The wind over Wyvrland's northern cliffs carried the stench of war before the first sword was ever drawn.
Greystone.
That was the name of the county next in line—once part of my ancestors' domain, now hoarded by Count Heffen, a man who'd built his power on fear and bribery. Heffen had no blood claim to the land. His family were merchants turned nobles, little more than dogs dressed in velvet. But he had men, walls, and the loyalty of the frightened.
And I had a claim.
A true claim. One soaked in blood and ancient ink.
Still, claims alone don't win wars.
Steel does.
---
I stood on the terrace of Wyvrhold Keep, looking north as storm clouds gathered like vultures.
"It won't be like Branholdt," Caldus muttered at my side. "Heffen's cruel, but not senile. He'll fight."
"Good," I replied, the words bitter on my tongue. "I need a war that earns me fear."
We couldn't afford hesitation. Three counties still lay under the Duke's direct control. If I waited too long, if I played too soft, he'd cut me off before I reached them. I needed a strong third foothold—and Greystone was the only realistic option. The king wouldn't intervene; I had claim. The Duke? He'd watch, waiting to see if I rose or died.
That meant I had no help coming.
Only what I could muster myself.
---
Over the next ten days, I raised my force.
Not from noble knights or trained legions—I had none of those. Instead, I pulled from Branholdt's levies, loyalists from Wyvrland, and mercenaries who smelled profit on my ambitions.
Four hundred and sixty-two. That was our final number.
Arden grinned when he read the roster. "Small force. But lean. Good killers."
Ser Kaelen, ever more pragmatic, added, "A cornered animal bites hardest. Heffen will fortify the roads and send scouts to poison the wells. Expect resistance before we even reach his gates."
That was fine.
I needed resistance.
A man cannot rule without making others kneel.
---
Our scouts returned with grim news.
Heffen had locked Greystone down—no traffic, no trade, and his local militia now swelled with conscripts and brutes. His town watch was thick with loyalists. His personal guard, the "Graven Blades," were hardened killers in plate and mail. He'd even hired some foreign sellswords from the southern ports.
Worse, he'd sent word to the clergy.
A desperate play to have me excommunicated on the eve of battle.
I countered with a letter of my own.
Addressed to the Bishop of Elthwyn, signed with my family seal, and sealed with gold.
I didn't wait for a reply.
Sometimes faith needs a bribe to hear the truth.
---
We marched before the first thaw.
Greystone lay northeast—a three-day march through frost-bitten hills and mist-laced woods. Along the way, I made sure the men drilled, marched, sharpened, and stayed hungry.
I wanted wolves, not sheep.
Still, doubt plagued me at night. Not fear of death. But of what I was becoming.
Once, I was just a man with a controller in his hand.
Now, I wore a wolf-pelt cloak, gave kill orders, and bled with killers.
How far would I go?
And would I still be me at the end of it?
---
We reached the edge of Greystone under a starless sky.
The land changed sharply there—ashen soil, jagged roads, a cursed grey wood that local legends claimed was haunted. It looked like war had already passed through—but no, this was just Greystone's natural state.
Caldus returned from his scouts with a grim face.
"Heffen's garrison is split across three positions. The walls are reinforced, and they've dug traps into the southern approach."
I nodded. "Then we don't take the walls first."
Arden smirked. "What are you thinking?"
"A feint," I said. "We strike his grain stores east of the city. Draw them out. Make them panic. Then while their forces are scrambling, we come in from the west gorge."
Ser Kaelen rubbed her jaw. "That path is narrow and steep. One mistake, and we'll fall like sheep."
I smiled. "Then we don't make mistakes."
---
The night before the attack, I spoke to the men.
We were camped in a frozen ravine, frost painting our tents white, silence heavy as death.
I stepped onto a makeshift platform of crates.
No armor. No crown. Just a man, and his truth.
"This land was stolen from my bloodline," I said. "By liars who now call themselves lords."
The wind howled behind me. No one moved.
"Tomorrow, we take it back. Not for honor. Not for pride. But because we must. Because no one gives you power—you take it. And you keep it."
I looked each of them in the eyes.
"And if we die… we die remembered."
---
The assault began at first light.
Arden and a small strike team torched the grain silos east of the city—smoke and panic burst like thunder across the walls. From the west, Kaelen led fifty climbers up the gorge trail. My main force waited in the woods, cloaked in frost and prayer.
Heffen took the bait.
He sent over a hundred men to defend the stores.
Then we struck.
---
Greystone was chaos.
Fire in the east, steel in the west, and shadows in the forest.
Kaelen's force breached the western gatehouse and seized the ballistae before they could be turned. My main host surged through the breach, roaring vengeance.
Blood painted stone.
A man's skull caved under a flanged mace beside me. I parried low, gutted a sellsword with one swing, then drove my sword through another's throat before the first even fell.
The screams didn't stop.
They never do.
Ser Kaelen stood over a pile of corpses, her eyes cold as winter. "Gate is ours!"
Arden appeared, covered in soot, his bow still smoking. "Stores are gone. Heffen's cavalry turned back. It's ours, Vihan."
---
Not yet.
Heffen had retreated to the inner keep.
There, the last of his Graven Blades stood ready.
Only sixty men.
But they were knights. Killers.
And they'd die hard.
---
We fought in the shadow of the chapel.
Rain poured from the heavens. The mud slick with blood.
The clash was thunder—iron on iron, bone on stone. My arms went numb from blocking blows. My shoulder bled. My knee buckled under a glancing mace.
Still, I stood.
Heffen himself came down from the tower—clad in full plate, sword black with age.
He charged me like a boar.
We traded six blows.
The seventh found his thigh.
The eighth, his ribs.
And the ninth—I buried in his throat.
He fell to his knees, gurgling.
"Should've stayed a merchant," I whispered.
Then I twisted the blade.
---
Greystone was mine.
No cheers.
Just breathless silence.
Just death.
---
Later, I sat in the count's ruined hall, blood caked to my gloves.
Kaelen stood at the doorway. "You did it."
"No," I said, looking at the fire. "We did it. But the price…"
Arden entered next, dragging in the Graven Blade's torn banner.
"We lost eighty-seven," he said. "Dozens wounded."
Caldus stepped forward. "But Greystone kneels. The people fear you. The soldiers respect you. The land… recognizes you."
I nodded, barely feeling the weight of the moment.
"I want the bodies burned before sundown. The roads cleared. The chapel rebuilt. And no looting."
"No looting?" Caldus asked, blinking.
"I'm not a raider. I'm a ruler."
And rulers build what they conquer.
---
As I left the hall, peasants lined the street.
Mud-stained, silent, wide-eyed.
I met their gaze.
"Your count is dead," I said. "Long live the bloodline that once ruled these lands."
They did not cheer.
But they did not resist.
That was enough.
---
I returned to Wyvrland three days later, the banner of Greystone folded in my pack.
Not as a hero.
But as a man who'd taken another step down the long, blood-soaked road of conquest.
Three counties now.
Three to go.
And the Duke… would be watching.