The sun rose pale and weak over Greymoor, its light falling on streets blackened by fire and slick with blood. Smoke still curled from ruined houses, bodies lay where they had fallen, and the once-proud banners of House Greymoor fluttered in tatters. The city groaned in the aftermath of war.
Inside the keep, the halls were silent save for the shuffle of boots and the groans of the wounded. The throne room, still stinking of blood and smoke, had been cleared of corpses. What remained were broken banners, shattered shields, and the scorched throne of Halbrecht — now stripped bare, a ruined seat waiting for a new claimant.
Damian sat at a long table littered with parchment, his bloodied armor half-removed, his jaw tight. Before him were ledgers scrawled by terrified scribes, lists of casualties, and inventories of what was left of Greymoor's stores.
"How many?" he asked without looking up.
A rebel captain shifted uneasily. "Three hundred dead, my lord. Twice that wounded. Of the Greymoor folk… the dungeons are filled. Priests, stewards, retainers, even their cooks. We wait on your word."
Damian gave the faintest nod, eyes hard. "We'll decide who's worth keeping, who's worth bargaining, and who feeds the crows."
Kael entered behind him, cloak thrown over his shoulders, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. He tossed down a blood-stained tally. "Supplies are thin. Halbrecht's purges burned half the granaries. If we don't secure food quickly, half the city will starve before winter. And don't even get me started on the repairs. This place is fucked six ways from Sunday."
Riven leaned lazily against the wall, sharpening his chain hook with a jagged stone, grinning through the chaos. "So what? We won. The pig's in chains. The people are chanting our name. That's worth more than gold."
Kael snorted. "Yeah, until the cheering stops and they remember they're still hungry."
Damian finally looked up, his voice steady. "Then we don't let them forget. We bury our dead with honor, feed the living with whatever we can scrape together, and start building something they've never seen before: hope."
That afternoon, the rebels carried their fallen to the fields outside the walls. Pits were dug, bodies lowered in silence. Smoke from funeral pyres joined the haze already hanging over the city. Priests — captured, now serving under duress — muttered prayers for the dead, though some spat at the "sky gods" under their breath.
Villagers came to watch, whispering as the corpses were lowered. Some wept openly for lost sons, others stared hollow-eyed. But when Damian and the other two CEOs walked the line of the graves, heads bowed, the murmurs shifted.
"They honor the dead."
"They stand with us."
"They are gods who bleed like men."
The myth deepened with every whispered word.
By nightfall, the keep's battered halls were filled with activity. Rebel scribes bent over parchments, mapping Greymoor's holdings. Blacksmiths hammered new arms from scavenged steel. Couriers rushed in and out, carrying word to villages across the countryside: The Boar is fallen. Greymoor is free.
And in the war council chamber, Damian, Kael, Riven, and Aldric sat at the head of the table, plotting the shape of their newborn House.
"This city is a carcass," Kael muttered, spreading maps. "If we want it to live, we'll need alliances. Trade. Stability. Otherwise, we're just holding a smoking ruin until someone bigger kicks down the door."
Damian's eyes narrowed at the map, his finger pressing against the lands beyond Greymoor. "Which means we hold this castle not just with steel, but with politics. The trial of Halbrecht will be our message: the old order is dead. We are the new."
Riven chuckled darkly, slamming his chain into the table. "And if anyone disagrees, we hang them from the walls."
Aldric, grim and weary, nodded. "For now, the city is yours. But you must be ready — others will come. Word of your rise will spread faster than fire."
Far from the city, in the high towers of Hollowmere, Lady Seraphine of House Hollowmere read the reports with a cool smile. "The Boar has fallen," she murmured, her pale fingers tapping the parchment. "And three strangers claim his keep. How… intriguing."
Meanwhile, in the lush courts of Cazwyn, Lord Malrik swirled wine in a silver cup as his advisors whispered. "Upstarts," he sneered. "Rebels playing at crowns. Let them bleed each other dry. Then we'll sweep the ashes."
The world was watching.
And in Greymoor, the House of Voss Arclight Cross began to rise from the wreckage.
The Weight of Crowns
The euphoria of victory faded quickly. By the third day after the siege, the city of Greymoor was a boiling pot of hunger, grief, and suspicion.
The rebels who had stormed the walls now strutted through the streets like victors, drinking, seizing loot, and harassing the remaining townsfolk. Peasants who once cheered the "sky gods" now whispered uneasily as their bread dwindled and their daughters were eyed by men who called themselves liberators.
Kael slammed a ledger down onto the council table, his voice sharp with frustration.
"Half the grain's gone, what's left is moldy, and our smiths can't keep up with the demand for weapons and tools. We've got three thousand mouths to feed, and if we don't figure it out by week's end, this city'll eat itself alive."
Riven lounged in his chair, picking his teeth with a dagger. "So we raid another caravan. Or burn a neighbor's fields and take what's ours. That's how rulers stay fed."
Damian's gaze was cold. "That's how bandits stay fed. We said we'd be more."
The room quieted. Even Aldric, stoic as stone, nodded once. "If you cannot give them food, give them discipline. Or else the rebellion will rot before it rules."
Reports filtered in daily: drunken brawls between rebels, stolen coin, merchants beaten in the streets.
Damian ordered a public flogging of one rebel captain who had seized a baker's daughter. Before the crowd, the man was whipped bloody, then cast out of the city gates. The peasants murmured approval, but the rebels muttered among themselves.
