I returned to Wyvrland not as a savior, but as a storm that had passed and promised to return stronger.
The roads were half-mud, half-memory. Old stones from broken watchtowers jutted from the earth like rotting teeth. The guards at the border gate recognized the new crest I bore, the dual wyverns of my house merged with Branholdt's flame, and let us pass without a word. Even they knew better than to speak too freely now.
The keep was where I left it—squatting atop the hill, blackened from fire, proud in its decay.
But Wyvrland itself had changed in my absence.
Not in stone or structure—those were still broken, empty, hollowed by time and invasion. But the people had changed. There was a new fear in their eyes. Not terror. Something more useful.
Caution.
They had heard of Branholdt.
They had heard of Lord Egrin naming me heir. Of how the bandits had been executed in the square. Of how a duke's daughter had knelt at court beside me.
Legends spread faster than grain rot.
I intended to let them.
---
We held court on the third night.
The old hall had been repaired just enough to serve as a meeting place, though it still smelled of dust and mildew. The chairs were mismatched. The banners stained. But I sat at the high seat, and no one dared claim otherwise.
"I'll speak first," barked Baron Halwick, a thin-boned man with a mouth too sharp for his own good. "The grain levy's too steep. We lost two silos last winter—mice chewed the reserves. You demand more, we starve."
I didn't speak.
I let him stew.
Then I leaned forward and said, quietly, "Then don't starve."
The chamber hushed.
"You'll eat," I said. "Because I'll fix your damn silos. But you'll send what you owe, or I'll take it in land. Or blood. You choose."
He shut up after that.
The others followed more softly—Lady Brenya, complaining about her border skirmishes; Knight-Commander Varin, offering a half-mustered militia barely worthy of the name.
I took note of each. Not to punish them.
Yet.
But because knowing which rats squeak first is how you find the one that bites.
---
The next weeks were chaos dressed in order.
Reform was the word I used.
Control was what I meant.
I began with roads—forced labor when needed, coin when available. No trade meant no growth. Every day the kingdom ignored Wyvrland, I would make them regret it.
Then came land audits. Nobles who'd claimed territories while my house burned now faced questions—whose deed signed this fief? Who gave you rights to these hills? Many suddenly remembered they had "always meant" to swear proper fealty.
I let most of them keep their lands. But they now belonged to me, in all but name.
I created The Grey Ledger, an inquisition of accountants and spies. Led by Elias Varn, an aging scholar whose mind was sharper than a thousand swords. He tracked the coin. The graft. The missing tithes. He found five minor lords siphoning taxes through dummy farms.
One hung.
Two paid fines.
Two vanished.
I let them.
Sometimes fear was more profitable than corpses.
---
The people suffered.
Of course they did.
Progress always bleeds.
But it was suffering with purpose. I made sure they saw construction teams rebuilding the main aqueduct. That the grain storehouses bore my crest. That the walls were manned again with trained guards.
Fear was useful. Hope was dangerous. But the mixture of both?
That was power.
---
The most delicate matter was religion.
Wyvrland's people worshipped the Veiled Flame, an old faith centered around rebirth through fire. Once it had priests, sanctuaries, even pilgrimage trails.
Now it was ashes, stomped out by the Crown's forced adherence to the Sun-Twin Doctrine—the dominant religion that exalted royal blood and divine hierarchy.
I didn't care about the gods.
But I cared about what they could do.
So I restored the Ruined Temple of the Veiled Flame. Quietly. With my own coin. I let a few of the old faithful return, whispering prayers in the shadow of stone.
Not because I believed.
Because I needed belief.
---
Arden returned from scouting one night, blood on his blade, dust on his tongue.
"Raiders," he said. "South edge. Not bandits—mercenaries. Someone's testing the walls."
"Ravien?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Too clean. Could be another count. Or a merchant lord testing weakness."
"Was there weakness?"
He gave me a grin. "Not when we were through with them."
I nodded. "Send a message. Their heads, if you can."
Caldus gave a rare smirk. "I already did."
---
By the second month, Wyvrland began to stir again.
The markets opened, though sparsely.
Militias trained twice a week.
I began drafting a cadre of personal knights, trained in strategy, espionage, and blade work. Not just to serve—but to learn. An inner circle to shape the duchy's future.
Among them was a new name—Ser Kaelen, a woman with a cruel streak and a scar across her nose, who had once served in the capital's northern garrison. She followed orders without hesitation and questioned everything after.
I liked her immediately.
---
Then came the letter.
Stamped in green wax. No crest.
Simple script.
> "You stir the ashes well, Lord Wyvrling. But fires burn hottest just before they die.
—R."
I folded it slowly.
Ravien.
He'd noticed.
Good.
Let him.
---
The real test would come soon.
Branholdt was stable, but it would fracture if I pulled too hard.
The other counties? Each one a fortress, held by old men who owed me nothing.
But for now, Wyvrland was mine.
Not in title.
Not in pretense.
But in blood, stone, and breath.
And I would burn the world before I lost it again.