The heavy morning fog rolled over the fields, wrapping everything in a thick, swirling mist. The training yard, though, pulsed with life—shields were firm, and the sharp scent of sweat was already mingling with the crisp air. Boots slapped rhythmically against the ground and the barked cadence of commands sliced through the fog, setting the tone for an intense day.But something was different.Hale stood in the center of the yard, arms crossed, his face stone. Garrick was nearby, but silent, deferring command without a word."Full gear," Hale had said before the drills started. "Armor, shields, helmets. Training poles — I want your shoulders burning by the time this is done."A tension hung in the air that was thicker than the fog, a silent promise of challenges yet to come. They were training for war.Two full centuries lined the yard. Formations were called. Columns shifted. Rows bent and snapped forward. Shields slammed together, poles drove forward, and boots churned the earth. Every maneuver was repeated. And again. And again.Hale walked through the ranks like some rector of war. His eyes missed nothing. When a flank lagged, he barked. When a shield slipped, he corrected it — with liberal strikes of his own pole if needed. He was a firm believer in physical reminders.By the third hour, half the garrison looked like they'd run a full day's march."Century against century," Hale ordered. "Simulated assault. One breaks through, one holds. Then we swap. No one leaves until I say." He paused, glancing at the determined faces before him. "Consider the terrain we're likely to face, with narrow paths and sudden ambushes. Our opponents will be relentless. Today's drills prepare you to read, react, and overwhelm them before they adapt."Harold was in the center of it like everyone else — shield strapped, pole gripped, boots sinking into the churned dirt. Sweat rolled under his collar. His arms ached from the endless thrusts, and his legs shook with effort.He wasn't alone.Every time the formation rotated, the jabs started up again, not from enemies, but from his own soldiers."What did you do, Harold?" Garrick muttered from his left, wiping his brow with exaggerated slowness. "Steal Hale's pillow?" His voice had that usual sing-song mockery, the kind only he managed to pull off with a half-bemused, half-serious lilt."I told him his tea was weak," Harold said under his breath."Must've called him soft," another legionary joked, his tone light but his words a bit sharper than Garrick's laidback taunts. Garrick chimed in again, "Did you steal his boots? Or maybe insult his mother?" His laughter was a dry chuckle, one that seemed to say he could keep this up all day."I heard he told Hale he was getting soft.""He told him nothing could go wrong!"Harold just grunted.Someone behind him groaned, "Next time, send a letter."Hale's voice cut through the joking like a blade."Again!"Later, during a shield wall rotation, a younger soldier broke formation. His footing slipped on a turn, his shoulder lagged — and he was flung out of place.Hale was there in a second.He didn't yell. He just stood the soldier up, reset the formation, and drilled it again. With him. Again. And again. Until the soldier understoodNo one laughed after that.It wasn't until drills ended that Hale said a word beyond instruction.He turned to his Optios and pointed."Mana control," he said. "Now. No exceptions. You'll need it soon. And we need you to be competent."The field slowly cleared — some limping, some groaning — but all moving toward the designated field. Some of them tried to sneak off to wash up, but the Optio's caught them. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows through the training yard.Hale stepped up beside Harold.He didn't speak at first. Just looked out over the emptying yard, the deep grooves worn into the dirt and the echo of bootfalls still hanging in the air. Those grooves and echoes mirrored his own state – worn and tired yet still reverberating with the need to move forward. Despite the exhaustion creeping into his bones, there was an urgency pushing him onward, just as the cooling air whispered the end of another day.Then, quietly: "I need to know what we're walking into.""I can't say yet," he finally replied."You said you needed them ready," Hale continued. "So I'm pushing them. But if I don't know what we're facing, I can't truly prepare them. Is it terrain? Numbers? Something worse?"Harold exhaled through his nose. "Something worse.""Then tell me," Hale demanded."I can't. Not yet." Harold replied tiredly.Hale's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he looked out over the field, where soldiers were scattered in pairs, practicing slow mana drills — palms faintly glowing, breath steady and shallow."I'm not asking for a secret," Hale said. "I'm asking for a chance to do my job."Harold hesitated. Then: "The thing we're after is protected. We'll have to take it. It won't be easy. But you'll have time."Hale gave a short nod. Then turned and walked away.That night, the Lord's Hall was warm — firelight flickering against rough-hewn beams, laughter echoing off stone and wood. Soldiers, adventurers, civilians — all packed into the great space, nursing bruises, bread, and bruised egos. The smell of stew and smoke hung thick in the air.Harold sat at the long center