Wyvrland was not ready for war.
It barely remembered peace.
The roads were cracked, the fields overgrown, and the people wore the same tired expressions they had when I first arrived—suspicious, worn thin, waiting for the next tyrant.
Only now, I was the tyrant.
Or the hope.
Depending on who you asked.
---
It began with the walls.
Wyvrland's keep still stood, a proud stone carcass bearing scars from a dozen forgotten sieges. But its defenses were old. Crumbling. The gates creaked when they opened, and the watchtowers were manned by men too old to hold a sword or too young to understand why they should.
So I ordered repairs.
Stone by stone. Beam by beam.
And not just walls—we needed a reason to defend them.
---
The Council
We held our first full council the day after I returned from Greystone.
The old hall had been cleared of rot, scrubbed clean of the ash and memories. Banners of House Wyvrling—silver wyvern on black—hung from the high beams.
Caldus was already there, draped in priestly robes. Arden lounged across the bench, sword never far from his reach. Kaelen stood by the map, arms crossed, gaze sharp. Lyra has been off collecting intels and doing her work as a spymaster, haven't seen her for some time.
And several new faces:
Steward Armin, a numbers man with no charm but sharp instincts. Former tax collector under the previous count.
Marshal Dren, once a mercenary, now the commander of my household troops.
Lady Elira of Crowsfen, a merchant-noble widow with trade contacts and ambition in equal measure.
"Wyvrland needs a spine," I told them. "And a sword arm. And a full stomach. We're building from ashes. But we'll build."
---
Economy First
We began with grain.
No army marches on strategy. It marches on bread.
The harvest had been weak last year, and most villages still hoarded or bartered. I decreed new granaries built, enforced stable prices, and subsidized key mills with coin from Greystone's war chest.
Elira suggested reopening the old salt road—an ancient trade route that once carried salted meats and fish to the southern coasts. She proposed rebuilding a few waystations and paying caravan guards with tax exemptions.
"Salt is life," she said. "And so is silver."
I gave her the coin. She gave me results.
Within a month, the caravans began trickling through again.
Not many. But enough.
Enough to show the people that Wyvrland was breathing again.
---
Mint and Metal
Armin brought me the idea of reopening the iron mine in Draeven Hollow—a half-day's ride east. It had collapsed during a skirmish years ago, buried under rubble and bad memory.
He said with thirty men and two weeks of labor, we could dig it out.
"Men need coin," I told him. "Can we mint?"
He smiled for the first time. "We can mint. Just not yet."
"Then make sure we can. Soon."
Metal was power.
And Wyvrland would not beg for it.
---
The Army
Marshal Dren was brutal in his assessments.
"We've got two hundred levies worth naming. Peasants with blades. And maybe forty trained swords among the household guard."
I looked over the list. "And men-at-arms?"
He grunted. "None worth a damn."
That changed quickly.
I ordered the raising of three official men-at-arms units:
1. The Iron Fangs – Heavily armored infantry, trained in formation fighting.
2. The Ashen Veil – Light scouts and bowmen, drawn from local hunters.
3. The Wyvern's Roar – Siege engineers and sappers, small in number, invaluable in war.
Training began immediately.
Dren didn't care about noble blood. He trained anyone who could lift a blade, withstand pain, and obey orders.
I watched them train every day.
And when the sun fell, I joined them.
---
Training Myself
The sword was heavy again.
Not because I'd grown weak.
But because I'd gotten used to watching others fight for me.
That had to change.
Kaelen trained me personally—no titles, no excuses. Just bruises and sweat and the taste of blood.
She was relentless.
"You lead armies," she said between blows. "But what happens when the blade reaches you? Will you die like a prince or fight like a man?"
I chose the latter.
I bled. I stumbled. I fell.
But I stood.
Again.
And again.
---
Reforms
I rewrote the tax code with Armin—simpler, fairer. No exemptions for corrupt nobles, no random collection dates. Every village had a scribe. Every silver was accounted for.
I issued a Charter of Civic Rights—basic freedoms to the peasantry in exchange for loyalty and service. If they farmed, paid, and fought when needed, they would be protected.
It wasn't charity.
It was control through stability.
Fear faded. Fear was easy to break.
But respect?
Respect lasted.
---
Religion and Law
Caldus handled the church.
"Some still worship the Old Flame here," he said, "but most will listen if I give the right sermons."
"Then give them," I said. "Tell them their new lord brings justice. That the gods favor order. And that rebellion is sin."
He smirked. "You're learning the language."
"I'm learning survival."
---
Unrest and Assassins
Not everyone liked my changes.
A firebomb killed one of the new scribes in Brightmere.
A butcher was caught poisoning stew meant for the garrison.
Two masked men attacked my horse on a quiet ride north.
I killed one myself.
The other… we made an example of. Slowly.
---
Letters and Shadows
Messages came from Greystone. Reports from Olyne—steady hands, no major unrest.
But whispers from the south spoke of the Duke stirring.
Not action. Not yet.
But concern.
Greystone's fall had not gone unnoticed.
Neither had Wyvrland's rise.
That was fine.
Let them watch.
Let them weigh the odds.
I was building something they couldn't ignore.
---
One night, after drills, Kaelen and I stood under the stars, sweat drying on our brows.
"You've changed," she said.
"Good or bad?"
"Neither. Just… less naive. More dangerous."
I looked at the distant horizon.
"I have to be."
---
Wyvrland was no longer a corpse clinging to its name.
It was a forge now.
Hammer and fire.
And I was the blacksmith.