The training yard of Greymoor rang with steel and discipline. Where once Halbrecht's men had swaggered and drank themselves fat, now ranks of soldiers drilled under strict orders.
Kael had established standardized units — squads of ten, companies of fifty, each with a clear chain of command. Armor was refitted, shields repaired, weapons sharpened. No more ragtag levies; these men and women marched in rhythm, drilled in formations borrowed from both antiquity and something more alien — the strategic models Kael remembered from Earth.
Riven prowled among them like a wolf, barking corrections, knocking aside sloppy guards with the flat of his blade, making recruits fight him three-on-one until they learned desperation and teamwork. By dusk, they collapsed in mud, but they rose with harder eyes.
Damian oversaw logistics. Supply chains were charted, armories cataloged, blacksmiths given quotas. Even the peasants were organized into reserve levies, trained to hold pikes and hold walls.
The army of VAC was no longer a rebellion. It was becoming a machine.
Yet VAC knew steel alone would not hold against Houses Hollowmere and Cazwyn. They needed an edge.
Sulfur had been cataloged. Bricks of charcoal were being stored. Saltpeter was still elusive, but Damian had ordered experiments with sulfur in tanning, fumigation, even crude medicine. Kael began sketching devices for watermills, better furnaces, even a prototype for printing simple decrees with carved blocks.
Still, these were small steps. They needed something greater — something only they could bring.
And so Damian gave the order: "We return to the crash site."
At dawn, cloaked and armed, the three CEOs rode with a small escort to the forest clearing where their journey had begun.
The earth still bore scars: blackened soil, charred trees bent like supplicants. The wreck of their craft lay shattered, half-swallowed by moss and vines, broken metal glinting beneath green growth.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Riven whistled low. "Hell of a fall."
Kael muttered, "It's a miracle we lived."
Damian only stared at the wreckage. "No. It wasn't a miracle. It was a chance. And now we take from it what we can."
They pried through the twisted remains. The hull was cracked, consoles dead, lights long gone. But deeper within, amid melted wires and shattered panels, Kael unearthed something intact: a black case, sealed against fire and impact.
Inside: a ruggedized tablet, edges scorched but screen intact.
Kael powered it on. The screen flickered, sputtered, then glowed faintly.
Riven leaned over his shoulder. "Holy shit. That's our data core?"
Kael's hands shook. "Not everything. But enough. If the memory banks are intact, we might still have blueprints. Engineering specs. Even…" He swallowed. "…the beginnings of gunpowder weapons, if the formulas survived."
Damian's voice was calm, but his eyes burned. "This is our true weapon. Steel they have. Knights they have. But industry? Knowledge? That belongs to us alone."
They carried the case out like sacred treasure, guarded as if it were a relic of the gods.
Back in Greymoor, they sealed the chamber beneath the keep, where only the three of them and Sir Aldric were permitted. The tablet lay on a stone table, its screen casting pale light on stone walls.
Kael hunched over it, cataloging files. Riven muttered plans for weapons. Damian sketched out factories in miniature, his mind already years ahead.
For the first time since their fall, they felt it: the tether to their old world, alive again in their hands.
The House of Voss Arclight Cross would not merely fight like lords of this world.
They would reshape it.
And when Hollowmere and Cazwyn came, they would not face swords and spears alone. They would face the fire of another age.
The Data Core
Deep in the sealed chamber beneath Greymoor Keep, Kael hunched over the battered tablet, its screen flickering against the stone walls. Dust motes swirled in the glow. Riven leaned on the table, impatient, while Damian stood with arms crossed, eyes sharp. Sir Aldric lingered in the shadows, a knight forced into a world he barely understood.
Then the tablet chimed.
A cascade of directories appeared, text and diagrams half-corrupted, but still legible.
Kael let out a strangled laugh. "It's here. Holy shit, it's all here."
"What's here?" Riven leaned closer.
"Blueprints. Designs. Strategy files. Even—" Kael's voice shook, "—an offline archive of history texts. Weapons schematics. Industrial processes. Fuck, it's like a treasure chest from home."
He tapped one folder. The screen filled with a 3D render of a musket, parts broken down with manufacturing notes. Next, diagrams of watermills, aqueduct systems, crop rotation models. Another file, showing supply chain optimization graphs.
Damian's calm mask cracked into a grin. "Gentlemen… we've just unlocked a century's worth of power."
Kael scrolled furiously, his fingers trembling. "We don't even need all of it. Look—simple cast-iron improvements, basic chemistry formulas. Shit, even sanitation models. We can make this city cleaner, stronger, faster."
Riven slapped the table. "And weapons. Don't you dare skip the weapons. Spears are fine, but look at this—pikes in mass formations, drilled like Napoleonic lines. Siege engines better than their rickety trebuchets. And muskets—hell, even crude ones—if we get saltpeter, we own the battlefield."
Damian leaned over, tapping another folder. "And not just weapons. Political frameworks. Propaganda models. This—" he opened a file showing the Roman concept of bread and circuses, and another with notes on mass psychology, "—is how we don't just win battles. This is how we rule."
Sir Aldric cleared his throat, his armored fingers drumming against the stone wall. "My lords… forgive me, but I understand not a word of what you are saying. What is this… glowing slate? These drawings of fire-weapons and mills?"
The three turned to him, eyes alight like children in a candy store.
Kael grinned. "Think of it as… a library, Aldric. A library that fits in one hand, but holds the knowledge of empires."
Riven barked a laugh. "More like a war god's playbook. It tells us how to crush armies."
Damian's smile was sharper. "And how to build kingdoms after the crushing is done."
Aldric frowned, uneasy. "And you trust this… artifact? This thing of your world?"
Kael clapped him on the shoulder. "Aldric, this is the difference between being another petty lord who holds land until someone stabs him… and building something that no one can ever tear down."
The knight stared at the glowing slate, unease written on his face, but also awe. He bowed stiffly. "Then… I will trust, because I swore to follow. But gods help us all, if this thing is cursed."