table, leaning back in his chair, boots out, arms crossed.His tunic was still damp from training, hair sticking to the back of his neck. But for once, he looked... content."You pissed off the wrong man," Garrick said, slumping into the seat beside him with a whole bowl of stew. "Pretty sure you made Hale angry enough to kill. I'm an old man! I'm not used to this kind of effort anymore."Harold just grunted, too tired to form words.Margaret passed behind them and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Next time, ask Hale for favors with words, not drills.""That was with words," Harold muttered."He only understands smaller ones," she said.That was when Beth arrived, grinning like a fox, a cloth bag in her hands."My lord," she said sweetly. "A gift."Harold eyed her. "Beth…"She set the bag on the table.The smell hit first — rich, roasted, bitter. Coffee beans.Harold's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that?"Beth shrugged. "Salvaged. Maybe.""I am unbribable," Harold said, flatly."That's not what the beans say," Beth said, still smiling."I'm not telling you anything." Harold groaned. "You incorrigible woman."That was when Margaret reappeared — and this time, she wasn't empty-handed.She held a cup, and it was steaming. She set it down in front of him — delicate, perfect, already brewed.Harold stared at it as if it were a divine artifact. His hands hovered over it, reverent.Garrick just stared at them. "Hey, what about me? I've been out there suffering too!" He exclaimed.Harold turned a murderous look on Garrick and did his best imitation of Smeagol. "Mine!""You do not fight fair," he said, turning and pointing at Margret."Nope," Margaret said. "Now tell us what you're dragging half the garrison off to fight."Harold picked up the cup. Sipped then groaned.Then leaned back, eyes closed. Defeated."Just one sip?" Garrick moaned from across the table."Fine. Get the council," he said. "But you're all swearing a bigger oath. This doesn't leave the room. I'm serious. This can't leak. Come on, Garrick, you can join."Beth blinked. "Wait, really?"Margaret raised an eyebrow.Beth laughed. "We didn't actually think that would work.""I am a weak, weak man," Harold just muttered.The door to Harold's office shut with a dull thud.He set the cloth bag of coffee beans on the edge of his desk like it was a treasure hoard. The others followed in behind him — Margaret, Beth, Hale, Caldwell, Evan, Josh, and Garrick — each stepping lightly despite the late hour. The mood had shifted. The jokes were gone. What came next felt heavier."Sit," Harold said.They circled the large map table. The fire from the hall still clung faintly to their clothes, but the office air was cooler, sharper. Somewhere outside, a nightbird called.Josh just moaned, "I was just about asleep."He stepped to the side of his desk and picked up a small, worn piece of parchment — its edges curled from use, the script plain and deliberate."I wrote this the night we landed here," he said quietly. "It's not long. But if you say it, you're mine — and I'm yours. No halfway. You all know oaths here are different from those on Earth."He held the parchment up and began to read."I swear on my name and my work,To serve the Lord of Harold's Landing, and what it may become.To stand by this land, and the one trusted to lead it.To keep the secrets of my Lord,To protect what must be kept safe,And to do my part in building, in fighting, and in holding the line.For Humanity and my LordThen he looked around the room."One by one," Harold said. "Say it and mean it, please. I was trying to avoid asking this for a little longer. Blame those two meddlers," he said, motioning to Beth and Margret.Beth stepped forward first, her voice calm and steady as she repeated the words."I swear upon my name and my work."She finished, met Harold's eyes, and stepped back.Caldwell was next. He didn't hesitate, "haven't felt this alive in years" — just lowered his head slightly and spoke the oath in full, slow and measured.Then Margaret. Her voice was quiet, but there was iron in it.Evan followed, the corners of his mouth set in a thin line — not fear, but understanding.Finally, Hale.He said each word like a hammer striking stone.When they were done, Harold placed the parchment on the table and pressed his palm to the center of the slate again."I swear in return," he said, looking at each of them. "To guard what we build. To lead with everything I am. To bleed for the people I claim. And to never ask what I would not do myself."The slate warmed faintly beneath his hand. The room held still — air taut like a drawn bowstring.Then it was done. They were bound by more than just loyalty.By choice and promise, enforced by Gravesend itself.Harold looked at them — Margaret, Beth, Caldwell, Hale, Lira, Evan, Josh, Garrick — each one now bound by more than just duty or role. Bound by a choice.He reached across the table and took the small cloth bag of coffee beans that Beth had tempted him with earlier. Cradled it for a moment, then tucked it under one arm as he moved to his desk and leaned on its edge."Alright," he said. "Here's what we're doing and why I've been quiet.""Every region has a relic. At least one, I know of two of the larger ones that have two. Powerful Artifacts from previous fallen races. At least that was the theory