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Khule.

WHAT many seem to overlook is that for as many futures you put up in flames, countless others are waiting to be discovered; an eternity of possibilities.

Such ruminations danced in Sean's mind as he eased his steed into a leisurely trot, leading his retinue through the heart of Khule's ramshackle outer settlement. The rhythmic cadence of the horse's breath gradually quieted, marking its recovery from the taxing journey. A sturdy beast it was, possessing both endurance and valour fit for the rigours of battle. Though it lacked the allure of Aden's coveted Black Betty, it was a noble mount in its own right.

As Sean and his entourage traversed the thoroughfare, the common folk regarded them with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Word of their arrival likely preceded them, reaching even the lofty echelons of the county's hierarchy—an inevitability given their conspicuous entrance.

The silhouette of Khule's formidable fortifications loomed ahead, its stout walls casting a formidable presence, surpassing even the venerable Faywyn Keep in breadth. Adorned with creeping ivy, the earthen ramparts bristled with formidable defences, complete with arrow slits poised to unleash lethal volleys upon any would-be assailants. Along the shoreline, where Gema's gulf mirrored its vigil, cannon emplacements stood sentinel, warding off any potential maritime incursion.

Khule was a residence fit for a legendary warlord. Or, better still, a knightly prince, Sean thought. Or in this case, a particularly wealthy duke much unlike my honourable father. To be fair though, the Lormats did have a heritage almost as old as the kingdom of Quilton itself; also very much unlike my honourable father.

Coming to a halt before the stout portcullis, Sean dismounted and approached the towering gate with hands raised in a gesture of peace.

"What business brings you, stranger?!" called out a knightly figure, bedecked in finery, from atop the wall.

"I am Sean of House von Grifenburg!" Sean replied, his voice echoing against the stone ramparts. "I seek an audience with Lord Tristan of House Lormat, the third Lion of Khule!"

For a long moment, a flurry of activity ensued atop the battlements before the knight finally responded, "You will come forth alone!"

"Agreed!" Sean consented readily, signalling his companions to remain behind as he urged his horse to trot forward. The portcullis creaked open and armed men awaited him on the other side.

"You all remain here until my return. Drake, oversee our company and ensure they comport themselves with dignity," Sean instructed before passing through the gate and traversing a drawbridge spanning a vast moat, where emerald waters shimmered beneath the setting sun.

Within Khule's inner confines, opulence reigned supreme—a bustling hub of commerce and culture adorned with elegant edifices and finely clad denizens. As Sean made his way through the bustling streets, the clamour of artisans and merchants filled the air, mingling with the scent of exotic spices and perfumes. At the heart of it all stood the grand Keep, its towering spires a testament to the wealth and influence of its ruler.

Despite a fleeting apprehension of his precarious position, trapped as he was in the heart of another's domain, Sean steeled himself with resolve. Soon, he found himself ushered into a grand chamber, where he awaited the arrival of Lord Tristan under the vigilant gaze of armed sentinels.

After a tense interval, Lord Tristan made his entrance—a formidable figure, his imposing stature eclipsing even Lord Aden's formidable presence. Calmly, the older man made his way to his seat. This he did without so much as a cursory glance at Sean until he was seated. Draped in regal finery, the duke regarded the earl with an unnerving mixture of scepticism and disdain.

"So, you are the rumoured orphan whom Aden deigned to elevate above his true-born son," the duke remarked languidly. "I must laud you, boy. You have guts, to even for a moment, contemplate coming here today. An audacious move, considering your lowly birth."

Sean offered a strained smile, masking his discomfort. "Your graciousness knows no bounds, Lord Tristan," he replied.

"Hmm," the duke grunted noncommittal, unimpressed. "Speak your purpose swiftly, for I have little patience for trifles."

Sean's smile shuddered as he suppressed another grimace. "...As the last scion of House von Grifenburg," the earl began, hesitantly, his face a mask of earnestness, "I beseech you, Lord Tristan, to accept our fealty and grant us refuge within your domain, renouncing our ties to the Algrian crown."