The three CEOs leaned back over the tablet, voices tumbling over one another, excitement almost manic.
"We start with farming improvements—" Kael.
"No, training the soldiers in new formations first—" Riven.
"Both. But propaganda comes first. We need the people to believe before we push too far—" Damian.
The stone chamber rang with their arguments, their laughter, their enthusiasm, as if they were back in a corporate war room, not the bowels of a medieval keep.
And above them, Greymoor stirred in the spring light, unaware that beneath their feet, their lords had just found the spark to ignite a revolution of steel, fire, and thought.
Choices of a New Age
The chamber fell quiet as Kael scrolled through the glowing tablet, files shimmering like forbidden scripture.
"We can't do everything at once," Damian said finally, voice low but decisive. "We choose. Military or civilian."
Kael tapped a file that showed crop rotation and irrigation methods. "Civilian first. Food shortages kill kingdoms faster than swords. If we make the peasants love us—if they're fed—they'll fight for us willingly."
Riven snorted. "And if Hollowmere or Cazwyn marches before harvest? You can't bribe a knight with grain when he's splitting your skull. Military first—formations, siege engines, steel discipline. We win the war, then we worry about feeding mouths."
Damian smirked, looking between them. "Both arguments have merit. Which is why I propose a split: Kael, you spearhead civilian reforms. Riven, you drill the men in new tactics. I'll weave both into propaganda—make the people think we're gods not only of war but of prosperity."
Kael exhaled, half-relieved. "Compromise. Fine. But don't come crying to me when you're starving in winter."
Riven clapped him on the back. "And don't come crying to me when you're bleeding on the walls."
Damian only smiled thinly. "Then let's see which of us is right first."
They left the chamber and walked the corridors of Greymoor Keep, still buzzing with ideas. The torchlight flickered against stone walls that stank faintly of smoke, sweat, and mildew.
Kael pinched his nose. "Jesus Christ, this place smells like a wet dog kennel. You know what I miss most? Hot showers. Endless, scalding, clean showers."
Riven barked a laugh. "Showers? I'd kill for a toilet that doesn't involve freezing my ass off in an outhouse. Indoor plumbing, now that's civilization."
Damian raised an eyebrow. "Gentlemen, you're both thinking too small. The first indoor bathroom we build here? The peasants will worship us as gods even more. Imagine it—'The Sky-Lords Who Shit in Warmth.'"
Kael groaned, but couldn't help laughing. "Gods help me, I'd build a fucking palace just to have a flush toilet again."
Riven slapped his chest, still chuckling. "Then add it to the blueprints, Kael. Forget muskets, forget crop rotation—the first miracle of the House of Voss Arclight Cross shall be the sacred shitter!"
Damian shook his head with a small smile. "We'll change the world with fire and steel, and yet… history will remember us for plumbing."
The three laughed, their voices echoing down the ancient halls—modern men in a medieval keep, caught between empire-building and the simple human ache for comfort.
The First Reforms
In the wide yard of Greymoor Keep, soldiers moved like a tide under Riven's sharp commands. No longer did they shuffle in loose, chaotic groups. Instead, lines of ten formed ranks, shields overlapping, spears bristling like a hedgehog.
"Shields locked!" Riven bellowed. "No gaps! You give me a gap, and that's where a knight's sword takes your balls off!"
The recruits grunted, sweating, straining as the shield wall wavered, then steadied. Riven slammed his fist against the front rank. "Better. Again. March!"
The formation lurched forward in unison. To the old knights watching from the wall, it was strange — foreign. But to the CEOs, it was progress.
Damian watched with arms folded, murmuring, "Discipline is a weapon sharper than steel."
Kael smirked. "Spoken like a man who's never had to actually hold the damn shield."
Beyond the castle, in the villages, peasants bent over furrows, scratching their heads at another new orders. Crop rotations. Mixed planting. Strange methods the "sky-lords" insisted would bring greater yields.
"Beans with wheat?" one farmer muttered, confused.
"Gods above, who plants beans with wheat?"
Another shrugged. "They say the gods know better than us. Let 'em have their way."
Yet some muttered with excitement. "If it works, maybe next winter won't starve us all."
And so the orders were obeyed, though with suspicion, though with whispers.
Outside the walls, at the scarred crash site, the three stood with Sir Aldric and a small honor guard. Beneath a cairn of stones lay the pilots who had died in the fall.
No banners, no priests, just silence. Kael bowed his head, murmuring, "You got us here. We'll make it worth something."
Riven muttered, "At least they didn't die for nothing. Their bones buy us a kingdom."
Damian spoke last, voice steady. "They are part of the foundation now. Greymoor stands, VAC rises, because of them. Let the stones remember."
The cairn was sealed. A crude cross was planted above it, cut from the wreckage itself. And though few in this world would ever know the names beneath, the three did — and for a moment, even they stood in reverence.
Public Relations
Weeks later, VAC began their tour of the villages under Greymoor's banner. Where Halbrecht had taxed harshly and beaten harder, VAC brought food caravans, healed wounds, and listened.
Kael sat with farmers, explaining new plows.
Riven drank with blacksmiths, arm-wrestling them and earning laughs.
Damian stood in a church hall, rewriting laws in simple, fair words.
Peasants whispered in taverns and fields:
"The sky-lords are strange, but they give us food."
"They speak with us as if we mattered."
"They buried even their own dead."
"Maybe they really are gods."
And so, little by little, the House of Voss Arclight Cross was no longer just feared — they were loved.
Schemes in the Dark
In her private chambers of Greymoor Keep, Lady Maelwyn reclined by a fire, her delicate hands wrapped around a goblet of wine. The keep bustled with the noise of reforms and drills, but her world was silence and whispers.
Her spy knelt before her, head bowed low.
"My lady," the man murmured, "we've watched the crash site for weeks. The lords of VAC guard it like a dragon's hoard. No one but Sir Aldric and their chosen men are permitted near it. Whatever they recovered… it is hidden."