"They're trying to tame us like dogs."
"They call themselves gods, but they punish their own?"
The line between liberation and tyranny thinned with every lash of the whip.
Lady Maelwyn
Lady Maelwyn, her silken gowns ragged from smoke and her family's estates confiscated, prowled the keep like a ghost. She had bent knee on the night of the siege, swearing loyalty to the "new lords," but her eyes were sharp with calculation.
At supper, she approached Kael with a smile as smooth as oil.
"My lords," she purred, "Greymoor's people are simple folk. They crave pageantry, symbols of order. A trial, a spectacle, will soothe them. But…" Her gaze flicked to the scribbled ledgers on the table. "…bread must come before banners. Secure your granaries, and you'll secure their love."
Kael muttered under his breath when she walked away: "She's already scheming for a seat at the table."
Damian's reply was blunt. "Good. Let her scheme. If she schemes under our roof, we can watch her."
A Shadow from Hollowmere
On the fifth day, horns announced the arrival of a delegation. House Hollowmere had sent riders — silver-armored men bearing a black banner stitched with a single white rose.
At their head rode Ser Calvian, a stern knight with polished manners, who bowed before the three CEOs in the keep's hall.
"Lords of… Voss Arclight Cross," he said, tasting the name like bitter wine. "My Lady Seraphine bids you greetings. She has heard of your… triumph. And she watches with great interest."
The words carried weight. Hollowmere was not offering alliance, nor threat — not yet. They were measuring.
Damian inclined his head politely. "Then let her watch. We've only just begun."
Calvian's lips curled into a faint smile. "Indeed. And how you conduct yourselves now… will decide whether Greymoor rises, or burns anew."
With that, he departed, leaving whispers in his wake.
The House of VAC had won the castle. But ruling it was proving harder than taking it.
And beyond Greymoor, the eyes of powerful houses now turned their gaze toward the upstart gods.
The Trial of the Boar
The square outside Greymoor's keep had never seen such a crowd. From dawn, peasants, merchants, freed slaves, and even trembling nobles filled the streets, packed shoulder to shoulder.
At the center stood a great wooden platform built overnight, draped in black and crimson banners — the crude sigil of Voss Arclight Cross. Torches smoked in the morning air, their flames licking high against the stone walls.
Atop the platform, a chair had been set, rough-hewn and without ornament. Chains rattled as Halbrecht was dragged up the steps, his swollen frame barely able to carry itself. Once he had roared, cursed, bellowed like a boar before his people. Now he stumbled, slack-jawed and broken, his face mottled with bruises.
The mob erupted in jeers.
"Piglet!"
"Sky demons broke him!"
"Boil him like he boiled us!"
Damian, Kael, and Riven ascended after him, their armor polished, their banners rippling in the smoky wind. They stood above the people not as rebels, but as rulers.
Damian raised a hand, and the crowd stilled. His voice carried like steel across the square.
"People of Greymoor. You know this man." He pointed at Halbrecht, who flinched as if struck. "He called himself your lord. He burned your villages. He boiled men alive. He bled you for coin while he feasted like a hog. Today, he faces the judgment not of gods, but of you."
The crowd roared approval.
A scribe read aloud a litany of Halbrecht's crimes — executions, extortions, purges, the boiling of innocents. Every word fanned the flames of hatred.
When asked for his defense, Halbrecht mumbled, slobbering, "Mercy… I was your protector… I kept order… without me, you are nothing…"
The jeers nearly shook the platform apart.
Kael stepped forward, voice sharp and deliberate. "Order built on fear is not order. It's rot. And today, that rot is cut away."
Riven leaned close to Halbrecht, his grin wide. "Any last words, Piglet?"
Halbrecht whimpered, trembling as the crowd screamed for blood.
Damian lifted his sword high, its blade flashing in the sun. "By the will of the people, by the right of conquest, and by the judgment of the House of Voss Arclight Cross — Halbrecht Greymoor, Boar of Greymoor, Piglet of these lands… is condemned to die."
The executioner — a masked rebel wielding a massive axe — stepped forward.
Halbrecht sobbed, writhing in his chains. "No! I am lord! I am—"
The axe fell.
The crowd erupted as Halbrecht's head rolled across the platform, blood spilling into the dust.
The Boar of Greymoor was no more.
The square shook with chants:
"VAC! VAC! VAC!"
"Sky gods! Sky gods!"
For the first time, Greymoor had a new house, a new name, and a new banner.
Hollowmere's Second Visit
That evening, as the blood was still being washed from the square, horns sounded again. The riders of Hollowmere had returned, this time with carts of food and cloth trailing behind them.
Ser Calvian entered the hall, bowing low before Damian, Kael, and Riven. His words were smooth, measured.
"Lady Seraphine has seen your justice. Harsh, but… effective. She sends these gifts — grain, tools, cloth, timber — a token of goodwill to your fledgling House. She would speak further, should you accept her envoys."
Damian's face gave nothing away. "She means to test us again."
Kael muttered under his breath. "Or to buy us."
Riven just grinned. "Either way, we eat."
The rebel-turned-rulers stood in the great hall, watching the Hollowmere banners ripple in the torchlight, knowing that for every gift came a chain unseen.
The trial had won them legitimacy with the people. But now, the game of houses had begun.
The Aftermath of Judgment
The blood had barely dried on the scaffold when the gossip began.