Slowly, Lord Tristan's demeanour shifted, his gaze piercing as he scrutinized Sean. "...The last Grifenburg scion?" he asked after a moment of silence. "Renouncing your allegiance so readily and selling your master's heritage for cheap at the first signs of trouble? Your actions speak volumes of your character. I always knew you mudbloods couldn't be trusted with anything of value. Again, what else should one expect from your ilk? Very well, I will consider your proposal. What do you promise in return for such privilege?"

"The von Grifenburg lands. All yours to do as you see fit… Lord Tristan," Sean replied, his smile finally turning brittle. "This as well as the yearly tribute that formerly went to the Crown."

The duke sat still, staring blandly at Sean. "...What do you truly want, boy?"

"My father's lands have been usurped, and his loyal subjects slain," Sean explained. "I seek retribution against Count Hera and his ilk, as well as your protection for my remaining kin and vassals. Grant me the title of Count, and I shall pledge my unwavering allegiance to House Lormat."
A pregnant pause hung in the air as Lord Tristan contemplated Sean's plea. Finally, rising to his feet, the duke drew his sword, commanding Sean to kneel.

"By the authority vested in me, Lord Tristan of House Lormat, I hereby dub thee Count Sean von Grifenburg, Lord of Faywyn and vassal to House Lormat," the duke proclaimed solemnly.

"...Thank you, My Liege."

"My people will settle you and your men in. Come this week's end, we will begin preparation. After the winter ends, I shall retrieve Heras's heads for you and issue an audit affirming your new title. That ought to satisfy you. Now, get out of my sight, you deplorable beast."

"...Thank you, my lord," Sean replied, his smile fragile as he rose to be escorted out of the chamber, leaving the duke and his stoic guards behind.

Faywyn.

Within the chamber's hushed confines, tension hung heavy as all convened around the table, their countenances marked by solemnity. Unperturbed by the palpable atmosphere, the earl sat composedly at the table's head, engrossed in a tome, his murmurings barely audible. The young lord's index finger tapped rhythmically on the book's leather-bound spine, his expression, musing.

Lancelot scanned the room, meeting the pensive stares of Sers Carter, Drevos, Mannon, and Turiel. Opposite him, Sir Carter's gaze drifted skyward, his countenance stern as he clasped his hands upon the table. To the earl's left sat Steward Robert, the unassuming family butler. Often overlooked, yet ever indispensable in times of need, the steward wielded considerable influence as the Master of Coin.

A soft rap on the door interrupted the stillness. "Enter," the earl beckoned, marking his place in the codex and setting it aside.

"You summoned me, My Lord?" Ser Justin inquired, his attire clinging to his skin, still damp from perspiration. The resourceful knight must have been hastily ushered here upon his arrival from his latest assignment—a testament to his unwavering dedication. Lancelot couldn't help but note that even Lord Aden didn't demand such expedited service from the young knight as the earl now did.

"Yes," Levi acknowledged, gesturing to an empty seat beside Ser Drevos. "Ser Justin, please, take a seat."

"We have little time to spare, so let us not squander it," Levi continued, leaning forward, his cheek resting upon his palm supported by the armrest. "Bycrest is under Hertalean occupation. His Majesty, the king, is likely held captive, and my father, whose whereabouts remain unknown, may also be in peril— or worse, deceased."

Lancelot's brow furrowed.

"I will not sugarcoat the reality," the earl asserted. "He is my father, and though I pray for his safety, I've prepared myself for the worst. It serves no purpose to dwell on futile hope. Instead, let us focus on practical matters." Of that the earl spoke nothing more, ending the topic on a dismissive note. Instead, with a small smile, he asked. "I hear there have been quite a few disgruntled voices amid the knightage about my most recent decisions. Any qualms or uncertainties you harbour, voice them now or hereafter remain silent."

"It's nothing serious my liege," Carter interjected hurriedly.