Maelwyn's lips curved into the faintest smile. "And when men hide things so fiercely, what do they reveal? That it is valuable."
The spy nodded. "Yet we cannot say what it is. The soldiers who stand watch are loyal to Sir Aldric. They would sooner slit their own throats than talk."
Maelwyn swirled her wine, eyes distant. "Then we probe elsewhere. Watch their reforms. Their drills. Their farms. Men cannot remake the world without leaving fingerprints."
The spy hesitated. "The peasants whisper that they have miracles. That they plant crops no farmer has seen, that they train soldiers in strange new ways. Some already believe they are gods."
At that, Maelwyn's smile thinned. "Gods are dangerous things. If peasants believe too much, a god becomes harder to kill."
She rose, moving to her writing desk, where half-finished letters already sat sealed with wax. "We do not yet know what weapon they clutch, but we will learn. And when we do, we will decide whether to wield it… or to bury it with their corpses."
Elsewhere in the shadows of the keep, Maelwyn's lesser spies whispered among themselves.
"What could it be?" one muttered in the dark of a stable loft.
"A weapon. Has to be," another replied. "They guard it too closely."
"But I've seen them laugh like boys after training, as if they'd discovered a toy."
"A toy that terrifies Lady Maelwyn? No. Whatever it is, it will decide wars."
They fell silent as Sir Aldric passed nearby, his eyes sharp, hand on the hilt of his sword. The spies shrank deeper into the shadows, certain that if they were caught, their tongues would be torn from their mouths before sunrise.
And still, for all their watching, they remained blind. The secret of the crash site — the tablet — was VAC's fortress within a fortress.
That night, alone by candlelight, Lady Maelwyn set down her quill and stared into the flame.
Three sky-lords, adored by peasants, feared by nobles, hiding a secret I cannot reach.
Her jaw tightened.
"They are not gods," she whispered to herself. "And gods can bleed."
The candle guttered, casting her smile long and sharp against the wall.
Shock of the New
The great hall of Greymoor Keep thrummed with voices. Peasants, village elders, and a few minor lords had been summoned, all murmuring with suspicion. At the high dais, Kael, Riven, and Damian sat not in thrones, but at a long table littered with scrolls and sketches.
Kael rose, unrolling a parchment. His voice carried through the hall.
"From this day forward, no farmer in the lands of the House of Voss Arclight Cross shall starve in winter. We are establishing granaries in every major village — storehouses where excess harvest shall be gathered, guarded, and rationed in times of famine."
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
"Not only that," Damian added smoothly, stepping forward, "but these granaries shall be built with stone and new engineering. They will not rot. They will not burn. And the stores will not be seized by lords for their tables before the peasants' bellies are filled."
The peasants' whispers grew feverish.
"Granaries… for us?"
"They'll keep food for the hungry?"
"Never heard of such a thing…"
But the minor lords shifted uneasily, their faces pale.
One elder lordling stood, his voice trembling with outrage. "My lords of VAC — this is an affront to custom! Food is the lord's property, to be taxed and distributed at his discretion. To say otherwise is to unmake the feudal bonds that bind us!"
Riven leaned forward, his grin wolfish. "That's the idea."
The hall erupted in shouts — peasants cheering, lords arguing, tension boiling.
Kael slammed his hand down on the table. "Enough! This is not debate. This is decree. We did not spill blood to sit in Halbrecht's chair and play his same game. This is how it will be under the House of Voss Arclight Cross: the people will live, and in turn, they will fight and work for us."
Damian's voice slid in like a blade in velvet. "And should any noble resist? Remember that we have an army, and the people's love. Choose carefully where your loyalties lie."
The peasants roared with approval, pounding the stone floor with their fists. The lords swallowed their anger, but their eyes glittered with fear.
Later that night, in taverns and fields, peasants whispered like wildfire:
"The sky-lords will feed us through winter!"
"They build stone houses for grain!"
"They care for us, not just their coffers."
And in the manors of the nobles, whispers were darker:
"They are unmaking order."
"They turn peasants into loyalists with food."
"If they keep this up, no lord will be safe."
The reform was simple. But it was revolutionary.
And for the first time, VAC was not merely ruling Greymoor. They were reshaping it.
Bread and Oaths
By the week's end, Greymoor was alive with new songs. Peasants returning from the fields sang them while hauling baskets, their voices carrying over the cobbled lanes:
🎵 "The sky-lords guard the grain,
Our children shall not wane,
No famine shall remain—
So long as gods shall reign." 🎵
In taverns, drunkards slammed mugs on tables, bellowing half-remembered versions. Children chalked strange new symbols — crude sketches of VAC's three interlocked initials — on walls. And in churches, some priests whispered hesitantly that perhaps these sky-lords were divinely touched, bringing a justice even the gods had long withheld.
The loyalty of the people was no longer just obedience. It was turning into faith.
That evening, in the council chamber, Sir Aldric stood at attention as the three CEOs spread scrolls and crude ledgers across the table.
"Taxes," Kael muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The whole medieval system is rotten. Lords bleed peasants dry, then wonder why the land produces nothing."
Damian tapped a quill against the parchment. "We need something predictable. Rational. A flat agricultural tithe, small enough that the peasant keeps most of what he grows, but structured enough to fund the state. And—" his smile sharpened, "—no arbitrary seizures. That keeps the people loyal."
Riven leaned back with a wolfish grin. "So… no more random raids where knights ride in, torch a barn, and call it taxation?"
Aldric flushed slightly. "That was… a common practice under Halbrecht. Feared, yes. But effective."
Damian fixed him with a piercing look. "Effective in the short term. Suicidal in the long. You were here for the rebellion, Aldric. Do you think it happened by accident? Or because Halbrecht turned his own people against him?"
The knight shifted uncomfortably, then bowed his head. "…Your point stands, my lords."
Kael scribbled on the parchment, sketching out numbers and allocations. "We'll call it the Harvest Levy. Ten percent of grain stored in the granaries, overseen by VAC's men. In famine, we release it back. In plenty, it funds roads, soldiers, and infrastructure. Everyone eats. Everyone benefits."
