TSA: Chapter Thirty-Two: Consolidating

Chapter Thirty-Two: Consolidating

"A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of coloured ribbon."

…

—Napoleon Bonaparte

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Faywyn, 4th Moon, 16th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

Light streamed into the Grand Hall through the narrow windows in thin shafts, illuminating dust motes that floated lazily above the oak table—a table old as the Keep itself, carved from a single tree felled before the von Grifenburgs ever ruled Faywyn. Such relics endured, even as the world beyond the walls turned ever sharper, crueller, and more uncertain.

“The wolf cannot be allowed to linger at our doorstep,” Levi said, lifting the silence that spread across the chamber like spilt ink. At the far end of the table, Aden watched from the depths of his high-backed chair, seemingly content to allow Levi his monopoly on authority. With the routing of Tristan’s forces, the grizzled lord had finally yielded the reins of Faywyn. And though Levi had little doubt Aden considered it a temporary concession, it did not trouble him for so long as the new status quo was upheld. 

Levi turned his gaze to Sers Carter, Mannon and Justin seated before him. “The Forest Wolves,” he said, “are not the gnats we assumed they would be. They have proven bolder, and—ancestors help us—wiser too. The mountain tribes of the Aiga have grown less able to flush them from their holes, and the woods cradle them like a mother shielding her sons. Cavalry is useless against them, and our militia…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished. It did not need finishing. The men were brave, aye, but bravery without experience in a task this complex was a butcher’s trade, nothing more.

His knights shifted in their seats, uneasy. Levi allowed them that discomfort. He raised a hand, calm and steady. “I speak of this now for a reason. Tristan may have been bloodied, but he is not broken. His ambition burns yet, mark me. This quiet we enjoy is but the deep breath before the storm returns, and return it will. If we are to endure the gale, we must first tend to the rats nipping at our heels. An army cannot march while it bleeds from a thousand cuts. Hence, I decree the militia be doubled and reformed into a true standing army worthy of the von Grifenburg name.”

Steward Robert cleared his throat to Levi’s right, his ink-stained hands balling over his lips. Levi knew what gnawed at the man—the coffers of Faywyn bled fast these days.

“My Lord,” Robert ventured carefully, “the expense of such an expansion will weigh heavily upon the treasury—”

“Gold spent to preserve order is no expense at all, Steward,” Levi interrupted calmly. He eased back into his chair, exhaling slowly. “There are two forms of wealth in this world, Robert: the gold we hoard and the blood we spill. I am not a man who delights in waste. Better to spend coin now, while we still may, than to pay later in lives.”

“Listen well,” Levi said, his gaze sweeping back towards the knights before him, “for I have no mind to repeat myself. My first decree is for the militia to be divided into regiments—each a column unto itself, each bearing its own banner. The black and red of House von Grifenburg will be their standard, and the Armoured Gryphon of our crest their rallying cry. A soldier must look upon his fellows and see not a rabble of men but a brotherhood of arms. Order begins with unity. Uniforms will be the first stone laid. How this regimentation must be enacted will be detailed in a treatise I have yet to finish. Yet, I am certain you are aware of what preparations must be made beforehand for such an endeavour.”

Ser Carter nodded in response.

“Good. My second decree however might be more pressing as it concerns matters of elevation: Men who distinguished themselves in the battle against the Lion shall be raised to sergeants. Their pay shall be increased two-fold, and they shall carry the authority to train, discipline, and lead their fellows. They shall also themselves be trained in the art of leadership, strategy, geography, cartography, diplomacy, logistics and masonry so they might better lead their juniors. I would see merit rewarded, for merit deserves its due. Our knights shall retain command of the regiments above these sergeants, aye, but they also must be prepared to learn new ways of war.”

Somewhere, a boot scraped softly against the stone floor. Levi smiled faintly, though there was no kindness in it. “Men will resist, I do not doubt it. Tradition is a weighty chain, and old habits die hard. Yet, a word of warning for the wise. Under my rule, Faywyn marches forward regardless.  Those who refuse to adapt will find themselves relics of a bygone age, trampled underfoot.” 

He turned his gaze specifically to Ser Carter at his left hand, and held it there. “You will ensure that they all understand this,” Levi said softly. It was not a request.

Carter inclined his head. “It will be done, my lord.”

Levi nodded. Outside, a crow cawed once—sharp, distant, and solitary. “That’s all. You are dismissed.”

Chairs scraped softly against the stone floor as the knights rose, murmuring quiet acknowledgements before filtering out one by one. Levi turned his gaze to Robert beside him. The man’s lips were pursed as though weighing words he might later regret.

“Speak, Robert,” Levi said at last. “You’re bursting like a wineskin too full for its seams.”

