Two days had passed since Carmien fell.

  Two days of dust and smoke settling, of orders being given and executed, of the once-proud fortress being transformed into something more… efficient.

  I walked through the village with Kens at my side, the clatter of boots and clanging of weapons forming a rhythm behind us. The Northern Watch had set up tents both inside and outside the village, their banners fluttering in the breeze, half the force stationed here, the other half patrolling the northern borders.

  Kens stretched his arms behind his head.

  “You really owe me big time for this one, you know.”

  “I know,”

  I said, scanning the warehouses and trade roads, mentally noting the flow of goods, the choke points, the gates that could be reinforced or rerouted.

  “Half of your forces for a coup is… reckless.”

  He grinned. “Reckless is one of my dynasty’s many middle names.”

  I smirked lightly. Reckless, maybe, but competent. That combination is dangerous. The Northern Watch isn’t some ragtag militia; they’re trained, brutal, and disciplined. And he brought enough to intimidate the villagers and protect his flank at the same time. I couldn’t argue with efficiency, even if it meant owing a young brat a favor.

  “Look at this place,” I said, letting my eyes roam the long, straight streets. “Every building, every road, every warehouse… it exists for one purpose. Trade. Export. Import. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  Kens followed my gaze, kicking a pebble down the street. “Gray lives, huh? Everything here built to move coins, not to live in.”

  “Gray, yes,” I murmured. “But orderly. Efficient. If I wanted to pressure a village for manpower, I’d do it like this. Make everything dependent on structure, choke points, fear of losing access. These villagers didn't stand a chance.”

  He shrugged.

  “Good thing you didn’t just want to pressure him. It would've been boring. Now you’ve got a village under your thumb and a story to scare every other chief in the north.”

  I chuckled softly but didn’t answer right away. There’s a difference between amusement and decision. I didn’t know what to do with Carmien yet. The original plan was simple. Intimidate. Gain compliance. Maybe get some trade leverage. Not take a village. Not deal with a coup orchestrated by an army of soldiers hardened by monsters and the North’s brutal oasis. Yet, as I observed the streets, the warehouses, the soldiers coordinating supply lines, I realized… opportunity doesn’t knock twice.

  I let my gaze drift to the old watchtower still standing by the main gate. Its stone walls cast a long shadow across the eastern street. The light didn’t reach the patch of roses at its base. They were withered. Dead. Forgotten.

  “Destroy that tower,” I said, voice calm but firm.

  Kens raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

  “Yes. It blocks sunlight from that patch of dead flowers. We can’t have reminders of wasted life hanging around.”

  He chuckled and crouched to examine the roses. “You’re a strange one, Jakob. People fight over castles and swords and you care about flowers.”

  I didn’t answer. I let the men of the Northern Watch move forward. Stone crumbled. Dust rose. The flowers, at last, basked in sunlight. Life or at least the possibility of it.

  Kens plucked the roses, shaking the dirt from their stems. “These are withered roses” he paused. “Amongst us swordsmen, these symbolize the loss of many lives to come, or in other words; the early signs of a war brewing.”

  “I think this is a sign that you’ve just started something big today… Do you know what the patriarch will do about this lil’ takeover of ours yet?” Kens asked half-anxiously.

  I frowned slightly, but not from fear. From thought. Yes, the Jakobster Dynasty’s reaction mattered. Father would not take kindly to a coup in the north, executed by his bastard son and a young Kaeluse brat. And the delay, the waiting; this is how tensions are built.

  “You’re enjoying this too much,” I said.

  “Of course I am,” Kens said, tossing the roses lightly in his hands. “You’re starting a war, Jakob. Don’t act like you’re not.”

  I let a smile creep across my face. “I didn’t start a war. I started a realignment. A lesson. Carmien is just the first domino.”

  “Not according to the dead roses you don’t.”

  Kens laughed a careless, youthful sound that somehow grated against the tension in my chest yet didn’t annoy me. “Lesson or domino, whatever. Just don’t get yourself killed before I get my favor back.”

  I shook my head. “I am aware of how killable I am. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

  We continued walking. The streets were eerily clean. Soldiers patrolled in pairs, some marching with strict formation, others lazily watching the outskirts. The villagers were confined to the inner streets, observing us from windows and doorways. Their fear and curiosity mingled in the air. A perfect mixture for control, if one knows how to wield it.

  I passed a warehouse where sacks of wheat and crates of rice were stacked meticulously. Every item had a place. Every movement optimized. I mentally cataloged it. Daily yield. Storage capacity. Possible points of diversion. Laborers. Guards. Potential leak points.

  “Look at all this,” Kens said, gesturing broadly. “If you wanted, you could run the north’s economy with just this village.”