Aldric studied the paper as if it were sorcery. "A tax… that makes the peasants love their lords?"
Riven smirked. "Welcome to the new world order, Sir Knight."
When the council dismissed, Aldric lingered in the doorway, watching as the three men bent back over their tablet, faces glowing with its strange light.
He muttered to himself, almost reverently: "They change more in weeks than others do in centuries… no wonder the people sing of gods."
And outside the chamber, the faint sound of peasants' songs drifted through the night air, rising like a prayer carried to heaven.
Nobles in Shadow
In a smoke-filled chamber within Greymoor Keep, several minor lords huddled together, away from the ears of peasants and VAC's men. Their faces were pale, their voices hushed but sharp with venom.
"This Harvest Levy is madness," Lord Trenvar spat. "Ten percent tithed, and none of it under our control? It robs us of authority. The peasants will look to them, not us."
Lady Calwyn, her jeweled fingers trembling on her cup, hissed, "Already they sing songs. My own tenants pray to the sky-lords before they bow to me. What power remains to us if the people see VAC as gods?"
"They call it fairness," another sneered. "But fairness is just theft in prettier clothes."
The chamber murmured in agreement. Yet none dared openly defy VAC. The memory of Halbrecht's fall was still fresh. His blood had barely soaked into the stones, and already the new rulers had armies and the loyalty of the mob.
One lord whispered, "If this continues, we will not be lords at all. We will be stewards in their service."
Another muttered back, "Better a steward than a corpse. Do you wish to share Halbrecht's fate?"
Silence. Bitter, fearful silence.
House Hollowmere
Far to the west, in the moss-draped halls of Hollowmere, Lord Branth Hollowmere listened as his steward read the latest reports.
"Granaries," the steward said with disbelief. "A universal tax tithe. Soldiers drilled in strange new formations. The people sing of them as gods."
Branth leaned forward in his chair, thick fingers steepled. His dwarven features were carved hard as granite, his beard plaited with silver rings.
"So… the upstart House of Voss Arclight Cross builds its foundation not on fear, but on love." His deep voice rumbled like a landslide. "Fools. Love is fickle. Fear endures."
Yet even as he said it, unease lingered in his eyes. Because fear was precisely what VAC had shattered in Greymoor, and still they stood.
"Keep watching," Branth muttered. "If they last through winter, they may be worth more than we thought… or dangerous enough to bury."
House Cazwyn
In the silken courts of House Cazwyn, Lady Mirabel lounged on a chaise, her feline features gleaming in the lamplight. Her eyes were sharp as a dagger's edge, her tail flicking lazily as her courtiers whispered the same news.
"Granaries? A fair tax? Feeding peasants?" She laughed softly, a musical sound. "How… quaint. They think to buy loyalty with grain."
One courtier bowed. "And yet, my lady, the peasants adore them. Some already call them saviors. Gods."
Mirabel's smile widened, predatory. "Good. Let the rabble worship. Gods are always the easiest to tear down — they fall hardest when shown to bleed. And when they do…" she sipped her wine, "we shall be there to collect the pieces."
Back in Greymoor, the peasants sang louder, while the nobles fumed in silence.
And beyond its borders, in Hollowmere and Cazwyn, two minor great Houses marked VAC's name upon their ledgers of politics — one with suspicion, the other with mockery.
Both with intent.
The game board was shifting, and VAC had moved first.
Whispers to Giants
Merchants carried them first — traveling caravans speaking of strange reforms in Greymoor, of lords who fed peasants and drilled armies in alien ways. Priests added spice, whispering that sky-fire had birthed new gods in mortal flesh. Spies stitched the tales into reports, smuggled across borders and thrones.
Within weeks, the name Voss Arclight Cross was no longer a local curiosity. It was a topic in the vaulted halls of the ten most powerful Houses in the world.
House Vastina — Elves of the North
In the crystalline city of Larethiel, Lord Aired Vastina read the reports in silence, his long fingers tracing the parchment. His pale face betrayed no emotion, but his emerald eyes glimmered with sharp thought.
"Granaries. Tax reforms. Stone engineering. Strange drills." His voice was melodic, yet edged like a blade. "They change centuries of feudal rot in months."
An elven counselor bowed low. "Shall we move against them, my lord?"
Aired shook his head slowly. "Not yet. Let children play at kingship. If they survive the next winter… then perhaps they are no children."
House Wysarona — Elves of the Deepwood
Lady Ashera Wysarona listened to her spies beneath the moonlit boughs of her forest court. Her dark hair spilled like ink, her ears crowned with silver.
"They are not gods," she whispered softly, "but men with dangerous ideas. Ideas spread faster than fire."
Her eyes narrowed. "And fire must be smothered… or directed."
House Claybrook — Humans of the Central Plains
Lord Nicholas Claybrook slammed the parchment onto his council table, face red with fury.
"Peasants cheering their lords? Singing in the streets? This is poison! If word spreads, my own serfs may demand such luxuries!"
One advisor coughed gently. "Perhaps, my lord, it is only rumor. Exaggeration."
Nicholas glared at him. "Exaggeration or not, crush it. Pay bards to mock them as madmen, demons, impostors. I will not have my fields polluted with rebellion."
House Courvoisier — Humans of the West
Lady Stéphanie de Courvoisier reclined in her golden chair, lips curling as she read.
"Three lords risen from fire, building order from chaos…" She sipped her wine delicately. "Charming. Dangerous. I should very much like to meet them."
Her court chuckled nervously, sensing her intrigue.
House Austerlitz — Humans of the Highlands
Lord Benno von und zu Austerlitz studied the parchment with cold calculation. His weathered hands traced a map, marking Greymoor with a black pin.
"Another House rises," he murmured. "But do they rise high enough to matter? Or high enough to bleed?"
His generals exchanged grim looks, already weighing whether VAC would be ally, pawn, or enemy.