last time. No one knows where they came from, but they don't move. Each one affects the territory of the Lord that controls it in some way. They can be buffs, or they can be something more tangible like an actual weapon."He tapped the edge of the basin map."Ours is north-west. It's far — a week of marching with a force our size. It was a known relic of humanity in my last life until this region fell. A couple of lords tried to recover it during its fall, but they failed."Caldwell raised an eyebrow. "So you picked this starting spot for the relic?"Harold nodded once. "That was part of it. The relic here boosts cultivated crop growth. It improves yield — even in bad soil. Even affects wild plants a little. Cultivated ones grow faster; this whole basin once fed most of humanity. It roughly improves the speed by about a 3rd. Enough to get another crop within a year."Beth blinked. "So we could grow more… everything?""If we can claim it and hold it," Harold said. "A large part of my plan involves leveraging my knowledge of Alchemy. With this artifact, we could have more ingredients to make more potions and solve our food dilemma."He let that hang for a moment."Last time, two lords tried to hold it together. Claimed it in a joint operation. Never agreed on anything after that — they argued over who got what, who got the output. It never worked; the Lords here argued constantly over it."Margaret folded her arms. "So you're trying to claim it before those other Lords get their act together.""That's the plan, this was the first relic humanity discovered last time, or at least the first one posted on the forum, though last time it took them a couple more months to claim it. The Lord picked his starting spot almost right next to it.""What's guarding it?" Hale asked.Harold didn't answer right away."The relics all draw trouble of some kind," Harold said. "Two swarms — goblins and kobolds surround this one. They're fighting each other, and sometimes the Lord to the west. But they're both drawn to the relic.""It's a large swarm," Harold said. "And one we have to win fast. We can't afford a pitched battle with both swarms. They will overrun us. Get in, break the swarm, grab the relic, then get back. Get out before the other Lord sends a response."Caldwell scratched his jaw. "And if they do?"Harold met his eyes. "Then we fight them too."Silence returned — this time tighter, more focused.Beth finally broke it. "Why not wait a little longer then? You said it took them a couple more months to claim it. Why can't we wait another 2-3 weeks then? You'll have more soldiers, you can farm the goblin dungeon for more weapons."Harold exhaled, then looked around the room."Because the longer we're in Gravesend, the stronger the protections around these relics get," he said. "This one — it's the swarms. Goblins and kobolds, both drawn to it. Fighting each other now, yes. But that won't last. The longer we wait, the more they grow. The more they fortify. This is well-researched and validated. It was theorized that claiming the relics is supposed to be difficult no matter what stage we are at in Gravesend."He let that hang, then continued."Right now, we can hit them in detail — catch them mostly scattered and uncoordinated. If we wait a few weeks, we'll be looking at something I'm not sure we can win with acceptable losses.""That's also part of why I pushed so hard on Roman-style formations. Shield walls. Coordination. Drills. It works in tight spaces. It works against hordes. And it works when you're outnumbered. I can brew a couple of things that will give us an edge in the fight, and that's something Gravesend couldn't have accounted for."Harold looked at each of them in turn."This isn't a gamble. It's a deadline. And if we miss it, we don't get as good a shot."The weight of Harold's words settled in again, but this time there were no protests.Beth gave a slow nod, her eyes scanning the basin map. "Alright," she said quietly. "We'll be ready."Margaret leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "I'll start prepping fallback plans. Just in case."Lira said nothing, but the set of her jaw said she understood. Caldwell muttered something about supply chains and pushed off the table, already running the numbers in his head.One by one, the others filed out — some solemn, some thoughtful, all of them changed by what they'd heard. The door thudded shut behind them.Only three remained.Hale stood by the far window, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought. Mark leaned against the wall, silent but clearly mulling something over. Evan sat back down across from Harold, rubbing at the scar along his forearm with absent fingers.No one spoke for a long moment.Then Hale, moving from the window, eyes still on the map spread across the table, reached out and traced a finger along the distant border of their known world. His gesture lingered over territories far beyond their current station."This isn't just about the relic," Hale said.Harold didn't respond immediately."You're thinking ahead," Hale continued. "Way ahead. Raiding other regions. You're trying to snowball fast and early, then raid other regions for their relics. That's why you asked us to start creating that new force.""I've told you what happened last time; I won't allow it to happen again," Harold said.