"Relax, Ser Carter," the earl said, "I am not so unreasonable as to restrict the thoughts and opinions of my valued men. I called you all here today first to clear any doubts you might have. This way you may assuage the rest of my men on my behalf. It's the least I could do in return for their faithful service. Please, go ahead. Now is the time to air any grievances that might be had with me."

The room fell silent. For a moment Lancelot feared none would seize the earl's offer, but then he noticed Ser Mannon straighten in his seat.

"...My Lord," the man began, meeting the eyes of his comrades, "while I understand the need for bolstering our ranks, is it not perilous to enlist knights from Mallowston to train the militia? Many among us, myself included, harbour reservations about arming even a portion of them, crude as the weapons may be."

"Allow me to clarify," Levi interjected. "The knights of Mallowston who've chosen to cooperate have been assigned primarily to instruct the militia in basic literacy—an endeavour proving challenging for many. Sers Lancelot and Carter have thoroughly vetted those selected to train in combat. They engage in sparring matches with the trainees, always under the vigilant eye of our own knights who, in turn, are fully armed."

"I've heard murmurs regarding the literacy and arithmetic lessons," Justin interjected. "Some question the allocation of resources to educate peasant rabble. Additionally, concerns arise over the provision of monthly salaries and "pensions". With three meals daily provided, granting funds to soldiers destined for the battlefield or, more likely, desertion seems futile."

Lancelot nodded, looking towards Levi for his response. Oddly enough, as the young lord's gaze travelled across the men gathered he looked… disappointed. For some reason, it felt like the earl had some expectations they had, as a whole, collectively failed to meet.

"...Consider this," Levi began, his tone measured. "Which makes a better knight: an uneducated man who would be useless outside of charging at an enemy in front of him or a learned one who would be able to effectively lead his lessers into that battle?"

The chamber fell silent. Then the earl spoke again.

"Do you still fail to grasp the concept?" he queried. "I expected more but I guess it can't be helped," he added in a soft murmur.

"...You want us to train militiamen who would be able to lead others into battle?" Sir Mannon ventured tentatively.

"No," the earl countered, sounding mildly exasperated. "I want you to train militiamen who would be able to train others to lead their lessers into battle. We've discussed this before. Forming a knightage of loyal men takes years. Years we do not possess. The militiamen would be our only source of power for a long while unless we resort to hiring expensive, unreliably, and utterly unruly mercenaries. I truly don't care how inferior you think the militiamen are in comparison to proper knights; in a batch of four hundred and fifty men, I want to believe at least forty would prove competent enough to somewhat fill in a knight's role in battle.

"Think about it, why else would I insist on granting them monetary incentives to ensure their allegiance? Monthly salaries would mean working for me would guarantee a better life for themselves and encourage them to strive harder to become better soldiers. Pensions would guarantee a stable life for them even after they are dismissed should they suffer crippling injuries; it would also ensure their families do not starve should they die in battle."

Silence prevailed. Even Robert, typically resistant to financial expenditures, sat contemplatively beside the young lord.

"Any further inquiries?" Levi prompted with a sigh, the faint trace of disappointment lingering in his tone. At this, Lancelot felt a sliver of self-doubt bubble in his heart.

How had he failed to see what a boy half his age had in one glance?

"If there are no further inquiries," the young lord pressed on, "let's turn our attention to today's main agenda. Count Josh's forces at Norcastle will return next spring. I have here," the earl placed a parchment on the table, "a fabricated letter drafted by Gilbert which would be sent by pigeon to his father shortly before the first snow. It details his supposed conquest of Faywyn, the heavy losses he suffered during a siege of our walls, as well as fears of a loyalist revolt."

"All fictitious, of course," Levi clarified, a grin playing on his lips as he slid the document toward Ser Justin, who eyed it with intrigue. "Count Josh should be none the wiser and upon receiving this missive, he'll hasten back to Mallowston the moment the Strega thaws, fearing an imminent threat to his family and newly acquired lands. This would ensure our element of surprise and minimize the risk of word reaching him about Mallowston's fall and prompting an undesirable reaction."