  “Potential,” I said, running a hand along the edge of a crate. “But it isn’t enough yet. The infrastructure is tight, but it’s narrow. If anything disrupts a single point, the entire flow collapses. It’s fragile. We need redundancy. Distribution. Control over supply lines beyond just Carmien.”

  He shrugged. “You talk like a merchant.”

  I didn’t correct him. Merchants understand flow, control, leverage. And this is what this village now represents. Not just a captured territory, but a framework. A skeleton. I am here to add the flesh.

  We passed another street. The houses were small, gray, functional. No ornamentation. No frivolity. They were not built for comfort. Only for function. Efficiency. Survival. The villagers themselves moved with practiced motions. Every action economized. And yet… their faces bore shadows of resentment. Fear. Anger. That, too, is data.

  I paused near a market stall. A boy, no more than ten, peeked out from behind a post. He had a basket of dried herbs. He watched us with wide eyes, curiosity battling fear. I crouched slightly to meet his gaze.

  “Hello,” I said softly. “Don’t be afraid.”

  He blinked, uncertain whether or not the blonde before him was of Jakobster blood. “Mi’lord?”

  “Yes,” I said, letting the title hang. Not because I demanded respect, but because I wanted him to understand hierarchy. To understand that this is a world where names and lineage matter.

  He nodded slowly and disappeared.

  Kens chuckled again. “You really know how to make friends.”

  “Observation,” I said simply. “This boy tells me more about the village than a hundred charts.”

  We moved on. I noticed small indicators of corruption even here. Payment logs kept hidden. Wagons redirected. Laborers paid inconsistently. Chief Elbien’s policies left marks not just in money but in morale. These are the details that matter. Efficiency can be rebuilt. Loyalty must be earned.

  “Any idea what to do with the old Chief’s guards?” Kens asked.

  “Some will be integrated. Some will be dismissed. Punishment must be selective. Make examples. Instill fear where needed. Reward competence. Balance.”

  He nodded. “You really are taking this seriously.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Carmien is an opportunity. Not just a village.”

  Kens whistled, letting the words sink. “You sound like a strategist. Ambitious bastard.”

  I smiled faintly. “Ambition is preferable to idleness.”

  By the time we reached the northern gates of Carmien, the Northern Watch had begun expanding supply tents. Half the soldiers remained stationed along the northern approaches. The rest moved into the village proper to oversee integration, distribution, and patrol.

  I stopped. My gaze returned to the pile of withered roses Kens had picked. I gestured to a soldier nearby. “Make a small bed of soil here. Bury them. Let this be a reminder.”

  Kens leaned down, planting the roses gently. “War and death, huh? Or maybe just… something bigger waiting.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And we prepare for something bigger. Not rush it. Not announce it. Wait. Observe. React.”

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  He looked at me. “You’re really going to just… sit and wait for your father to reply?”

  “Yes,” I said simply. “Every action has a consequence. Every move triggers a counter. My father will respond. The question is how. And when he does, I will already have the advantage.”

  He grinned again, that careless, reckless grin, but with a hint of respect now. “You’re scary when you’re patient.”

  “Patience is power,” I murmured, looking over the orderly streets, the soldiers, the warehouses. “Patience ensures survival. And survival allows control.”

  We continued our tour. Every building. Every street. Every gate. Every warehouse. Every soldier and villager was a point of information, a node in the network. I cataloged it all. Even the patterns of shadows at this hour.

  Kens watched me with fascination, occasionally commenting, occasionally joking. But I could see he understood the gravity behind the calm. He might act like a wreckless teenager, but he is sharp. He sees opportunity. He executes. That is why I owe him. That is why he is valuable.

  By the time we returned to the central square, the sun was high. Dust swirled lazily in the breeze. Soldiers moved with precision. Villagers watched quietly, some from behind shutters, some from alleyways. Carmien was ours; for now. But more importantly, it was a stage. A stage for influence, control, and observation.

  I finally allowed myself to sit on the steps of what had been the Chief’s office. Kens flopped down beside me.

  “So,” he said casually, “you gonna tell me what’s next, or are we just sitting here waiting for Daddy Jakobster to throw a tantrum?”

  I smiled faintly, feeling the weight of the Jakobster name, the Northern Watch, and this village pressing on me. “We wait,” I said simply. “We observe. And when the right moment comes, we act. Big. Clean. Precise.”

  Kens nodded, clearly enjoying the simplicity of the answer, though I knew he already anticipated the complications.

  And as I looked out over Carmien, the gray streets, the soldiers, the still-sunken eyes of the villagers, I realized something. This village, these people, this conquest; it was more than a victory. It was a test.