In the taverns, in the markets, in the narrow alleys of Greymoor, peasants whispered with wide eyes.
"They cut him down like a pig."
"They said it was the people's justice, not the gods'. That means they're with us."
"No, you fool — it means they are gods and men. They walk in both worlds."
Children carved crude banners of VAC's sigil onto wooden planks. Old women pressed bread into the hands of rebels who had once terrified them. Even the city's broken priests, though silent, could not silence the chants echoing day and night:
"VAC! VAC! VAC!"
The Boar of Greymoor was no more. In his place, a new myth was taking root.
Inside the keep, the work began.
Courtyards were cleared of rubble, broken gates patched with scavenged timber. Blacksmiths worked night and day, reforging bent swords into plowshares where they could. The dead were buried outside the city walls, their graves marked with wooden stakes and crude carvings.
But food — food was the true battle.
Kael hunched over ledgers by candlelight, his voice edged with exhaustion. "We've got maybe two weeks' grain at most. After that, we're eating bark, rats, and each other."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Hollowmere's gifts buy us time, not survival. We need a permanent solution."
Riven kicked his boots up on the table, smirking. "Solution's easy. We take what we need. Greymoor's neighbors are fat and lazy. Their barns are full. Why not make their generosity compulsory?"
Kael glared. "Because bandits don't build kingdoms. Trade builds kingdoms. Trust. If we want to last, we can't just be raiders with banners."
Riven rolled his eyes. "Spare me the sermons, accountant. These people don't give a damn about trade. They care about eating."
Aldric, who had been silent, finally spoke, his voice like gravel. "There is truth in both. We raid to survive, but we trade to endure. If you would be lords, you must do both."
Meanwhile, the peasants' gossip grew louder with each passing day.
"They buried our dead with honor."
"They punished their own men when they wronged us. Even gods have laws."
"They'll feed us. They must. Otherwise, what kind of gods are they?"
The expectation was clear.
The people of Greymoor had accepted the rule of VAC — but their loyalty was now tied to something sharper than steel: bread.
The trial had given VAC legitimacy. But legitimacy was only the first step.
Now came the question that would decide if their House would rise or fall:
Could gods put food on the table?
The Dance of Hollowmere
The great hall of Greymoor Keep smelled of smoke and oil, the banners of Voss Arclight Cross hanging fresh but still crude over the old Greymoor stone. Torches hissed in sconces as the Hollowmere delegation entered, their silver armor gleaming, their black banner stitched with the pale white rose unfurled.
Ser Calvian, knight and mouthpiece of Lady Seraphine, strode forward with practiced grace. His men stood at attention, their faces expressionless.
Damian sat at the center of the dais, Kael on one side with ledgers spread before him, and Riven lounging on the other, his chain idly swaying as if itching for blood. Aldric stood at their back, silent sentinel.
Calvian bowed, his voice smooth as silk.
"My lady sends greetings. She watched your trial of the Boar with great interest. Justice, spectacle, ruthlessness — all qualities of true lords."
Damian's reply was cool, clipped. "She sends food. She sends timber. She sends cloth. That is not done out of charity. What does she want?"
Calvian's lips curved faintly. "Ah, you waste no time in pretense. Very well. Lady Seraphine wishes only for… friendship. Friendship, of course, sealed in trade. Your city is wounded, your stores depleted. Hollowmere's granaries are full. Her smithies ring with steel. She would gladly see Greymoor supplied… in exchange for favorable terms."
Kael leaned forward, fingers drumming on the ledger. "Terms such as?"
"Exclusive rights to your iron mines. First choice of your grain once the fields recover. Tariffs lowered on our caravans, raised on others. Small things, hardly worth troubling great lords such as yourselves."
Riven barked a laugh. "So she feeds us with one hand and shackles us with the other."
The room thickened with silence. Calvian's smile did not falter.
Damian stood slowly, descending the dais with measured steps. He circled Calvian like a wolf, voice low but sharp enough to cut.
"You think we're desperate. That because our people are hungry, we'll sign away our steel, our bread, our sovereignty. You mistake us for Halbrecht. We are not swine to fatten and slaughter."
Calvian tilted his head, unruffled. "Without aid, Greymoor starves. The people who chant your name will turn on you within weeks. Gods who cannot feed their flock are no gods at all."
Kael seized the moment, rising with a sharp smile. "True. But aid does not mean chains. We offer this: trade fairly. Grain and timber for coin and steel. No exclusive rights, no crippling tariffs. A partnership, not vassalage. If Hollowmere wishes a foothold in Greymoor, it will be on equal ground."
Calvian's smile thinned. "My lady will not accept so meager an arrangement."
Riven slammed his chain down onto the table, the clatter echoing like thunder. "Then tell your lady this: Greymoor will eat. Whether we buy it, steal it, or take it from Hollowmere's fat barns makes no difference. Either way, our people won't starve. Her choice is whether she profits… or bleeds."
The silence was electric.
Finally, Calvian bowed again, just a fraction stiffer than before. "I will convey your terms. Lady Seraphine… may yet find your offer acceptable."
By week's end, caravans rolled through Greymoor's gates — sacks of grain, barrels of salted fish, timber, cloth, and tools. Hollowmere's merchants filled the markets, exchanging goods under the watchful eyes of VAC's guards.
The people cheered, bellies filling, hope stirring.
The peasants whispered in awe:
"The gods broke Hollowmere's knight."
"They feed us now. They are just."