Robert cleared his throat, fumbling briefly with the pages of his ledger before finding his voice. “A reply from Norcastle arrived this morning, my lord,” he said, his tone careful. “Lord Richard has agreed to your trade proposal. Saltpetre and charcoal will be sold as requested. The first shipment is expected to arrive within a fortnight.”

Levi nodded, his expression betraying neither satisfaction nor surprise.

“There is more,” Robert said, his brow furrowing. “Lord Timel has also sent word. The first instalment of the reparations you demanded will arrive another fortnight after that.” He hesitated, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Which brings me to a concern, my lord.”

“Go on.”

Robert shifted in his seat, clasping his hands tightly before him. “The treasury, my lord. Between the war and the demands of rebuilding Mallowston Keep, it is… strained. We may be short on gold for some time, especially with taxes and these reparations coming piecemeal. I would humbly advise that we reduce the burden on the coffers where we can, at least until our revenues recover.”

Levi’s grey eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head. “Your counsel is noted, Robert, and it is sound. Faywyn will endure, but I have no wish to see her purse emptied before the work is done.”

Relief flickered across the steward’s face, though it was short-lived. Levi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled. “That said, I’ll need a cost estimate for reworking the trail between Faywyn and Mallowston. The current route is a mire half the year, and the defence of Mallowston would benefit from a proper road.”

“My lord,” Robert began, his voice tight, “I must caution—”

“It’s an enquiry, Robert,” Levi cut in, raising a hand to forestall him. “I’m aware we cannot afford such an undertaking just now, but knowledge costs nothing. Prepare an estimate. We’ll discuss it when we’re better positioned.”

Robert exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing as the tension in the room ebbed. “As you wish, my lord. I will consult the necessary craftsmen and return with proper figures.”

“Good,” Levi said, his tone brisk. “See to it.”

Robert rose, tucking his ledger beneath one arm, and bowed low before retreating. His boots echoed softly against the cold stone floor, each step a metronome of purpose. When the great oaken doors creaked shut behind him, silence swallowed the hall once more.

Levi sat motionless, his hands resting on the arms of his chair, the weight of the moment pressing on him like a chain. The room felt cavernous now, the emptiness magnified by the stillness of the air. Across the long table, Aden remained seated, his presence as solid as the stone beneath their feet.

“What?” Levi asked, his tone clipped.

The grizzled lord leaned back slightly, folding his hands before him. “You’ve taken to ruling like a fish to water, son,” he said, his voice low and dry, though there was no malice in it. “Better than I’d hoped, truth be told.”

“High praise,” Levi said, his tone tinged with wry humour. “But I doubt you’re just here to admire my ledger work.”

Aden chuckled, a sound like gravel underfoot. “No, lad. I’ve come to tell you that with Tristan’s threat dulled, and Faywyn enduring under your stewardship, I mean to leave. Duty calls me south.”

Levi’s brow furrowed. “South?”

“To the lords of the Dovan Pass,” Aden said, leaning forward now, his arms resting on the table. His face, lined with the weight of years and war, softened ever so slightly. “Some of them still remember what honour looks like—at least, I tell myself they do. With Bycrest under Hertalean control and the king lost to us, the nobility have split themselves into factions. Vaiu tells me they bicker over the Princess’s claim like carrion birds over a corpse while the Hertaleans hold the city unchallenged. A folly, truth be told.”

Levi said nothing, letting the older man speak.

“My hope,” Aden continued, his tone quiet now, almost contemplative, “is to rally the lords to a single cause. If I can raise an army, we can reclaim Bycrest, drive out the Hertaleans, and secure Iris on the throne—assuming the king cannot be recovered. With her seated, the more ambitious lords might see their folly, or at least find reason to curb their ambitions. And if not,” he added, his lips twisting into a humourless smile, “an army at their gates tends to clarify a man’s thinking.”

Levi tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. “You mean to cow them into unity.”

Aden nodded. “Or, failing that, silence.” 

“And you think they’ll rally to you?” Levi’s tone was sceptical, though not dismissive. “The lords you hope to parley with are the same men who dispute Iris’s right to rule. You’ll need more than fine words and noble sentiment to bring them to heel.”

Aden’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. “And there it is—the full measure of my heir’s faith in me.”

Levi met his gaze, unflinching. “I’ve faith enough in your sword arm, Father, but not in the Lords you’d hope to wield it alongside. I’ll pray for your success, but plan for your failure all the same.”

Aden laughed then, the sound carrying through the hall. “Ever the pragmatist. You remind me more of a younger me with each passing day, lad, though I doubt I was ever quite so grim.” He rose from his chair, his joints creaking faintly with the motion, and placed one hand on the table, his fingers splayed against the worn wood. “I leave at dawn. The Keep is yours until I return… or until you believe these walls are strong enough to march south after me. Though, do try not to bankrupt my fief while I’m gone.”

“I make no such promises,” Levi drawled as Aden left the hall.