  And I intended to pass it.

  ```

  The evening settled over Carmien like a heavy curtain.

  Shadows stretched across the streets and the tents of the Northern Watch rustled softly in the cool breeze.

  Kens had fallen asleep on the cot beside mine, his arm flung carelessly over his face, muttering half-coherent words about swords and flowerbeds.

  Two days of waiting had taught me more than any march of soldiers ever could. Each movement of the guards, every glance of the villagers, every pattern of trade and labor; it all told a story if you knew how to read it.

  I traced a map of Carmien in my mind again, the warehouses, the streets that could serve as defensive lines. My attention shifted to the perimeter, imagining how the half of the Northern Watch stationed here could hold the village indefinitely. Then I considered the other half; the portion I could bring with me back to Foklunn. I ran the numbers silently: rotation of patrols, training cycles, reinforcement schedules.

  I plan on using the Northern Watch to train a capable fighting force loyal to me & me only.

  A sound of hoofbeats made me glance toward the tent flap. The wind carried the rhythm clearly, steady and purposeful. A rider approached, bearing the Jakobster sigil. His armor caught the last light of the dying sun. I rose and moved to the entrance as the rider dismounted with precise efficiency.

  “Young Master Jakob Jakobster,” the rider called, bowing slightly. “A letter from Patriarch of the Jakobster Dynasty, your father, Lord Leonor Jakobster, addressed to you and you only.”

  I took the sealed envelope, noting the wax stamp, the careful loops of the handwriting. Something about the crisp formality of it made my chest tighten slightly. I broke the seal and unfolded the paper, scanning each line with deliberate attention.

  And then I froze, only for a heartbeat, before my eyes widened in disbelief.

  Carmien. Absorbed into Foklunn. The letter decreed it, official and absolute.

  The village, once a thorn in my plans, was now mine to govern.

  My thoughts raced as quickly as the ink on the letter: trade routes to the Central Plains, integration of the two villages, deployment of the Northern Watch, training a capable fighting force from the soldiers stationed here.

  The possibilities unfolded before me like a fan, each scenario more advantageous than the last.

  I felt a smile tug at my lips. “Well,” I murmured aloud, almost to myself. “This changes things…”

  Kens stirred, blinking at me with that careless grin. “Changes what? Did you find treasure? Did the village finally give up their secret stash of diamonds?”

  I waved him off, still scanning the words in my mind. “Better. My father has given me Carmien. Both villages are under my charge.”

  He sat up fully now, eyes wide. “Wait… what?”

  “Carmien. Foklunn. Together. All mine…” I let the words sink, and then I allowed a chuckle to escape. “It could prove to be… useful, to me.”

  Kens grinned. “Useful? I expected maybe a dramatic collapse into your own hubris. But no, you’re… smiling…?”

  Every warehouse, every checkpoint, every street could be used. Carmien had been built for trade. Its layout, its buildings, even its crooked streets were designed to maximize the efficiency of exports and imports. I could see the flow of goods, the bottlenecks, the hidden inefficiencies that no one would notice unless they were looking for them. I am looking for them.

  “This half of the Northern Watch,” I said, voice low, “will be split into another half. One half remains here to secure and manage Carmien. The other half comes with me and Kens to Foklunn. There, they will train a capable fighting force. Soldiers who can operate independently. Efficiently. Ruthlessly if needed.”

  Kens whistled softly. “You really think that far ahead, don’t you? You never just play with swords for fun, do you?”

  He was watching me carefully. I could see him trying to grasp the magnitude of my planning. He may be reckless, but he is intelligent, observant, and adaptable. He will understand. Eventually.

  I rolled the letter and tucked it into my tunic, considering the weight of what it represented. Carmien, under my rule, integrated with Foklunn. My father, instead of punishing me or scolding my audacity, had entrusted me with authority. Not because he believed I was ready, but because he likely wanted to see what I would do with it.

  Challenge accepted.

  I pulled out a piece of parchment and began sketching preliminary plans, simple diagrams, arrows for supply routes, small notes about labor distribution and patrol points. The Northern Watch would be my foundation. Soldiers would not only guard the village; they would train, observe, and enforce efficiency. Carmien would not only recover from the tyranny of Elbien; it would thrive.

  “Midnight,” I said after a pause. “We leave for Foklunn at midnight.”

  Kens raised an eyebrow. “Why so late?”

  “Because it's night already.”

  He smiled, clearly enjoying the simplicity of the reasoning. “Sounds fun. Midnight adventures with Jakob Jakobster. Should I bring my sword or just my charm?”

  “Both,” I said, folding my sketches. “We will need precision. And persuasion. Both have their place.”

  The hours passed quickly. Midnight approached. Soldiers readied horses, wagons, and supplies. The half that would accompany me back to Foklunn were prepared for travel, swords strapped, gear packed, minds alert. The other half were instructed on procedures, patrol routes, and integration tasks.

  I glanced at Kens. “Have you made up your mind yet?”

  “Of course,” he said, with a smirk on his face and a subtle wink. “Lead me, Lord Jakobster. I follow.”

  I stared at him with a weird look. “...We leave at midnight. The roads are quiet, the village under guard. Carmien is ours. Now we prepare Foklunn.”

  The soldiers nodded.

  As I mounted my horse, the cool wind brushing my face, I allowed myself a single thought to linger: Carmien was the first piece. Foklunn was next. And my name would not just survive this coup of circumstance; it would prosper under my guidance.

  Midnight approaches. We ride. And the night will carry us to new opportunities, new challenges, and new dominions.