"No lords, no priests, no kings ever cared. But the gods care."
The myth deepened.
And Hollowmere, while conceding trade, watched closely from afar, their eyes narrowed. VAC had won the first dance. But the game of houses had only just begun.
Gods as Builders
It began with discipline.
The rebel bands who had once rampaged unchecked now bristled at VAC's laws. Street fights, theft, drunken riots — all common in the weeks after the siege — were punished swiftly.
Damian made an example of three captains caught looting. Shackled, paraded through the market square, they were flogged and stripped of rank. One spat curses; Riven had him hanged on the spot. The other two bent knee, humbled.
The message was clear: rebellion had ended. Order had begun.
In the great hall, the last of Halbrecht's men were brought forward in chains.
Some were petty bureaucrats, clerks, or guards who had obeyed orders out of fear. After questioning, Kael ruled many of them useful — freed to serve under VAC's new system, their loyalty tested but salvageable.
Others were fanatics, knights who had stood with Halbrecht to the end. Their trials were brief, their fates certain.
"You swore your oaths to a tyrant," Damian declared before the court. "You chose blood and cruelty. Your oaths die with him."
The condemned were executed in the square — some by axe, others by rope. Their screams fed the myth: VAC was merciful to the weak, merciless to the fanatical.
The people whispered:
"They are not cruel like the Boar."
"They punish with reason, not with madness."
"They are gods, but just gods."
Once order was secured, VAC turned their gaze to building.
Kael unfurled rough sketches on parchment — crude compared to what he remembered from their world, but revolutionary here.
"Central heating, aqueduct-style plumbing, proper waste disposal," he explained to confused masons and engineers. "No more shit in the streets. No more freezing to death in winter."
Farmers were summoned and taught new methods — crop rotation, irrigation channels, storing grain properly to last through winter. Wooden plows were refitted with iron tips, fields reorganized for efficiency.
Damian oversaw the codification of law — modern principles written into rulings, trial by witness and evidence rather than superstition and priestly decree.
Riven, predictably, had less patience for parchment. His contributions were blunt but effective: improved forges, harsher drills for soldiers, new weapon designs from half-remembered engineering texts. "If I can teach a drunk with a hammer how to make a decent hinge," he muttered, "then by next year we'll have goddamn siege engines."
To the people, these changes were nothing short of miracles.
"When have we had hot water?"
"Or clean streets?"
"Or crops planted in such strange ways… and growing stronger than ever?"
In taverns and markets, the legend of the sky gods grew brighter. They were not only warriors, not only judges, but builders.
VAC was no longer just holding Greymoor. They were remaking it.
And in the distance, the other great Houses watched nervously, for nothing was more dangerous than upstarts who could feed their people, enforce order, and wield both steel and knowledge.
The Eyes of the World
The story of Greymoor spread like wildfire. Merchants carried it along the trade roads, bards exaggerated it in taverns, and spies whispered it in noble courts.
A tyrant lord, toppled. Sky-gods in mortal flesh, leading peasants and rebels. Executions and justice delivered in public squares. Reforms that seemed like sorcery — clean water, hot baths, stronger crops.
Every hall of power in the world soon heard the rumors.
House Cazwyn
Far to the west, in the marble palaces of Cazwyn, Lady Valerica Cazwyn reclined on her cushioned throne, her feline eyes narrowing.
"They say these… gods… executed Halbrecht before his own people and yet turned his castle into something stronger than before. The peasants cheer, the markets stir. Hmph. Peasants should never cheer their rulers. That is unnatural."
Her advisors shifted uneasily. One murmured, "Should we intervene?"
Valerica only smiled, her jeweled fingers curling around her goblet. "No. Not yet. Let them grow. Let them shine brighter. The taller the tree, the more satisfying when it falls."
House Vastina
In the enchanted woods of the Elves, Lord Aired Vastina listened to the reports beneath silver boughs. His long, sharp face remained calm, but his voice carried weight.
"Three outlanders rise, the people chant their names, and now they alter the very balance of cities. This is not a mere rebellion. This is… contagion."
A younger elf sneered. "Mortals play at gods. They will burn themselves out."
Aired shook his head. "Do not underestimate them. Knowledge itself can be more dangerous than steel. If they teach peasants to grow stronger crops and build cleaner cities, the old order will crumble beneath them. Even the forests are not immune to fire."
House Courvoisier
In a glittering court of marble and mirrors, Lady Stéphanie de Courvoisier sipped wine while her courtiers laughed at the latest rumors.
"Sky gods? Plumbing? Laws written by commoners?" She smirked, her jeweled gown catching the light. "Peasants are so easily amused. Give them hot water and they'll kiss your feet."
Her tone sharpened. "But if the mob can be swayed so easily… then perhaps we should watch. If they truly can bend cities to their will, they may yet bend armies."
House Claybrook
Lord Nicholas Claybrook, old and weary, sat by candlelight in his drafty fortress. He listened as his steward recited the tales.
At last he sighed. "So the world changes again. Once it was kings and priests. Then came lords and knights. Now… sky-gods with strange knowledge. Change never favors the old."
His steward asked if they should send riders. Nicholas shook his head. "Not yet. Best to see whether they survive the winter."
In the courts of the Top Ten — from the dwarven halls of Wyvernhand to the silken salons of Ballesteros — whispers grew louder.
Some scoffed, dismissing VAC as upstart rebels who would choke on their own chaos.
