The Way of KnightChapter 16 – Seeds of PowerReturn to Eisenwald
The wooden carriage rattled along the stony road that separated Marquis Helbrecht's city from the remote barony of Eisenwald. Fenrir sat beside his father, Cedric, while his mother Elena tried to hide both relief and worry behind her calm expression.
They returned carrying more than a bruised body from the duel. A sealed scroll from the Marquis rested safely in a small iron chest—official recognition of land, a gift that could alter the family's fate.
Fenrir gazed out the carriage window. The same barren fields and grim forests stretched to the horizon, unchanged. Yet inside his chest, something had shifted. This time, I hold a foothold. Land, people, and… an opportunity.
When the carriage halted before the Eisenwald manor, peasants and servants gathered. Whispers ran through the crowd as they stared at the battered but unyielding young baron's son.
"They say he fought the Grauwolf knight?"
"He's barely thirteen, but he drew blood!"
"His eyes… they don't look like a child's."
Fenrir stepped down carefully, his muscles still aching, but his posture steady. He raised his small hand.
"Eisenwald… I have returned. And I bring something that will change our future."
His voice was calm, but every word carried weight. The whispers turned into small cheers. Elena wiped tears from her cheeks, while Cedric placed a proud, heavy hand on his son's shoulder.
That night, within the dimly lit study of the manor, Fenrir unrolled the Marquis' gift. The map showed a parcel of land marked in red: a swampy tract near the river border.
"Elena," Cedric muttered, "this land is worthless. Floods every year, filled with marshes. That's why no noble claimed it."
Fenrir smirked faintly. Which means no one will contest it. A weakness can become strength.
"Father, Mother," Fenrir said, pointing at the map, "that marsh is a natural fortress. If we raise a small settlement and a wooden fort, it becomes both our shield and a future trade route. The river can carry more than water—it can carry opportunity."
Cedric stared at him. "You've thought this far already?"
Fenrir lowered his gaze slightly. "We can't remain the weak barony begging for scraps. This is our first step."
The following day, Fenrir gathered the youths of the village—the same ones who once stood with him against bandits. Among them were Geralt, the hulking lad, and Branik, the grizzled village head, along with a dozen others.
Fenrir faced them in worn linen, but his stance was that of a commander.
"Eisenwald needs more than fields and fences. We need soldiers. Not many—just a few, but trained. A militia to protect your families and our land."
Geralt immediately nodded. "I'm with you, Young Lord. You've proven yourself."
Branik grumbled. "I still doubt this… but if no one protects us, we'll just wait for death. I'll join."
Fenrir's lips curved slightly. Respect is not forced—it is planted.
Training began. Long sticks served as spears. Round shields were carved from crude planks. Fenrir drilled them in basic formations: spear walls, defensive rotations, sudden charges.
"Never fight alone!" he barked. "We are not lone heroes—we are a wall that moves together!"
Sweat poured, hands blistered, legs quivered. Yet day by day, the group's ragged movements became sharper, more disciplined.
Political Shadows
But news of Fenrir's duel and the Marquis' recognition spread quickly.
At Helbrecht's castle, young nobles gathered in secret.
"The Marquis is too lenient. That Eisenwald brat is dangerous."
"If he forms a militia, he builds a private army. That disrupts the balance."
"A poor baron suddenly favored? Unnatural."
Lord Reinhart, sly and sharp-eyed, chuckled. "Let him play with his swamp soldiers. If he grows too quickly, we'll cut him down before he turns wolf."
Fenrir led a small party to inspect the northern marsh. Feet sank into mud, mosquitoes swarmed, and the stench of stagnant water filled the air. Farmers groaned at the sight.
"What kind of place is this, Young Lord? How can we live here?"
Fenrir crouched, scooping mud into his hand, then looked at the glittering river beyond.
"Every weakness hides a strength. Look at that river. If we dig channels, we can drain part of the swamp into farmland. And the current can power mills—for grain, or even ironwork."
Branik shook his head. "You think like an old lord, yet you're just a boy."
Fenrir met his eyes. "Precisely because I am a boy, I cannot waste time doubting. If we want a future, it begins here."
That night, Cedric summoned Fenrir. Candlelight cast shadows over his scarred face.
"Fenrir. Do you understand what you're doing? Building forts, training peasants, drawing the Marquis' eye… this is not a game. You could start a fire that burns us all."
Fenrir met his gaze firmly. "I know, Father. But I'm not afraid. Better to die fighting than let Eisenwald starve slowly."
Cedric was silent, then let out a short laugh. "Hah. You remind me of myself in youth. Very well. If this is your path, I'll stand behind you. But remember, true strength isn't just from muscle or steel—it's from hearts willing to stand beside you."
Fenrir nodded. "Then I'll earn their trust. That is my promise."
Weeks later, reports arrived.
A scout rushed into the manor. "Young Lord! Mercenaries have been spotted near the marsh! Not bandits—trained fighters, dozens strong, well-armed."
Fenrir's eyes narrowed. Mercenaries… sent by whom?
Elena paled. "Are they targeting us?"
Cedric slammed his staff against the table. "Other nobles, surely. They're testing whether we can endure."
Fenrir rose, his voice like steel.
"Good. Then this will be our true trial. If they test us, we will answer."
Under the silver moonlight, Fenrir stood at the marsh's edge, watching the river gleam like a drawn blade.
Behind him, twenty Eisenwald youths held crude spears and shields. They were no true soldiers, but in Fenrir's eyes, they were seeds of an army.
Here it begins. From swamp and mud, I will plant strength that one day shakes the empire.
The night wind blew, carrying the scent of battle ever closer.
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