Morning brought no birdsong. The sky hung low with smoke, heavy and still. The fires from the baker's quarter had not been fully extinguished. Corpses swayed on gallows near the central square, their shadows long across the cobblestones.
The city had not slept. Neither had the king.
He stood in the remnants of the old war chamber, once called the Lion's Hall, now a shell with only three walls and half a roof. The fourth wall had collapsed during a bombardment weeks earlier. No one had cleaned it. The bodies had been dragged out. That was enough.
Around the table stood six men. One was Varnhold, the steward. Two were surviving captains of the city watch-neither had more than a dozen loyal men between them. The other three were craftsmen: a smith, a stonemason, and a mill overseer. None had titles. That made them useful.
The king took his place at the head of the war table. The map before them was smeared with blood and ash. The ink was faded. Territory lines were meaningless.
He pointed to the center. "This is all we hold."
Varnhold nodded. "The inner city. One mile radius from the citadel. Everything beyond the walls is contested or lost."
"Contested by who?"
"The Duke's forces. Scavengers. Deserters. Possibly foreign agents. We no longer have visibility."
The king looked at the smith. "Name."
"Derrick, sire."
"How many forge-capable shops remain?"
"Three I know of. One was burned last week. The other two can produce horseshoes, nails, basic tools."
"Can they produce weapons?"
"With time and fuel, yes."
"What fuel?"
"Charcoal, mostly. We lack coal. Supply lines are gone. Forest is thin around the city. We can burn wagons, furniture, bones if we must."
"Start with noble estates. I want every bannerman's hall stripped to the rafters. Melt the iron gates. Break down their wine racks. Every ounce of metal goes to the forge."
The mason spoke next, unprompted. "Walls are unstable, Your Majesty. Western sector's ready to collapse. North tower took structural damage in the last assault."
"Can it be reinforced?"
"Not with what we have. We'd need timber, stone blocks, mortar. And men."
The king didn't blink. "Collapse it."
The mason paused. "Sire?"
"If it's going to fall, make it fall on our terms. Trap the rubble. Reroute access. Turn it into a kill zone. I don't want defenders wasting their lives trying to hold what can't be held."
The mason gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "As you command."
The overseer was next. He cleared his throat nervously. "The mills are seized, sire. No grain left to process. We're on starvation rations."
"How long until famine?"
"Two weeks at most. Less if panic spreads."
The king turned to Varnhold. "Any storage caches? Grain reserves, forgotten depots?"
"None of size. What's left is hoarded by merchants or rotting in sealed cellars."
"Then confiscate it. Search every warehouse. Arrest hoarders. Publicly execute the worst offenders. Burn one marketplace if needed."
Varnhold grimaced. "That may trigger riots."
"No," the king said flatly. "It prevents them."
By nightfall, three merchants had been hanged.
The food seizures began with little resistance. The people were too exhausted. They stared at the gallows and looked away when the soldiers came. A few protested. They were silenced before crowds could form.
The king walked the perimeter wall that evening, accompanied by a pair of guards. Neither spoke. They wore mismatched armor and carried spears with rusted heads.
The outer city was silent. The Duke's forces hadn't advanced. No war drums. No banners. Just waiting. Letting the city rot.
Smart.
He stopped at a breach in the western battlement. The rubble formed a natural slope. Perfect for climbing. Perfect for dying.
He knelt beside the stones and ran his hand through the dirt. Dry. No rain for days. No hope of fires being extinguished if they started.
He turned to the guard on his left. "What's your name?"
"Raglan, sire."
"You've fought?"
"Once. Against bandits."
"Would you hold this wall if I asked you to?"
Raglan hesitated. "I would try."
The king nodded. That was enough.
"Get me the ten best shots from what's left of the garrison," he said. "Station them here. Give them elevation. Barrels of pitch. Small fire traps. I want this breach to be a grave."
"Yes, sire."
He turned to the other guard. "What about you?"
"Gerrek, Your Majesty."
"You afraid?"
"Yes."
"You'll do fine."
The council reconvened the next morning. Twelve new conscripts had been found-mostly orphans and beggars. They had no training. No loyalty. No idea why they were being handed pikes.
The king looked them over in the courtyard personally. Half avoided eye contact. Two had never worn shoes.
"You are soldiers now," he told them. "Not because you earned it, but because no one else survived."
They said nothing.
"You are going to die."
Still nothing.
"But before that, some of you will kill. That makes you valuable. That means you eat."
That got their attention.
"Three meals a day if you serve. One if you fail inspection. None if you desert. If you steal from the armory, I will have your hands taken. If you strike an officer, I will have your tongue removed. If you flee from battle, I will hang you with your own belt."
They stared at him with wide eyes.
"You want honor? You're in the wrong place. You want to eat? Learn to march."
By the end of the week, the city had changed.
The nobles were gone. The gallows were busy. The forges glowed day and night. Smoke choked the skyline. The people were still hungry, but they stood straighter. They spoke less. They moved faster.
Order, of a kind, had returned.
The king sat alone in the royal study, a room once filled with ledgers and wine and perfumed scribes. Now it was silent. Just a desk. A chair. A single candle.
He set a blank scroll on the table, dipped a quill in ink, and began drafting his first decree.Not laws.Not rights.Orders.
One by one.