Others schemed, already imagining alliances, marriages, assassins.
And a few, the most dangerous, wondered if perhaps these newcomers were exactly what the world had been waiting for: disruptors who could topple the ancient balance.
Back in Greymoor
The messengers who carried these rumors never stopped. And though VAC did not yet know it, their names were already spoken in every council chamber, every war tent, every shadowed hall across the continent.
The Boar of Greymoor had fallen. But the world was waking up to something far greater — a house born of rebellion, innovation, and fire.
The House of Voss Arclight Cross.
And the old order would never be the same.
The Mundane Grind
Greymoor smelled less of blood now and more of smoke, wood, and sweat. The caravans from Hollowmere rolled in daily, their wheels groaning under sacks of grain and barrels of salted fish. Markets reopened, taverns filled again, and the streets no longer looked like a graveyard.
But ruling was far from glorious.
Kael buried himself in ledgers, teeth grinding as he tried to balance the food distribution. "If we give full rations to the militia, the peasants will riot. If we starve the militia, the walls will fall. Gods damn it, we need twice the food we have."
Damian was in the courtyards, enforcing drills. Rebels who once fought like brawlers now learned discipline: shield formations, proper spear lines, nightly watches. More than one drunkard was beaten into shape under his orders.
Riven, meanwhile, stalked the workshops. He bullied blacksmiths into hammering out sturdier blades, sketched crude plans for reinforced carts, even built a pulley system to haul stones for repairing the walls. "One day," he muttered proudly, "we'll have machines that make these bastards piss themselves."
The people began to notice strange miracles.
New iron plows cut through soil like butter. Wells were fitted with rope-and-pulley buckets that children could draw water from. Wooden pipes began creeping through the city, carrying waste away from the streets.
"They make the filth vanish underground," peasants whispered.
"They can draw water like magic!"
"They don't just rule… they fix things."
Every little improvement fed the legend.
The Sulfur Mines
It was during a routine report that a scout mentioned something peculiar.
"My lords," he said, bowing before the dais, "north of the river cliffs, we found caves with yellow stone… foul-smelling, burns when thrown in the fire."
Kael's head snapped up. "Sulfur?"
Riven grinned like a wolf. "Oh, hell yes."
Damian narrowed his eyes. "Sulfur alone is nothing. But if we can find saltpeter…"
Kael was already pacing, muttering half-remembered formulas. "Charcoal, saltpeter, sulfur… black powder. Gunpowder."
A silence fell. Even the attending scribes shifted uneasily at the word.
Later, in the war room, the three huddled with Sir Aldric, who had been summoned to hear their mad idea.
Kael: "If we refine it properly, pack it tight, it explodes. Loud, devastating, unlike anything this world has seen."
Riven: (smirking) "Imagine a battlefield where instead of arrows, we rain thunder on the bastards."
Damian: "It's dangerous. If we rush it, we'll blow ourselves to bits before we ever use it on the enemy."
Aldric frowned, his scarred face unreadable. "You speak of fire… fire that roars like a dragon, fire that can be tamed and thrown? Such things are… blasphemy."
Kael leaned forward, voice low and sharp. "Not blasphemy, Aldric. Progress. Think of walls crumbling in moments. Think of knights cut down at a distance. This world fights with steel and bowstrings. We fight with fire and thunder. Do you see the difference?"
Aldric hesitated, then nodded slowly. "If such a weapon can be forged… Greymoor will never fall again."
Riven grinned. "Good. Then tomorrow we start digging up that yellow shit, and we'll see if we can turn it into a god's roar."
The House of VAC had won its throne with rebellion and blood. Now it was poised to win the future with fire and powder.
And somewhere deep inside the caves of Greymoor, the first sparks of a revolution waited to be born.
Smoke Behind the Banners
A week after Hollowmere's caravans had arrived, Greymoor's smaller lords — stewards of villages and hamlets surrounding the city — were summoned to the keep.
They came sullen and suspicious, riding worn horses, their banners tattered but still flying. These were not great nobles, but men and women who ruled over villages of three hundred, maybe five hundred peasants — the lifeblood of Greymoor's harvests.
In the council chamber, Kael spread maps across the table. "Your villages feed the city. Your loyalty will decide whether Greymoor thrives or starves."
One lord, heavyset and red-faced, sneered. "We bent knee to Halbrecht. He fed us… when he cared to. Now you demand the same? What makes you any different from the Boar?"
Riven leaned across the table, his grin sharp as a knife. "Difference is Halbrecht would slit your throat for asking. Me? I'll just make sure your people eat — as long as you swear fealty and send your grain here."
Another lord, an older woman with steel-grey hair, narrowed her eyes. "And if we refuse?"
Damian's voice cut in, flat and calm. "Then you'll have no caravans. No protection from raiders. And when winter comes, you'll find yourselves cold, hungry, and alone. We don't need you to like us. We just need you to understand survival."
Silence followed. Slowly, one by one, the smaller lords swore allegiance.
But in their eyes, unease lingered. VAC had power, yes — but they were not of this world, and that frightened the petty lords as much as it awed them.
Later, in the shadowed corridors of the keep, Lady Maelwyn moved like a serpent through silk.
She had watched the meeting from the back, her lips curling in amusement at how easily peasants in lordly garb bent when threatened.
That night, she convened her own gathering — not with VAC, but with a few of those same village lords in her private chambers. Wine flowed, candles flickered, and her words dripped like honey.