Silence fell once more. "...And what about when the count arrives, My Lord?" Mannon inquired. "We'd have to relinquish control of Mallowston to defend Faywyn properly during a siege."

"What siege?" the earl asked rhetorically, "I do not envision suffering a siege, but rather a decisive battle during which this blood feud is settled once and for all."

"Face Hera's elite bannermen?" Ser Carter questioned incredulously. "Even with double the numbers, our militia stands no chance against Josh's seasoned army in open combat. It would be a slaughter."

Levi shook his head. "Not an open battle, at least not initially," he explained. "With Hera's bannermen returning by ship, we can position about ten or so guns to support the two demi-cannons at Mallowston harbour's Martello towers. If we relocate our two remaining Sloops, fully armed with their minions, to Mallowston the number of guns we would control in the region jumps to thirty-two with each additional broadside. When the Heras arrive and attempt to dock at the harbour, we'll be commanding a formidable arsenal and they would be facing us unprepared. Ambushing Hera's forces upon their arrival, we'd either scatter them or engage in an artillery duel they're doomed to lose."

"If Lord Josh wisely decides to disembark—most likely on the opposite bank—he would be forced to abandon his vessels and deprive his men of their artillery, supplies, as well as a convenient means of transport back to Norcastle to request aid from his allies there. Essentially in one move, we could achieve absolute gunnery superiority, force them into a battle without sufficient resources, eliminate a significant portion of the enemy, as well as force a defensive barrier in the form of the Strega between ourselves and their more experienced bannermen, allowing us to engage them via our vessels. On our terms. Should he disembark on our side of the river, a prolonged battle would be rendered unnecessary. We could simply just corral them to the riverside with calvary and mop them up with a few shots from our sloops' swivelguns."

"...That all good and fine, My Lord, but what if Josh opts to retreat down the Strega at the first sign of trouble?" Lancelot asked.

"Fear not," the earl reassured. "Gilbert's presence would ensure Josh remains committed. With his family's fate hanging in the balance, the count won't abandon the battlefield lightly. Any other inquiries?"

No one spoke.

"Excellent," Levi chimed, his tone lifting. "Now, onto our next concern: Towleigh."

"Towleigh, My Lord?" Ser Carter's brow furrowed. "What's the issue there?"

"The problem is trust, Ser Carter. Trust. Can we trust them not to attempt to repeat what the Heras attempted? Can we trust them not to enter alliances with external powers to scheme against us just as the Old Houses did at Bycrest? Across the border, we guard is Quilton, a kingdom with glaring ambitions to expand given their extensive influence in the mountain tribes' politics. Within the borders of this province, rebellion festers.

"Ricos and Towleigh are the two closest territories from which any sizable enemy force can be garrisoned. Given its status as a Quiltonian burg, Ricos would remain off-limits until we are forced to consider otherwise, but Towleigh must be brought to heel, either through dialogue or force."

"Attacking a vassal without justifiable reason would tarnish the von Grifenburg name irreparably," Lancelot cautioned. "I would advise against that."

The earl laughed. "Why would I attack a loyal vassal of mine when I can just charge a disloyal one for treasonous behaviour," he chuckled, waving his hands dismissively. "Gilbert would testify against them for aiding in his attempted insurrection during the public trials this coming week; The Timels would be found guilty with the entirety of Faywyn as witnesses. Once the issue with Count Josh is resolved, we would march our then-blooded army to their gates to force a negotiation regarding the matter. Hopefully, news that we subjugated the Heras over the winter would make them more pliant to persuasion. If not we would proceed from there to initiate plans to seize the town. Any questions?"

Silence.

"If there are none," the earl declared, rising from his seat, "this meeting is adjourned. You are all dismissed. Robert, accompany me. I believe we still have to review the militia's accounts."