House Blackborn — Dwarves of the Iron Range
Lord Hadmoick Blackborn laughed so hard the parchment nearly caught in his beard.
"Granaries? Taxes for peasants? Ha! Let the fools fatten their serfs. When famine comes, those 'grateful peasants' will eat them alive."
His laughter echoed in the iron halls, though a shadow of unease lingered in the corners.
House Wyvernhand — Dwarves of the East
Lady Gomnorra de Wyvernhand was less amused. Her sharp eyes scanned the reports with the care of a jeweler examining a gem.
"Engineers. Reformers. Innovators." She leaned forward, voice hard. "That is dangerous. A House that builds is harder to burn down."
House Strauss — Dwarves of the South
Lady Gokririka von und zu Strauss stroked her beard, frowning. "New gods, they call them. Gods with… ideas." Her voice grew quiet. "Ideas break empires. I know. I have seen it."
She tossed the parchment into the fire. "Watch them. Closely."
House Ballesteros — Beastfolk of the West
Lady Helena de' Ballesteros, her catlike eyes gleaming, laughed softly in her court.
"Gods that feed peasants. Oh, how adorable. Let us see how long the game lasts before they are devoured by their own faithful."
House László — Rabbitfolk of the East
Lord Kelemen László did not laugh. His long ears twitched as he read, his sharp eyes unblinking.
"They feed the hungry. They train the weak. They rise from nothing." His voice was calm, deliberate. "This is no game. It is the birth of a storm."
The War Table
The council chamber was dim, lit by candle and the strange glow of the salvaged tablet on the table. Damian leaned forward, eyes sharp, Kael scribbled notes furiously, and Riven lounged with a grin that barely hid his restless energy. Sir Aldric stood nearby, still stiff and cautious, while Lady Maelwyn lingered at the far end, silent but listening.
"We've stabilized the grain and tax system," Damian began. "That buys us time and loyalty. But nobles grumble, and peasants only love you until their bellies are full. If we want lasting power… we need more."
"More what?" Riven drawled. "More rebels? More swords?"
Kael tapped the tablet, pulling up schematic diagrams. "Ideas. Renaissance-level ideas. We start with knowledge and practical changes. Better plows, crop rotation, irrigation canals. Literacy programs for scribes and craftsmen. And yes—eventually—industry."
Sir Aldric frowned, uncertain. "Industry? Forgive me, my lords, but peasants with books will not fight your wars."
Damian's smile was cold. "No, Aldric. But educated peasants build better weapons, follow orders, and keep the state running when knights fail. A literate mason can design aqueducts. A literate blacksmith can follow new forging techniques. Ideas are multipliers."
Kael leaned in, excitement in his voice. "The Renaissance birthed invention because it birthed curiosity. Printing presses, scientific method, architecture. We don't have the tech yet, but we can plant the cultural seeds. Patronage, schools, guilds under our control. We become the center of knowledge."
Riven chuckled. "So, not just gods. Goddamn philosophers."
Lady Maelwyn finally spoke, her voice smooth as silk. "You would change the very bones of this world. Nobles rule by birth, priests by faith, dwarves by craft, elves by age. And you —" she gestured toward the tablet, her eyes glittering, "—would build a new order where none of these matter. Knowledge and innovation in the hands of peasants? Dangerous."
Damian's gaze didn't waver. "Dangerous for you, perhaps. Necessary for us."
A tense silence hung. Aldric shifted uneasily, caught between loyalty to VAC and the dread of what they proposed.
Kael closed the tablet and leaned back, voice quiet but firm. "If we move too fast, we'll shatter everything. If we move too slow, the Great Houses will crush us before we stand. So we start small, subtle."
Damian nodded. "Schools for scribes and craftsmen. Guild reforms. Agricultural improvements. A slow build toward Renaissance ideals. Within a generation, our domain will look nothing like theirs."
Riven smirked. "And while we're raising philosophers and farmers, we raise an army too. The nobles want to grumble? Fine. Let them choke on our cannons when the day comes."
Sir Aldric bowed slowly, eyes troubled but resolute. "As you command. But know this: you will remake the world. The old nobility will not forgive it."
Damian's smile was razor-sharp. "They don't need to forgive us. They need to fear us."
The First Guild
Weeks passed, and Greymoor began to hum with a strange new rhythm.
Farmers noticed the difference first. VAC's men came to their fields not to seize, but to teach. Plows were reforged with stronger blades. Crop rotation was introduced, confusing at first but promising fuller harvests. Irrigation ditches cut through dry soil, fed by simple but clever designs Kael sketched himself.
"They don't just take," a farmer whispered one evening in the tavern, staring at his fuller grain sack. "They give. Lords who give. What madness is this?"
The tavern answered with laughter, mugs clashing, and a new toast: "To the Sky-Lords!"
Craftsmen were next. Smiths, carpenters, masons — each summoned to workshops where VAC's strange ideas were tested. New measurements, stricter standards, faster methods.
At first, they grumbled. "Why should we change how we've worked for generations?" one blacksmith complained.
But when his forge produced blades sharper, armor lighter, nails cleaner and cheaper — he kept his mouth shut.
And when rumors spread that VAC would reward innovation with coin and favor? Every craftsman in Greymoor began to dream of patronage.
The Guild of Voss Arclight Cross
It was Riven who proposed it: "Why not give them a banner to flock to? Call it a guild. They love guilds in this world."
So the First VAC Guild opened in a converted hall near the marketplace. A simple thing: wooden beams, a broad table, workshops branching off. But the sign above the door bore a bold new crest — three interlocked crosses of light, the mark of VAC.
At first, only a handful of curious craftsmen came. But within days, masons, smiths, scribes, and even wandering tinkers pressed in, eager to swear themselves to the new guild.
"Any man or woman of skill may join," Damian declared at the opening, his voice carrying across the square. "Not by blood, not by birth, not by noble whim. By merit. By talent. Those who labor and innovate shall find patronage and reward under the House of Voss Arclight Cross."
The crowd roared approval. The nobles watching from balconies scowled darkly.