"Gentlemen… and lady," she said smoothly, "you see what these outlanders are doing. They take your fealty with threats. They strip Greymoor of its old ways. Do you think they'll stop with Halbrecht's court? No… they will remake everything."
One lord muttered nervously, "They bring food. They bring order. Even my peasants cheer their names."
Maelwyn smiled sweetly. "And peasants cheering is the death of lords. Don't you see? Today they build sewers, tomorrow they write laws, and the day after… you will have no power left. You'll be figureheads in your own halls."
The lords exchanged uneasy looks.
Maelwyn leaned in, her eyes gleaming. "So we smile, we bow, we bide our time. And when the moment comes, we remind these sky-gods that Greymoor still belongs to its blood."
She raised her goblet. Reluctantly, the smaller lords raised theirs in turn.
It was not rebellion — not yet. But it was the first whisper of intrigue under VAC's roof.
Meanwhile, Kael continued puzzling over the sulfur.
He explained to Damian and Riven: "It has uses besides powder. For fumigation — driving pests from crops, preserving wine, even treating illness if refined carefully. We don't need explosions yet. We can make Greymoor's food last longer, and we can stop blight."
Damian nodded. "Practical. That earns loyalty faster than fire and thunder."
Riven groaned. "Less fun, though."
Kael smirked. "Survival first, fun later. But keep digging. We'll need every grain of it, one day."
While VAC dreamed of sulfur and progress, Lady Maelwyn poured another round of wine in her chambers.
Her smile was radiant, but her thoughts were razor-sharp.
She would play the loyal subject in daylight. But at night, she wove her own net — threads of power, whispers of discontent, and the promise that when the gods faltered, she would be ready to seize the pieces.
The First Winter
Snow fell over Greymoor like a burial shroud. The city groaned under ice and wind, but unlike winters past, the people did not starve.
The granaries were full — not overflowing, but enough. Grain from Hollowmere, salted meats from caravans, root vegetables stored in clay-lined pits. Sulfur had been burned to fumigate storage houses, keeping mold and rot at bay.
The sewers and drainage Kael forced upon the masons had kept waste from freezing in the streets, sparing the city plague. Hearths burned bright, fueled by organized woodcutting campaigns.
And for the first time in living memory, peasants of Greymoor whispered through frost-bitten lips:
"We might live to see the spring."
The roads were treacherous, but VAC ensured trade continued. Envoys from House Claybrook arrived with carts of rye and barley. From House Strauss, dwarven steel trickled in — axes, nails, stronger hinges.
The deals were hard-won. Damian sat across oak tables for hours, giving nothing away, extracting fair prices without yielding grain fields or mines. Riven kept the soldiers drilled, showing off to the traders that VAC's forces were no longer rabble. Kael handled the ledgers, adjusting tariffs just enough to keep Greymoor's coffers from bleeding.
The Houses grumbled but paid heed. The gods of Greymoor were no longer a rebellion — they were a power.
One night, in the keep's upper chambers, the three of them sat before a roaring fire. Outside, snow howled against the shutters. Inside, wine warmed their bellies.
Kael stared into the flames. "We've built walls, fed a city, beaten back winter. But tell me — are we gods here, or prisoners?"
Damian arched a brow. "Prisoners?"
Kael's voice was softer now. "Think about it. We fell from the sky. If this place mirrors our own world, then maybe there's a way back. But what if we're stuck? Forever. This… throne, these people… what if it's all we'll ever have?"
Riven snorted into his cup. "Better than what we had. Back home, we were CEOs tied to shareholders and quarterly reports. Here? We've got castles, armies, power. I say screw going back."
Damian leaned back, fingers steepled. "And if we could go back? Would you give this up? Or take what we've learned here and rule there?"
The fire cracked, the question hanging heavy.
Kael shook his head, laughing bitterly. "We don't even know if it's possible. No portal, no signs. Just a cursed fall from the sky. Maybe the universe threw us here because it hated us less than it hated Halbrecht."
Riven grinned, raising his goblet. "Then here's to being hated. If we're stuck, we're stuck. Let's make this world ours."
Damian finally allowed himself a faint smile. "Then tomorrow we drill the soldiers harder. Gods or prisoners, either way… Greymoor stands because of us."
The three clinked cups. Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, the House of Voss Arclight Cross burned brighter than ever.
The Thaw
Spring Awakens
When the snows melted, Greymoor stirred with new life. The fields outside the walls, once black with ash from Halbrecht's wars, were tilled anew. Farmers used iron-tipped plows forged in VAC's smithies, pulling straighter furrows than ever before.
Kael introduced crop rotation — oats in one field, legumes in another, fallow land left to recover. The peasants gawked at the strange instructions, but when the soil turned richer and the seedlings thrived, awe replaced doubt.
Damian oversaw the militia's transition into something more professional: patrols along the roads, rotating watches, strict codes of conduct. For the first time in years, traders rode Greymoor's roads without being robbed by bandits.
Riven focused on infrastructure: bridges reinforced, roads repaved, even a crude aqueduct laid out to bring spring water into the city.
Greymoor was no longer just surviving. It was changing.
Yet not everyone was satisfied.
Lady Maelwyn moved quietly, hosting private dinners, passing letters by candlelight. She whispered to village lords that VAC's reforms would one day strip them of their autonomy. She reminded old Greymoor knights that their oaths had been shattered under foreign gods.
