The fires had been put out, but the scent of soot still clung to Branholdt's stone. Victory is rarely clean. More often, it stinks of blood, fear, and the quiet bitterness of survivors forced to bow.
The raid was repelled, the bandit leader—Rusk—was dead, and Lord Egrin Vos had bent the knee to me. On paper, it was done. Branholdt was mine.
But no land ever truly belongs to a man until its people fear disappointing him more than defying him.
And they didn't fear me. Not yet.
They watched me like I was a usurper in my own skin. Not because I'd done wrong—but because I wasn't their idea of what was right.
---
Lord Egrin's council hall was narrower than mine in Wyvrland, but older. The rafters groaned when the wind cut through. It suited him—stooped, weathered, carved by time like a broken monument too stubborn to fall.
He sat alone by the hearth, cloaked in furs, pale hands trembling over a cup of steaming wine. When he looked up, I saw more ghost than man.
"I should've died in that raid," he muttered, voice like gravel. "Rusk was meant to finish me. I was too proud to admit Branholdt was falling."
"You were not alone in that pride," I said.
He snorted.
"Tell me, Lord Vihan—what do you want here?"
It was a challenge, but not an aggressive one. More… tired. A man who needed to know if he was handing his house keys to a pyromaniac.
I stepped forward.
"I want what was taken from my house," I said. "But I'm not a fool—I know I can't win it by holding every castle I come across."
He nodded slowly, interested now.
"My home is Wyvrland," I continued. "It was the Wyvrling seat. Rebuilding starts there. But Branholdt? I didn't come for land. I came for stability. I came to deny Ravien another foothold."
Egrin chuckled softly. "So the boy does have a head."
He reached for something beneath his cloak and slid it across the table—a heavy iron seal, cracked slightly at the edge. The mark of Branholdt.
"I'm dying," he said bluntly. "No sons. No bastards I acknowledge. I've made mistakes—too many to count. But I won't let this county fall into Ravien's claws."
"I didn't ask for this."
"I know. That's why you'll carry it better than most."
---
The ceremony was private.
Just the council, a few guards, and Caldus standing silent at my side like a dagger in a scabbard.
Lord Egrin named me his heir, swearing me in with a voice so weak it barely echoed. His men did not cheer. They bowed, but only because the moment demanded it.
Sir Rendon Gaive, his militia captain, didn't hide his displeasure. The man had barked orders in Branholdt since Egrin's health failed, and now his leash had been handed to an outsider.
His jaw clenched as he bent the knee, eyes like stone.
---
Later, I walked the streets of Branholdt without an escort.
They stared, of course. Some with curiosity. Some with hostility.
Children peeked around corners. Old men muttered about the Wyvrling crest flying beside Branholdt's. The nobility might fall in line quickly, but the people? They took longer. Always longer.
At the northern square, I watched a baker slap a squire for shortchanging him. The bread was stale. The coin was old. And neither of them noticed the new lord watching.
That was fine. I didn't need to be worshipped.
Just remembered.
---
"Wyvrland needs you," Arden said bluntly as we rode the perimeter days later.
I nodded.
It was true. Wyvrland had suffered under tax raids and abandonment. We'd left it vulnerable. With Branholdt claimed, staying too long would invite chaos back home.
But abandoning Branholdt too soon would be worse.
"You'll leave it in whose hands?" Caldus asked from my left, voice low. "Rendon?"
I shook my head.
"Not him. I don't trust his loyalty."
"You want to kill him?" Arden offered, too casually.
"No," I said. "Not yet. Let's see if loyalty can be trained. If not, he'll hang himself."
---
The next evening, I called a council.
Egrin sat silently beside me, more specter than man.
"I leave for Wyvrland in three days," I announced. "This county now flies the Wyvrling banner, but I will not rule it from a hundred leagues away."
I stood, letting my voice cut through the chamber.
"Branholdt will be administered by Lord Egrin's council until his passing. After that, a castellan of my choosing will manage the county in my name. You will pay taxes to Wyvrland, answer to my crown, and stand with me when called."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Your man won't have the authority," Rendon growled.
"He'll have my seal."
"That won't be enough when Ravien's men cross the border."
I stepped toward him slowly, every word measured.
"If Ravien crosses Branholdt's border, then we bleed him dry on your soil. And when we're done, we send his bones back in a wine barrel."
The room stilled.
Egrin chuckled softly from his chair. "I should've brought you here years ago."
---
My last night in Branholdt, I stood atop the keep and watched the fires burn in the distance—villages rebuilding, not burning. For now.
Caldus joined me silently, holding a scroll.
"Rendon's been sending messengers. Two of them rode west without permission. One didn't come back."
"Who did he send to?"
"We're not sure. Could be Ravien. Could be a test."
I sighed.
"Keep eyes on him. Don't act unless he does."
"And the castellan?"
"Alen Vos," I said. "Egrin's cousin. He knows the people. And he owes me."
Caldus nodded.
"And if Branholdt burns in your absence?"
"Then we'll rebuild it again."
Because this wasn't about Branholdt.
It was about the six counties. About the duchy. About the throne Ravien thought he owned by fear.
---
We left Branholdt at dawn.
Egrin didn't rise to see me off. He wouldn't last another month. Maybe less. But he'd done what mattered—he'd passed the torch. Quietly. Without glory.
The road back to Wyvrland was quiet, but my mind was loud.
Branholdt was the second.
Four more counties to go.
Three under Ravien.
Two clinging to independence.
Each step forward would take more than swords.
It would take patience.
Power.
And blood.