Peasants gossiped in awe:
"They open guilds for commoners now."
"My cousin, a mason, says he can petition the Sky-Lords directly!"
"This is not feudalism… it is something else."
The whispers turned into songs, and the songs into prayers. Murals began to appear — crude but passionate — of VAC as towering figures, hands outstretched, lifting peasants into light.
Later that night, Sir Aldric reported grimly: "The minor lords are rattled. Guilds mean less power for them. Their tenants go to you for patronage, not them. They whisper of rebellion — though none are foolish enough to voice it yet."
Kael only smiled faintly. "Good. Let them whisper. Let the people sing louder. When the day comes, the nobles will stand alone."
And so, in the heart of Greymoor, amid farmers' fields and smiths' forges, the first seeds of Renaissance had taken root — under the banner of VAC's Guild.
Old Blood Against New
The candlelit chamber stank of wine and fear. A half-dozen of Greymoor's minor lords and ladies had gathered, voices sharp and bitter.
"This guild undermines everything," Lord Trenvar hissed, slamming his fist on the table. "Peasants swearing loyalty to them over us? Craftsmen flaunting their inventions as though nobility meant nothing? What are we to them now—decorations?"
Lady Calwyn's lip curled. "I saw it with my own eyes. My masons flocked to that hall like moths to flame. They do not even ask my permission anymore."
Another noble muttered: "They say the guild pays better. And they promise that a man's worth is his talent, not his blood." His voice dripped disgust. "What is nobility, if blood counts for nothing?"
The chamber darkened with their whispers.
"We must act."
"We must gather arms."
"VAC rose with rebellion once—why should it not be crushed by rebellion again?"
But their fear outweighed their fury. None dared openly challenge the House of VAC yet. Not while the peasants sang their praises and the soldiers drilled under strange but effective new formations.
Instead, they resolved to whisper further, to bide time, to seek allies in shadow. The conspiracy was born, but it was weak. For now.
Meanwhile, in Greymoor's great hall, the three CEOs sat with Sir Aldric around a spread of maps and ledgers.
Riven jabbed at one parchment. "Tell me again why this kingdom's map looks like it was drawn by a drunk goat? Rivers running uphill, borders squiggled like toddler drawings—hell, in our world cartographers would be fired for this."
Aldric bristled, then sighed. "Maps here are… more art than science. Borders shift by war, by marriage, by whim. The only lines that matter are the ones guarded by swords."
Kael smirked. "Typical pre-modern nonsense. No wonder trade collapses half the time—you can't even agree where one lord's land ends and another's begins."
Damian leaned back in his chair. "And the economy?"
Aldric rubbed his temple. "Tithes to lords, rents to nobles, tariffs on every road. Coinage is inconsistent—gold crowns here, silver thalers there, debased copper in half the markets. Peasants barter as often as they spend."
Riven let out a long whistle. "Jesus. No wonder these people think we're gods. We could fix half this shit in a month with basic accounting software and a goddamn GPS."
Kael chuckled darkly. "Well, unless your phone signal works through interdimensional rifts, we're stuck with parchment and ink."
Damian, ever pragmatic, tapped the map. "Still. This chaos is opportunity. Every inefficiency is a lever. Every rotten custom is a pillar we can knock down and rebuild stronger."
Aldric studied them with a mix of awe and unease. "You truly mean to change not just Greymoor… but the world."
Riven grinned. "Why not? Someone's gotta drag this world kicking and screaming into the future. May as well be us."
So the peasants sang, the guild grew, the nobles schemed, and VAC dreamed of Renaissance.
The city of Greymoor, once a battered ruin of Halbrecht's tyranny, now stood at the fulcrum of something far greater — a clash between old blood and new fire.
And all the while, whispers of rebellion brewed behind noble curtains.
Knives in the Shadows
It began quietly. A fire in a storehouse near the market, blamed on careless drunks. A cart of grain tipped over, its wheels sabotaged. A blacksmith's forge mysteriously collapsing in the night.
Small things, annoyances, irritations — but too many, too close together.
By the third week, even Sir Aldric could not deny it. "My lords," he said grimly at council, "this is no chance. Someone works against us. Someone with coin enough to bribe men and boldness enough to strike in our own city."
Riven snarled. "Sabotage? In my city? I'll hang the bastards by their guts."
Damian was quieter, but colder. "No. Guts won't be enough. We need names. We need networks." He turned to Aldric. "Tighten the net. Drag every rat from their holes."
The breaking point came one moonless night.
A patrol found the north aqueduct tampered with, its stones loosened to collapse the water supply. And nearby, in the shadows, they caught a cloaked figure with a vial of poison meant for Greymoor's wells.
Dragged into the keep, the man broke quickly under interrogation.
"A guild—your cursed guild—" he spat blood, "it kills us nobles. Makes us irrelevant. You'll see, you'll fall, the city will burn—"
But when pressed on who paid him, who gave the order, he went silent, lips bitten through before he could say more. Dead before dawn.
Kael scowled. "Too well-trained for a simple lord's thug. Someone higher props them up."
Damian murmured, "But who?"
Far away, Lady Mirabel Cazwyn received a sealed report with a faint smile.
"The seeds are planted. Greymoor bleeds slowly. Let the VAC believe their peasants sing louder than knives whisper. By the time they realize, the fire will already be under their feet."
But VAC did not yet know her name was written in the shadows behind the conspiracy. Not yet.
In Greymoor The people gossiped nervously.
"Strange fires."
"Sabotaged wells."
"Are the gods not so mighty after all?"
But just as quickly, other voices rose louder:
"The lords send knives in the dark because they fear the Sky-Lords."
"Fear is proof they are winning."
VAC's image wavered, but it did not break. If anything, the peasants clung to them harder, their love forged in fire and fear.
Still, in the keep, Damian whispered to his brothers: "The nobles move faster than expected. We cannot wait much longer. Reform alone will not secure us. We must sharpen the sword."