  ```

  The forest at midnight seemed alive.

  Shadows stretched across the narrow paths, warped by the silver glow of the moon filtering through the dense canopy. Leaves rustled faintly with every step of the Northern Watch, but no sound carried beyond what the night allowed.

  The air was cool, scented faintly of pine, damp soil, and distant smoke from village hearths. My horse walked silently, hooves barely making a sound against the packed dirt.

  Kens rode beside me, leaning slightly forward, his eyes scanning the darkness with that reckless curiosity of his.

  The moonlight caught the edge of his saber, glinting faintly, and for a moment, he looked more like a predator than a soldier. I didn’t comment. He had a way of making every action feel effortless, even in moments of calculated stealth.

  Half of the Northern Watch flanked us on either side, shadows within shadows. They moved like whispers, weaving through trees, pressing close to the underbrush, careful to avoid snapping twigs or brushing against low-hanging branches.

  Each man was trained for this; silent, deadly, efficient. Their eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight as they adjusted their pace, mirroring the terrain, calculating each step. Not a single horse neighed. Not a single voice escaped the line.

  I inhaled deeply, letting the smell of the forest mix with the faint metallic tang of the weapons they carried. The tension in the air was palpable, yet controlled.

  Soldiers accustomed to combat now mastered the art of movement in darkness. Each man knew his role, the space between him and his comrades, the subtle signals that allowed them to move as one. It was mesmerizing.

  Kens whispered beside me. “This is fun. Quiet, mysterious, and we get to look like ghosts in the trees. I like it.”

  We moved deeper into the forest. The faint light of Carmien disappeared behind the dense trees, replaced by the mottled silver of moonlight through branches.

  Sounds of wildlife punctuated the silence; an owl calling once, a branch snapping under the weight of a small animal, but they were irrelevant to our purpose.

  The Northern Watch blended seamlessly, each man a part of the moving whole, a coordinated shadow cast by the moon.

  I could see the glint of the watchmen’s eyes and the subtle shifting of their cloaks as they navigated tricky terrain, balancing on tree roots and over small ravines without losing rhythm. Their presence was tangible yet impossible to detect.

  Each step carried the promise of arrival without detection of action before reaction. This was the art of control. The art of war simplified into motion.

  I nudged myself closer to Kens.

  “Do you ever feel like the forest is… alive? Like it’s watching us?”

  He glanced sideways at me.

  “If it is, it’s silent and patient. We are moving through it, not against it. Respect it, and it becomes an ally. Misstep, and it will be the first to betray you. Hehe.”

  He laughed softly, a quiet sound that didn’t break the rhythm of the march. “You make it sound ominous, but it’s beautiful. Look at that moonlight. Those shadows. It’s like the trees are holding their breath for us.”

  I allowed the observation to linger in my mind, seeing the forest as both an obstacle and a tool. Every tree could conceal or reveal, every shadow could hide or mislead.

  Half an hour passed in silence, the rhythmic movement of horses, men, and shadows blending into the forest like a single organism.

  Occasionally, Kens would glance around, alert but playful, his eyes flicking to the moonlight catching the edges of branches, or the subtle hint of movement in the underbrush. He was enjoying himself, I could tell, though he kept the air of readiness at all times.

  We reached the outskirts of Foklunn. Our view of the village blocked by the trees, unknowing, vulnerable. The Northern Watch positioned themselves strategically, not to intimidate yet, but to observe.

  And then we saw it.

  Foklunn.

  A bright orange glow kept spreading across the rooftops. Shadows danced in the moonlight. The smell of smoke reached us. Shadowy figures cloaked in black going door to door on all the houses. The cries of horrified mothers and children, muffled yet growing in agony and despair, filled my ears through the charcoal mist.

  And then, before we could act, before a word could be spoken, before even a single horse could be moved closer, the full scale of what was happening hit me.

  Foklunn is under attack.