The Castle Hall was warm, a fire crackling in the hearth. A throne made of stone had been built inside on a high platform, its stark lines carved from the same granite that formed Blackwood's walls. Kaelen sat there, his travel-worn cloak draped over the armrest, watching the proceedings with the detached gaze of a strategist surveying a battlefield.

  Below him, a long table had been placed in the center for the village chiefs. But the mood around the table was frosty.

  Four men and one woman sat there—the Heads of the remaining villages of Blackwood. They looked tired. Their clothes were patched, their hands calloused. They were not used to sitting in the Lord’s keep; they were used to being ignored by it.

  And among them sat Haldor Kragmar, master-at-arms of the barony and Head of Kragmar village. His arms were crossed, his face a mask of weathered skepticism.

  Kaelen entered from a side door, still wearing his travel-stained armor. Mud from the mountain passes flaked off his boots as he descended the steps. He didn’t sit at the head of the table. Instead, he leaned against it, crossing his arms.

  “I’ve been to Stonewell,” Kaelen began without preamble. “I’ve been to High Roost. I know the mines are choking and the sheep were starving. We fixed those. I’ve also been to Vragas. Now, tell me what is breaking in the rest of my land.”

  An old man with a face like dried apple skin spoke up—John of River-Bend.

  “The river, My Lord,” John rasped, his voice like gravel underfoot. “The dam broke three years ago. The water floods the fields in spring and leaves them dry in summer. We dig ditches, but the mud takes them back. We need timber to fix the pylons, but the late Baron—your father—forbade us from cutting the woods from the forest in fear of tribal attacks.”

  Kaelen nodded, his expression unchanging. He had expected this.

  The Thunder Hoof Forest was a thick belt of ancient pines bordering Blackwood’s northern edge—a natural barrier against raiders, but also a prison for the villages that depended on it for building materials.

  “The tribes are no longer a threat,” Kaelen said simply. “Not to us.”

  Murmurs rippled around the table. Haldor leaned forward, his bushy brows knitting together.

  “No threat?” the master-at-arms grunted. “Milord, we barely survived when they sieged the castle walls.”

  “They did,” Kaelen agreed. “Because they were starving. I have made a deal with the Four Tribes—the Ash Wolves, Black Fangs, Red Hands, and Broken Claws. They will patrol the forest borders with us. In exchange, we trade. Grain for their wool. Tools for their furs.”

  John’s eyes widened. “A deal? With the barbarians?”

  “An alliance,” Kaelen corrected. “The Thunder Hoof Forest is now open. Cut what you need for the pylons. Send twenty men from River-Bend to Stonewell for the iron braces. My engineers will supervise the rebuild. By spring, your fields will drink steadily.”

  John sat back, stunned. “You… you tamed the mountain tribesmen?”

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  Kaelen’s lips twitched. “Wolves eat when they’re hungry. Feed them, and they hunt for you.”

  He turned to the woman with flour-dusted hair and sharp eyes—Martha of Oak Haven.

  “Your turn, Martha.”

  She slammed her hand on the table, undaunted. “Wood won’t fix the blight, Lord. The southern fields have the Black Rot. It eats the stalk from the inside. We burn the crops, but it comes back. If we lose another harvest, we starve.”

  Kaelen’s System interface flickered in his vision, analyzing.

  [Administrative Alert: Agricultural Blight detected in Sector 4]

  Cause: Fungal infection due to poor drainage and soil acidity.

  Solution: Apply crushed limestone (alkaline) and rotate crops to nitrogen-fixers (beans/clover).

  “It’s the soil,” Kaelen said. “Too sour. Stop planting wheat there for a season. Plant clover and beans—they fix the nitrogen. And go to Stonewell. Tell William I sent you. Get cartloads of the white dust from the quarry—the limestone dust. Spread it thick before the snow melts.”

  Martha blinked, skepticism warring with hope. “Rock dust? You want us to salt the earth?”

  “Limestone sweetens it,” Kaelen explained. “The rot thrives in acid. This kills it. You’ll see green shoots by midsummer.”

  She nodded slowly. “If it works… Oak Haven owes you a tithe double.”

  Kaelen turned to Korg, the burly smith from Briar’s End. The man smelled of soot and sweat.

  “Briar’s End?” Kaelen prompted.

  “We have ore, Lord,” Korg grunted. “But no fuel. Peat doesn’t burn hot enough for good steel. Our plows snap, our swords bend. We need coal.”

  Kaelen smiled faintly. “You will have it. The Ash Wolves sit on anthracite veins. First shipment next week. Hot enough to melt the mountain.”

  Korg’s eyes lit up. “Anthracite? We’ll forge proper arms again.”

  Next was Torin of Driftwood, a thin man with ink-stained fingers—the village scribe and tanner.

  “Driftwood struggles to guard the farms, My Lord,” Torin said. “The winter pelts are thin. The tribes raid our traps. And the river tanneries are clogged with silt.”

  “The tribes won’t raid anymore,” Kaelen assured. “And I will send soldiers to guard the village. The Black Fangs owe me a herd of mountain goats—thick wool, tougher skin. You’ll have plenty to work.”

  Torin nodded eagerly. “The Guild will pay premium for mountain goat.”

  Kaelen gestured toward the courtyard, where merchants were already bidding on the mountain wool.

  “That wool out there? From High Roost. The merchants are fighting over it. Send your spinners there. Blend your coarse wool with theirs. You’ll weave a fortune.”

  Lira’s eyes sparkled. “The southern ladies will pay gold for mountain blend.”

  Haldor Kragmar had been silent, his massive arms crossed. Now he leaned forward, his voice like grinding stones.

  “Milord, don’t worry about Kragmar. We have a stone wall and enough men to guard the village.”

  Kaelen met the master-at-arms’ gaze. Haldor was Bronze-rank—loyal but traditional. He didn’t trust deals with “savages.” After fighting a life-and-death battle with Gorak, and after the death of his previous lord—Kaelen’s father—his hatred ran deep.

  “Kragmar will be the anvil of Blackwood,” Kaelen said. “I need twenty masons from your village. They’ll train with my mountain engineers. We’ll rebuild your walls higher, thicker. And for the men—when the road to the Hollow is done, we’ll rotate patrols. Train new warriors who will garrison the new fortress. Promise them higher pay. Food from the valley. Glory from the peaks.”

  Haldor’s eyes narrowed. “You trust the tribes not to slit our throats?”

  “I trust hunger,” Kaelen said. “And full bellies. They need us as much as we need them.”

  The room fell silent. The fire crackled.

  John broke it. “You’ve thought of everything, Lord.”

  “No,” Kaelen admitted. “But I’ve thought of enough to survive winter.”

  He straightened. “Go. Implement. Report back in a month. Blackwood rises or falls on your backs.”

  As they filed out, murmuring excitedly, Haldor lingered.

  “My Lord,” the old warrior said quietly. “This alliance… it’s bold. But Gorm is a viper. He won’t forget the Hollow.”

  “Let him come,” Kaelen said. “We’ll be ready.”

  Haldor clasped his forearm. “Aye. For the first time in years… I believe that.”

  Alone, Kaelen climbed to the stone throne and activated his interface.

  [Barony Stability: +18%]

  [Loyalty: Rising to ‘Cautious Faith’]

  [Economic Projection: Green]

  The mountains loomed outside the window. The deal was struck—but trust was fragile. One raid, one blight, one broken dam, and it would all crumble.

  Kaelen leaned back.

  Time to forge the steel.