Whispers to the West
By the time the smoke cleared from Greymoor's sabotaged aqueduct, word was already riding west. Caravans carried stories of fire and poison, of saboteurs caught in the dark, of a rebellion-turned-realm suddenly under siege not by armies, but by shadows.
In the moss-draped halls of Hollowmere, the dwarven courtiers whispered eagerly.
"The upstarts bleed."
"Someone strikes at them already."
"Perhaps we need not lift a hammer at all."
Lord Branth Hollowmere sat silent, thick fingers drumming on the carved arms of his stone throne. His eyes were like shards of granite — heavy, watchful.
"Knives in the dark," he rumbled at last. "But whose hand holds them? Not mine." His beard twitched with something like irritation. "If another House plays this game, I will know who. Greymoor's fall belongs to no one else's ledger."
Two weeks later, a delegation arrived at Greymoor's gates: Hollowmere banners, their silver anvil crest gleaming under the sun. A half-dozen dwarves in heavy traveling cloaks, their leader introducing himself as Thrain son of Dorn, emissary of Lord Branth.
"We come," Thrain declared stiffly, "to improve ties between our Houses. Trade. Friendship. Mutual understanding."
The words were polished, the tone diplomatic — but something in his eyes measured everything: the banners, the walls, the peasants shouting VAC's names in the streets.
Damian raised an eyebrow in private. "Trade, friendship, mutual understanding?"
Riven scoffed. "Sounds like code for: 'We don't know what the fuck you're up to, but we want to make sure we're not next.'"
Kael, always the analyst, muttered: "Or they've heard about the sabotage. They suspect another House is in play, and they don't want to be left behind."
That night, VAC hosted the Hollowmere delegation in Greymoor's newly restored hall. Wine flowed, roasted boar was served, and songs rose from the courtyards outside.
Thrain raised his cup stiffly. "Your reforms are… innovative. The guilds, the tax codes, the irrigation. Lord Branth sees potential. He wishes only for stability in the region."
Damian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Stability," he echoed softly. "Yes. We wish for that too."
But beneath the toasts, the conversation was riddled with double meanings.
"We value trade above all." → We are watching your resources.
"We respect your people's loyalty." → We fear your rising influence.
"Stability benefits us all." → Chaos threatens us, but not enough to act openly.
By the banquet's end, both sides had exchanged gifts, smiles, and empty courtesies. But not one true motive had been spoken aloud.
Later, in the quiet of the keep, VAC debated furiously.
"Why now?" Kael muttered. "Why the sudden warmth? Hollowmere has never cared for Greymoor's fate before."
"Because," Damian said coldly, "someone else has already moved against us. They don't know who, and neither do we. Hollowmere doesn't want to be left holding nothing if we rise further."
Riven leaned back with a smirk. "So we're gods, rebels, kings, and now… pawns on their little board. Cute. Let's flip the whole table on them."
Sir Aldric bowed his head, voice low. "My lords, one truth is clear: you are no longer just rulers of Greymoor. You are players in the great game now. And every House on the board has begun to take notice."
The Game of Thrones and Ashes
In the council chamber, the Hollowmere emissaries were ushered back in for negotiation. Damian, Kael, and Riven sat elevated on the dais, while Sir Aldric stood watchfully nearby, his hand never far from his sword.
Thrain son of Dorn bowed stiffly, then spread a scroll on the table. "My lord Branth proposes a trade compact — food and stone for timber and grain. A foundation, nothing more. Peaceful commerce."
Damian studied him, his expression neutral, but his eyes calculating. "Peaceful commerce is a fine start. But Greymoor is not some backwater village to be traded with lightly. Our word must weigh as much as yours, if not more."
Kael leaned forward, tapping the parchment. "We'll accept terms — but with oversight. Mixed caravans, joint guild supervision. If Hollowmere wants our friendship, they'll share risk as well as reward."
Riven smirked, lazy but sharp. "And if you think that means we're weak enough to need your charity, think again. This is a partnership… or nothing."
Thrain's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. "Very well. I will convey these conditions to Lord Branth. He values stability."
When the emissaries were dismissed, VAC's true faces showed.
"Partnership my ass," Riven snorted. "We just tied them into our system. Hollowmere thinks they're holding the leash, but we've already got our hand on the rope."
Damian smiled thinly. "Exactly. Let them think we bend. In truth, we weave. Every contract, every caravan, every shared guild… it brings them deeper into our orbit."
Kael nodded. "And the more entangled they are, the harder it will be for them to cut ties. Soon, we'll be indispensable. That's the key."
Sir Aldric gave a slow nod, though unease still clouded his face. "You are playing a dangerous game, my lords. Hollowmere's friendship is fickle, and dwarves never forget debts or betrayals."
Damian's tone was ice. "Then we'll make sure they owe us more than they can afford."
Meanwhile, in Greymoor's halls, the nobles who had whispered rebellion found themselves suddenly smothered.
Tax collectors arrived unannounced, tallying every coin and bushel.
VAC soldiers — drilled in new formations — patrolled manors "for security."
Spies slipped into kitchens and servant halls, ears sharp for whispers of sedition.
At the same time, a message was sent: cooperation meant survival. Nobles who publicly pledged loyalty to VAC were rewarded with land surveys, improved farming tools, and the favor of the guild.
Lady Calwyn, who once cursed the guild, now paraded her craftsmen as VAC's loyal innovators. Lord Trenvar, who had whispered of rebellion, now stood trembling at court, forced to kneel and swear oaths before the peasants themselves.
The rebellion in shadow was crushed without fire or sword — smothered by politics, surveillance, and humiliation.
That night, over wine in the keep, the three CEOs allowed themselves a rare moment of laughter.
Riven: "Not bad. We didn't just fight a war. We started running one."
Kael: "Piece by piece, move by move. The board expands, and we're already playing two games at once."
Damian: "Good. Let them think we are reckless rebels. In truth, we are kings in all but name."
Sir Aldric bowed, his voice quiet but reverent. "Lords… I fear you are not merely rulers. You are builders of empires."
