Chapter 51 – Ripples of Peace in Eisenwald
The morning sun slowly pierced through the marsh mist, revealing the new face of Eisenwald. Once known only as a desolate borderland of mud and stagnant waters, the territory now carried a different breath—one of growth and life. The muddy roads that used to swallow boots and wagon wheels had been reinforced with wooden planks and stone. Along those paths, merchants were already opening their stalls, their shouts of bargaining mixing with the aroma of baked bread, smoked meat, and freshly harvested produce from the newly cultivated farmlands.
Fenrir Eisenwald stood on the balcony of his castle tower, his sharp eyes gazing upon the bustling marketplace. The wind caught his dark hair, and his crimson aura flickered faintly, like lava hidden beneath stone. At just seventeen years of age, he bore the weight of a barony that had transformed under his leadership.
Eisenwald was no longer the forgotten swamp on the empire's fringes. Agriculture was flourishing, thanks to newly dug irrigation canals. Marsh grains that had once struggled now grew in abundance, enough to feed hundreds of families. The annexed mines of Falkenrath yielded steady streams of iron and silver, attracting traders from distant lands.
Fenrir knew well, however, that prosperity was never free. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the battle against Klausen, the blood spilled, the cries of soldiers who would never return. This newfound peace was built on their sacrifice, and he would not forget it.
The heart of Eisenwald pulsed with life.
"Fresh apples from the new fields! Sweet and crisp, guaranteed!" shouted a young farmer, holding up a basket of gleaming red fruit.
A mother with two small children stopped, picking one up. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "I never thought marshland could yield fruit like this…"
An old man, once a soldier and now a warehouse guard, laughed hoarsely. "That's Baron Fenrir's doing. If he hadn't forced the digging of canals and brought in outside experts, this soil would still be feeding nothing but weeds and mosquitoes."
But not all voices carried gratitude. In the corner of a tavern, two traveling merchants whispered in suspicion.
"The baron is too young," one said, swigging his ale. "How can a mere boy manage such growth?"
His companion leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Don't underestimate him. That 'boy' killed Klausen—the Butcher of the North. I'd rather sell my goods here in peace than make an enemy of him."
The whispers spread like fire. To his people, Fenrir Eisenwald was salvation. To outsiders, he was a storm waiting to break.
From the ramparts, Fenrir was joined by Elbert, the loyal captain who had become his right hand.
"Elbert," Fenrir said, pointing to the new warehouses near the marketplace. "We need tighter surveillance there. With so many foreign merchants, smuggling will become inevitable."
Elbert nodded immediately. "I'll assign a permanent garrison. And regarding the Falkenrath mines—the transport convoys are getting crowded. We may need wider routes for distribution."
Fenrir's eyes followed the smoke rising from the new smelteries. "The mines are our lifeline. Not just for trade, but for war. Weapons, armor, even our cavalry—all of it depends on iron."
Elbert studied him, admiration flickering across his weathered face. He had served under many nobles, but none had ever carried themselves like this youth. While others his age squandered their days on hunts and feasts, Fenrir's gaze was always fixed on the horizon—calculating, planning, preparing.
In one corner of the market, a young boy dashed about with a warm loaf of bread clutched in his hands.
"Look! I bought this with my own coin!" he shouted proudly to his mother.
The woman's eyes welled with tears as she hugged him. "All thanks to our baron. Once, we barely ate once a day."
Elsewhere, a young blacksmith hammered away at a simple blade. "Work never stops now. The army keeps ordering more weapons. They say Baron Eisenwald is expanding his forces. If that's true, I'll never run out of work for the rest of my life."
Yet, in a quieter corner, an old farmer sat on his porch, staring toward the castle with unease. "The boy is too ambitious… If he keeps expanding, sooner or later, the other barons will feel threatened. Mark my words—war hasn't ended, it's only waiting."
Later that day, Fenrir descended from the castle, walking into the marketplace with only a handful of guards. His presence immediately drew notice. People bowed as he passed, some with reverence, some with caution, others with raw fear.
The boy from earlier ran up to him without hesitation, holding up his bread. "Lord Baron! Thank you! Because of you, we can eat well now!"
Fenrir paused. His crimson eyes softened, and he placed a hand on the child's head. His voice was calm, but firm. "Not only me. You all worked for this. I only cleared the path."
The nearby crowd listened, some with tears in their eyes. To them, the words were simple, but they carried weight. They felt seen—not just as subjects, but as part of something greater.
Still, among the crowd, a foreign merchant narrowed his eyes, studying the young baron as if measuring a future threat.
That night, Fenrir sat in his study, a vast map unfurled across his desk. Red markings traced trade routes; blue marked the newly built villages. Candles flickered, casting shadows across his determined face.
"Eisenwald prospers…" he muttered to himself, his voice low. "But this is only the beginning. The empire is vast, and eyes are turning toward us. I cannot afford to stand still."
A faint crimson glow pulsed around him—his aura, thick and molten, like smoldering lava restrained in human form.
The boy who once led a ragtag militia was gone. In his place stood a baron whose shadow stretched beyond the marsh.
Days passed, and Eisenwald grew ever busier, ever wealthier. The people tasted prosperity, yet also carried unease. Fenrir was their hope, their protector—but also a figure of awe and dread.
And deep within himself, the Crimson Wolf knew one thing for certain—this peace was only the ripple before the storm.
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