The heavy oak table in the solar was no longer a battlefield map; it was a dissection slab for the Barony’s corpse. Kaelen sat at the head, the fire crackling softly behind him. The adrenaline of the siege had faded, leaving a dull, throbbing headache behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples as a new notification hovered over the parchment map spread before him.

  [Quest Update: The Foundation of Iron]

  Sub-Quest: Stabilize the Domain

  Objective: Restore Order to 8/8 Villages

  Current Status: 2/8 Secure

  Time Limit: None

  Reward: +15% Tax Efficiency, [Skill: Administrative Oversight]

  “Elian,” Kaelen said, his voice rasping slightly. “Read it back to me. The status of the outer settlements.”

  Elian, the young steward, shuffled his papers nervously. He looked exhausted, his ink-stained fingers trembling as he adjusted his spectacles. “Yes, my Lord. It… it isn’t good.”

  He pointed to the northern sector of the map. “Kragmar is secure, of course. Ser Haldor’s garrison held the line, and the village walls are stone. The people are frightened, but safe.”

  “That’s one,” Kaelen muttered.

  “And to the east,” Elian continued, tapping a small cluster of ink houses near the river, “Vragas. Ser Hareth’s wife’s kin hold it. House Vragas has a palisade and a dozen men-at-arms. They repelled a raiding party of Red Hands two days ago.”

  Currently Karl is the leader of this House.

  “Two secure,” Kaelen said, leaning back. “And the other six?”

  Elian winced. “Driftwood is abandoned; the farmers fled to the castle. RiverBend is flooded. Oakhaven, Stonewell, HighRoost, and Briar’s End… we have no word. They are open villages, my Lord. No walls. Just ditches and hope.”

  Kaelen stared at the map. Six villages undefended. The tribes had retreated, yes, but a retreating wolf still bites.

  “We cannot leave them empty,” Kaelen said. “If the fields aren’t planted in two weeks, we starve next winter regardless of Victor’s supplies.”

  He tapped the icon for Driftwood. A sub-menu flickered into existence, invisible to Elian.

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  [Agricultural Analysis: Driftwood]

  Soil Nitrogen: Critical Low

  Recommended Action: Crop Rotation (Turnips/Clover) or Manure Fertilizer

  Projected Yield Increase: +40%

  “Elian,” Kaelen said, sitting up straighter, “draft an order. When the farmers return to Driftwood, they are not to plant wheat this season.”

  Elian blinked. “My Lord? Wheat is our staple. If they don’t plant wheat—”

  “They will plant turnips and clover,” Kaelen interrupted firmly. “Tell them it is a decree from the Baron. If they ask why, tell them… tell them I had a vision from the ancestors. Just make them do it. The soil needs to rest.”

  “Turnips,” Elian whispered, writing it down as if it were a death sentence.

  “And send runners to High Roost and Stonewell,” Kaelen commanded. “I want a census. Surviving heads, livestock, and structural damage. Victor and Jory are already out there hunting down the stragglers from Gorak’s vanguard. By the time they return, I want to know exactly what I have left to rule.”

  He looked out the window toward the snow-capped peaks.

  “We survived the storm, Elian. Now we have to survive the cleanup.”

  [Location: The Painted Dog Encampment — The High Pass]

  High above the valley, where the air was thin enough to make lungs burn, the main coalition force sat in a bowl of jagged rock. This was not the Vanguard. This was the main host—thousands of warriors from a dozen lesser tribes, waiting for the signal that Blackwood had fallen.

  Instead, they got survivors.

  Bleeding, terrified men had been trickling into the camp for hours, telling stories of a demon in steel armor and a giant who fell.

  In the largest tent, made of stitched dire-wolf hides, the air smelled of sour milk and fear.

  Varg, the son of the Painted Dog Chieftain, sat on a pile of furs, sharpening a bone knife. He was lean, covered in blue woad tattoos, and his eyes were darting around the tent like a trapped animal.

  Across from him paced Krag.

  Krag was a Stone Eater, the son of the High Chieftain. Where Gorak had been a towering brute, Krag was of only average height and build, his body lacking the raw power that had made his Uncle terrifying. He wore heavy plate armor stolen from a dead southern lord, but it seemed to wear him more than he wore it, rattling loudly as he moved, because his hands and legs were trembling.

  “He can’t be dead,” Krag muttered, gnawing on his thumbnail. “Uncle Gorak is Bronze Rank. He had the Maul of the Ancestors. A low lander didn’t kill him.”

  “He is dead, Krag,” Varg said softly, testing the edge of his knife. “The runners saw his head on a pike. They saw the Broken Claws turn their axes on your kin.”

  Krag stopped pacing. He grabbed a heavy wooden stool and smashed it against the tent pole.

  “Traitors! Filthy, mud-blood traitors! My father will flay them! He will burn their villages until the snow turns black!”

  “Your father,” Varg said, standing up slowly, “is not here. You are.”

  He pointed the bone knife at the map on the floor.

  “The Vanguard is gone, Krag. The Broken Claws, the Red Hands,the Ash Wolves and the Black Fangs… they didn’t come back to the main camp. They went home. They ran straight back to their peaks.”

  “Cowards!” Krag roared.

  “Smart cowards,” Varg corrected. “They know what your father does to failure. They know the Stone Eaters will demand a blood price for Gorak’s death. They decided it was safer to fight you in the mountains than to fight the lowlanders in the valley.”

  The tent flap opened, and a warrior from the Painted Dog tribe stepped in. He looked pale.

  “Lord Varg,” the warrior said, ignoring Krag. “The scouts report movement.”

  “The Lowlanders?” Krag asked, reaching for his axe.

  “No,” the warrior said. “From the Upper Peaks. The High Chieftain’s personal guard. The Stone Walkers.”

  Krag’s face drained of all color. He dropped his axe. It landed with a dull thud in the dirt.

  The Stone Walkers were his father’s executioners. Silent, elite killers who answered only to the High Chieftain. If they were here, it meant the news of Gorak’s death had traveled faster than the wind.

  “He knows,” Krag whispered. “He knows I let Gorak die.”

  Varg sheathed his knife and smiled. It was a cold, cruel smile.

  “He knows the coalition is broken, Krag. And the Stone Eaters don’t accept broken tools.”

  Varg walked to the tent flap. “My tribe is leaving. We go to the Painted Peaks. If your father wants us, he can climb the cliffs to get us.”

  “You can’t leave me!” Krag shouted, panic rising in his voice. “I command this host!”

  “You command nothing,” Varg said, stepping out into the snow. “You are just a dead man waiting for the executioner.”

  Krag stood alone in the tent. Outside, the wind howled, sounding like the laughter of ghosts.

  He looked at his hands. They were trembling uncontrollably.

  He was a Steel Warrior.

  He was a son of the most powerful warlord in the mountains.

  And he was about to be erased.