Her beauty, her wit, her claim of "loyal service" kept her in VAC's good graces publicly. But privately, her web stretched wider each week.
And yet… she did not know she was already in another's web.
Sir Aldric's Shadow
Sir Aldric had not only sworn fealty — he had taken to his new duty with zeal. At Damian's urging, he organized a network of watchers: loyal peasants, reformed soldiers, even children who carried messages through the alleys.
They tracked meetings, followed letters, listened at keyholes. Aldric himself trailed Maelwyn more than once, standing silent as a statue in the dark, listening to her honeyed words to wavering nobles.
One night he reported to the three in the war room, bowing low.
"She thinks herself clever," Aldric said grimly. "But every whisper she spreads, I hear. Every lord she woos, I mark. For now, she undermines quietly, but given time she will make herself dangerous."
Kael tapped his chin. "So we let her continue. Better to know her plots than to drive her into the arms of another House outright."
Riven cracked his knuckles. "Or we cut her throat now and be done with it."
Damian shook his head. "No. A serpent in your hand is safer than one in the grass. Let her think she thrives — and when she overreaches, we strike."
Aldric bowed, his loyalty unshaken. "As you command, my lords. Until then, I will keep her under the gods' shadow."
So the spring blossomed.
Greymoor's peasants worked the fields with renewed hope. Traders came more frequently, praising the safety of VAC's roads. Infrastructure crept upward like ivy along stone walls.
But in the shadows, Lady Maelwyn spun her intrigue, and Aldric sharpened his net.
The gods of VAC ruled openly with steel and innovation. But the real game, the deeper game, was already unfolding beneath their very feet.
The Serpent's Heart
Long before the sky-gods fell into Greymoor, Lady Maelwyn had learned the art of survival.
Born the second daughter of a minor noble house, she was never meant to inherit land or title. Her brother was the heir, her sister the beauty promised to a wealthier lord. Maelwyn was left with scraps — a pawn to be bartered away in marriage.
But Maelwyn was clever. She learned to smile when she wanted to scream, to listen when men forgot she was in the room, to turn their desires into leverage. By sixteen, she had maneuvered herself into Lord Halbrecht's court — not as a wife, but as an advisor, companion, and, when it suited her, his lover.
Halbrecht, the Boar, saw her as an ornament. She saw him as a stepping stone.
To Maelwyn, nobility was theater. Titles meant little; what mattered was who controlled the whispers in the corridors, who placed the right word in a lord's ear at the right time.
Halbrecht's brutality disgusted her, but it also taught her: power was never about fairness, never about mercy. It was about dominion. Those who ruled through fear lasted longer than those who ruled through love.
She endured Halbrecht's rages, his clumsy lust, his drunken boasts — because through it all, she learned the gears of Greymoor. She mapped every alliance, every trade route, every petty lord's weakness.
When VAC toppled him, she did not weep. She adjusted. Survived. Smiled sweetly, bowed gracefully, and slid her way into the new order.
Now, with the sky-gods ruling, she saw opportunity again.
To her, VAC were dangerous… not because they killed Halbrecht, but because they changed things. Peasants cheering rulers? Filth cleaned from the streets? Farmers growing stronger harvests? These things shook the foundations of noble power.
If peasants had food and health, they would want more. If peasants wanted more, lords would lose leverage.
And Maelwyn? She would not lose everything she had clawed to gain.
So she whispered. She sowed doubt. Not because she hated VAC — but because she saw them as a tide that would drown the old world, and she had no intention of drowning.
Alone in her chambers, she looked at her reflection in polished silver. Her beauty was still sharp, but beauty faded. Influence, though? That could outlast beauty.
She whispered to herself: "If these gods rule forever, then I will be their voice in the shadows. If they fall, I will be the one who carries the torch to their enemies. Either way… I will not be forgotten."
And behind her calm smile, Lady Maelwyn promised herself: she would rise higher than she ever had under Halbrecht. Higher than her family ever thought possible.
If VAC were truly gods, she would either ride their glory… or be the serpent that poisoned it.
The Double Game
Late at night, a hooded rider slipped out of Greymoor's postern gate. Inside his cloak was a letter sealed with Maelwyn's signet, not the VAC banner.
Whispers to Hollowmere
To the Esteemed House of Hollowmere,
You see the so-called gods growing fat on Greymoor's granaries and roads. They win the people's love not with bloodlines, but with tricks. This is dangerous for us all. If VAC grows unchecked, they will unseat every noble in this land.
I offer myself as your eyes in their court. If you wish to temper their rise, I can provide what you need. But you must act before spring's harvest, or you will find them too strong to contain.
— Lady Maelwyn
She knew Hollowmere valued control, hierarchy, the old order. Her letter was bait: fear disguised as courtesy.
Whispers to Cazwyn
But the same night, another rider left by a different road. His letter bore the same signet, yet the tone inside was entirely different.
To the Bold House of Cazwyn,
The sky-lords are not what they claim. They are ambitious, reckless, vulnerable. Their armies are raw, their coffers strained, their legitimacy untested. They make enemies faster than they make allies.
I can whisper to their soldiers, to their lords, to the peasants who cheer them now but may curse them tomorrow. If you desire to see Greymoor fall into your hands, I can loosen the stones in its foundation.
— Lady Maelwyn
This was not caution but temptation. Cazwyn were rivals to Hollowmere, ambitious, hungry for expansion. Where Hollowmere would see danger, Cazwyn would see opportunity.