And VAC — gods, rebels, lords — smiled at the thought.
Cheers and Daggers
The day the nobles bent knee in the great square of Greymoor, the peasants roared louder than the bells.
Lord Trenvar, red-faced and trembling, was forced to swear loyalty with a guild apprentice standing smugly beside him. Lady Calwyn, once a scornful opponent, presented VAC with a "gift" of her masons—men who had already defected to the guild weeks earlier.
The crowd jeered and laughed.
"Look how they squirm!"
"Sky-Lords make even nobles bow like beggars!"
"The world is upside down, and it is better for it!"
Songs erupted that night in the taverns, crude verses mocking the old lords and praising the "Sky-Lords of VAC." Children reenacted the humiliation in the streets, shouting and laughing, while even the guild scribes spread lampoons.
For the first time, VAC's rule didn't just rest on swords and reforms — it was popular theatre.
But in manor halls and shuttered chambers, the nobles seethed.
"This mockery cannot stand."
"They've stripped us of dignity."
"They think themselves gods. We will see their blood in the dust."
The humiliation cut deeper than any blade.
Far to the east, Lady Mirabel Cazwyn listened to her spies' report with a sly smile.
"So," she murmured, "the nobles of Greymoor crawl in the mud while peasants laugh above them. The Sky-Lords turn arrogance into entertainment. Clever."
Her courtiers shifted uneasily, but Mirabel's eyes glittered.
"Yet arrogance makes enemies. Already, the old blood sharpens knives. And Hollowmere… ah, Hollowmere sniffs around them like a wolf too cautious to strike."
She sipped her wine, lips curling. "Good. Let Hollowmere play diplomat. Let them entangle themselves with the upstarts. I will play another game."
Mirabel rose, sweeping her silks behind her.
"To my cousins in Cazwyn, I say this: VAC grows stronger, but not invincible. They bleed still. Sabotage, poison, fire — these will remind them of mortality. Each wound weakens them, even if they laugh it off."
She turned then, her voice dropping like silk over steel.
"And to Hollowmere, I whisper friendship. Let them believe I too fear these Sky-Lords. Let them believe I am their ally in restraining Greymoor."
She smiled coldly. "Two Houses at once. One to undermine, one to outmaneuver. And when they clash, I will be the one left holding the dagger."
Her court bowed low, but the air trembled with fear. None mistook her velvet voice for mercy.
Back in Greymoor
That night, VAC heard whispers from Aldric's spies:
"Cazwyn grows restless. They gather coin. They gather blades."
Damian frowned over the firelight. "So. Cazwyn moves."
Kael's mouth tightened. "We don't yet know how. But they won't sit idle while Hollowmere courts us."
Riven's grin was sharp. "Good. Let them come. Let them bleed on our walls next. We'll feed the peasants their corpses and call it another festival."
Sir Aldric bowed, voice low but resolute. "My lords… if war is coming, then we must be sharper still. The old blood schemes, and the east sharpens its knives. Greymoor is only the beginning."
And outside, the peasants sang louder still, oblivious to the shadows sharpening around them.
Steel, Smoke, and Shadows
In Greymoor
The council chamber was lit deep into the night, parchments scattered across the great oak table, wine forgotten, the three CEOs speaking low and fast. Sir Aldric stood beside them, arms crossed, face carved in stone.
"The Cazwyns are stirring," Aldric said grimly. "Coin flows east. Riders move at night. My spies whisper of mercenaries gathering under their banners."
Damian's eyes were cold, precise. "Then we must prepare. This city cannot face another war half-born."
Kael leaned over the table, fingers tracing supply lines on maps. "Food. Steel. Discipline. We need them all sharpened. We've already remade the tax code and the guilds — now we mold the army itself."
Riven slammed his fist on the wood, grinning. "Good. Time to make soldiers worth a damn."
Reforms for War
Orders spread like wildfire:
New formations drilled into the militia, drilling them in phalanx-like walls and rotating spear lines.
Engineers drafted from the guilds, set to work reinforcing Greymoor's gates and walls, experimenting with counterweight engines and stronger ballistae.
Medics — a shocking novelty — trained by Kael and guild apprentices, taught how to clean wounds with boiled water, bind arteries, and even use simple herbal antiseptics. Peasants gawked at the notion of saving wounded soldiers instead of leaving them to die, calling it "sky-magic."
Stores and reserves reorganized, with peasants ordered to keep surplus grain sealed away for sieges.
Each reform spread whispers. Some peasants sang about "the Sky-Lords who heal wounds as well as they make them." Some nobles muttered that VAC trained peasants too well, armed them too well.
But day by day, the city hardened, sharpened, transformed from a rebel's camp into a fortress-kingdom.
Far away, in Hollowmere's great stone hall, Lord Branth Hollowmere listened to a breathless rider.
"My lord… spies bring word. The Sky-Lords drill new soldiers by the hundreds. They train healers. They build engines. Their peasants worship them."
Branth's eyes narrowed beneath his heavy brows.
"And what of Cazwyn?"
The rider hesitated. "…Cazwyn gathers mercenaries. Their coin buys steel. Lady Mirabel sends whispers in every direction. She stirs… but her knife has not yet struck."
The dwarf lord leaned back heavily, beard brushing his chest, fingers curling against his throne.
"Damn them both," he muttered. "If VAC rises unchecked, they will eclipse us all. But if Cazwyn strikes, we may be dragged in whether we will it or not."
He stared at the embers in the hearth, voice gravel-low.
"Hollowmere cannot hide much longer. Sooner or later, the storm comes. And when it does… we must already have chosen which side we stand upon."
Back in Greymoor, the clang of steel echoed across the courtyards, soldiers drilling under torchlight. Peasants whispered prayers to their new lords.
In the east, Cazwyn's coin stacked high, mercenaries gathering like wolves.
In the west, Hollowmere's anvil throne weighed heavy with indecision.
And in the middle, VAC sharpened not just swords, but the world itself.
The game of Houses had begun.