, exchanging bleak glances and curses, Kaelen dismounted. He ignored the mud that sucked at his boots and the oppressive atmosphere. With an unnerving calm, he began a methodical inspection. He walked the perimeter, his gloved hand pressing against the spongy, rotten wood of the palisade. He paced the distance between the wall and the longhouse, his eyes calculating fields of fire. He stared into the murky depths of the marsh, his gaze sharp and analytical. His men watched him, their contempt slowly being replaced by confusion. He wasn't acting like a spoiled noble throwing a tantrum; he was acting like a master mason inspecting a flawed foundation.
After nearly an hour, he concluded his survey. He turned to face the now-assembled group of twelve—his ten broken swords and the two gaunt men native to this rot.
"Gather in the courtyard," he commanded.
They shuffled into a loose formation in the center of the muddy yard, the rain plastering their hair to their foreheads. Kaelen stood before them, a slight figure against the backdrop of ruin, yet he possessed the unwavering stillness of a predator.
"Sergeant Brandt," Kaelen began, his voice clear and cutting, easily carrying over the patter of rain. "What is your assessment of this place?"
Brandt hesitated, then spoke the blunt truth. "It's indefensible, my lord. A forgotten death trap. We were sent here to die."
"Correct," Kaelen said, the single word landing with the force of a hammer blow. "All of you. All of us. We were sent here not to serve the Barony, but to be erased from its ledger. To rot quietly and be forgotten. This is not a command; it is a grave."
He let the harsh truth settle over them, validating their deepest fears. He was not their enemy; he was one of them.
"So I will offer you a choice," he continued, his gaze sweeping over each man. "Path one: you follow your orders. You live out your miserable days in this swamp, patching rotten logs until the dampness takes your lungs or a marsh creature takes your legs. You will die as you lived, forgotten by the world. That is the path Baron von Hess has laid for you."
He paused, letting them contemplate the grim certainty of that fate.
"Then there is path two." He took a step forward, his intensity drawing them in. "You forget the Baron. You forget the von Hess name. You forget the men you were. Today, in this mud and this rain, that life ends. You swear yourselves to me, and you help me build something new from this decay."
A nervous murmur went through the men. This was treason.
"I will not offer you glory or honor in some distant war," Kaelen said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. "I offer you something real. Serve me faithfully. Help me carve a fortress out of this wilderness, a hidden bastion loyal only to us. For twenty years, your lives are mine. You will work, you will train, and you will keep our secret with your life."
"And after twenty years?" Brandt asked, his voice rough with skepticism.
"After twenty years, my own house will be secure. My own blood will be old enough to stand the watch," Kaelen answered. "On that day, any man who served me faithfully will be released from his oath. You will each be given a fortune in gold and silver so vast your grandchildren will want for nothing. You will be given new names, new identities, and the freedom to walk away a king in your own right."
He let the incredible promise hang in the air before delivering the final, brutal term. "But know this. If you accept, there is no turning back. From this moment, we are ghosts. To the outside world, Blackwood Outpost and its garrison will be swallowed by the Cursed Marshes within the year. That secrecy is our shield and our greatest weapon. Anyone who attempts to break this pact, to contact the outside world, is a threat to everyone standing here. I will not hesitate to eliminate that threat myself."
The twelve men stood in stunned silence, the rain running down their faces. It was an insane proposal—a mad boy's fantasy of building a kingdom in a swamp. But this was the same boy who had predicted a bandit ambush to the exact man, the same boy who had killed with the placid grace of a seasoned duelist.
Brandt was the first to find his voice. He stepped forward, his scarred face a mask of conflict. "You ask us to trade our lives for a mad promise. To follow a boy we barely know into treason. Why? Why should we believe you can do any of this?"
Kaelen didn't list his skills or boast of his knowledge. He simply met the veteran's gaze, his dark eyes holding an unnerving depth.
"Because you have already seen that I am not like other men," he said, his voice soft but absolute. "And because you know, in the marrow of your bones, that your only other choice is to die here for nothing."
The truth of it was undeniable. They had nothing to lose but lives that were already forfeit. After a long, tense moment that stretched for an eternity, Brandt looked at the weary, broken faces of his comrades. He then turned back to Kaelen, and to the shock of everyone, the cynical sergeant dropped to one knee in the sucking mud.
"They killed me the day they wrote my name on the posting for this place," Brandt said, his voice thick with newfound conviction. "My sword, and my life, are yours, my lord."
One by one, as if a spell had been broken, the others followed his lead. The ten broken swords and the two forgotten guards all knelt in the rain-soaked courtyard, their heads bowed to their new sovereign.
Kaelen looked down at his first twelve followers, the foundation of his ambition. A flicker of triumph, cold and sharp, ignited within him.
"Good," he said with a sharp nod. "Then our work begins now."
He turned from his kneeling men and pointed a commanding finger at the crumbling palisade.
"Brandt. Take four men. I want a full survey of the rot in that wall before dusk. Two more, get to the top of that tower. I don't care if it sways, I want eyes looking outward. The rest of you, with me. The longhouse roof is our first priority. We have a kingdom to build."
For the first time in years, the stagnant air of Blackwood Outpost was filled not with despair, but with the sound of purpose—the sharp, determined ring of axes against rotten wood.