Alone in her chamber after the messengers had gone, Maelwyn allowed herself a rare smile.
"Let Hollowmere think I serve tradition. Let Cazwyn think I serve conquest. The truth is, I serve myself."
She poured herself wine, watching the firelight flicker on its surface. "When they clash — and they will — I will stand beside the winner with clean hands and whispered promises."
She raised her cup to the flames. "And the gods will never know who poisoned their table first."
The Neighbors Stir
House of Hollowmere
The Hollowmere seat lay north of Greymoor, a fortress carved into black cliffs above a frozen river. Its halls were austere, cold stone lit by sparse torches. No gilded banners, no lavish feasts — only iron discipline.
Lord Branth Hollowmere, tall and severe, sat at the head of a long wooden table. His hair was streaked with silver, his armor plain but polished, his face unyielding as carved granite. Around him sat knights and stewards, each with their ledger or blade.
When Maelwyn's letter was read aloud, silence followed.
One steward muttered, "The gods of VAC may win the people, but they are not of noble blood. Their reign will corrupt the order of things."
Branth raised a gauntleted hand. "Order is already corrupted. The Boar fell. The mob cheered. And now these outlanders wield power they should not. They build their city on tricks, not heritage. That is dangerous."
A knight leaned forward. "Shall we march on them, my lord?"
Branth's gaze hardened. "Not yet. A wolf lunges only when it knows the throat is exposed. We will watch. We will measure. And if these sky-gods forget their place… Hollowmere will remind them."
The court murmured in grim assent. Hollowmere was cautious, rigid, traditional. They would not rush to war — but they would never accept VAC as equals.
House of Cazwyn
Southwest of Greymoor sprawled the domain of House Cazwyn — fertile valleys of vineyards, perfumed gardens, and alabaster villas. The Cazwyn lords were known as ambitious and decadent, their courts glittering with silk, jewels, and whispered plots.
Lady Mirabel Cazwyn presided from a cushioned throne draped in scarlet, her black hair cascading over her shoulders like spilled ink. She was young compared to Branth, but cunning, her smile sharp enough to slice a rival's throat.
When Maelwyn's letter was read, the court erupted in laughter.
"Vulnerable!" cried one lord, clapping. "The gods build castles on sand!"
"They'll collapse before summer," said another, sipping from a jeweled cup.
Mirabel alone did not laugh. Her eyes gleamed as she tapped a manicured finger on the armrest. "Or… we help them collapse. Greymoor is fertile land. If the peasants already worship these strangers, imagine what we could harvest by turning them against their gods."
Her courtiers exchanged hungry glances.
"But my lady," one counselor cautioned, "what if Hollowmere acts first? They will claim VAC for themselves."
Mirabel's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Then let them. Let Hollowmere bind themselves to tradition, while we take the spoils of change. The gods are not ours yet, but they will be. Whether as pawns, allies, or corpses."
The court erupted in applause and toasts, the music of lutes resuming, as though conquest were already assured.
So two letters reached two courts, and two rulers plotted.
Hollowmere, grim and patient, sharpening its blades in silence.
Cazwyn, decadent and ambitious, already licking its lips at the chance to devour Greymoor.
Neither trusted Maelwyn fully. Both believed they could use her.
And in Greymoor itself, the sky-gods remained unaware that the serpent in their court had set wolves and vipers to circle their fledgling House.
Waiting for the Spark
The war room of Greymoor Keep smelled of parchment, wax, and steel. Sir Aldric stood before the dais, his cloak still damp from rain, his face grim.
"My lords," he said, bowing to the three. "Riders have left the keep in the night. Two different routes. Neither returned."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Maelwyn."
Aldric inclined his head. "I cannot prove the letters' contents, not yet — but I have ears in the inns and stables. They speak of strange coin changing hands, of messengers cloaked in Hollowmere black and Cazwyn crimson. She has reached beyond our walls."
Riven growled low in his throat. "The snake plays both sides. She wants them at our throats."
Damian, ever composed, only drummed his fingers against the table. "Or she wants to see who strikes first. Hollowmere, Cazwyn… both circling like vultures. She feeds them, and waits to see who swoops down."
Kael rose, pacing before the fire. "If Hollowmere declares war, we crush them. If Cazwyn does, we bleed them. Either way, conquest. That's the opportunity."
Riven grinned wolfishly. "Conquest… now you're talking my language."
Damian shook his head. "Not yet. We cannot fight both Houses, not as we are. The militia is loyal but raw. The granaries are stable but thin. And our only edge —" he tapped the parchment sketches of sulfur stores and new plows — "is not ready for war."
Kael sighed, nodding. "Then we bide our time. Let them scheme. Let Maelwyn weave her webs. We'll keep her close, Aldric will watch, and when the first House strikes—"
Riven slammed his fist into his palm. "—we answer with fire and steel. And we don't just survive. We expand."
Damian allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "That is how empires are born."
So the House of Voss Arclight Cross waited.
Spring fields sprouted green. Soldiers drilled in the yards. Sulfur dust gathered in sealed jars. And spies whispered in alleys.
Lady Maelwyn smiled sweetly in council, hiding daggers in her heart. Sir Aldric sharpened his vigilance, his hand never far from his sword.
And far beyond Greymoor's walls, two great Houses weighed their next moves, unaware that the sky-gods were not merely defending their hold — they were waiting, sharpening, preparing.
When war came, VAC would not just endure.
They would seize.