The great doors of the hall creaked open, and Rowan entered with the measured stride of a soldier already anticipating his next command. His eyes flicked toward me, sharp and alert.
"Commander," I said, my voice carrying through the chamber. "There is a task for you. I want you to gather and train one hundred of the finest men from the three villages."
Rowan stood impassive, but I could see the faint twitch of thought behind his stillness.
"Furthermore," I continued, "order the craftsmen to fashion a dozen bows, with ample arrows to match. Steel and sinew will not wait on us."
I lifted the census ledger from the table, its pages heavy with inked numbers. "We have seven hundred and nineteen able-bodied men across our loyal villages. And yet, here within these walls, our standing force amounts to scarcely fifty. That weakness ends now."
I fixed him with a steady gaze, handing over the ledger and a decree already signed with my seal. "We will no longer beg for the loyalty of these villages. From this day forward, they will provide levy as their sworn duty, not as gifts or donations. In return, I send them my written promise that their lives and homes shall be defended."
Rowan raised a single brow but held his tongue.
"Your charge, Commander," I pressed on, "is to raise a levy of one hundred men. Not volunteers—true sons of Ashenvale. You will choose them by strength, resolve, and loyalty. The numbers will be taken proportionally from Hollow Brook, Greyfield, and Miller's Rest. You have my full authority to demand their service."
"Milord," Rowan said at last, his tone cautious, "such severity is without precedent. The late Baron never pressed the levy so harshly. The people may resist."
"That is why my father failed," I replied, my words sharp as a drawn blade. "We are at war, Rowan. This is the difference between ruling a barony and presiding over scattered cottages. You will promise them fair wages from our treasury, however thin, and you will march their sons home as soldiers. Begin training the moment you return."
Roderic, ever fretful, stepped forward. "And the grain, milord?"
"The villages will keep it—for now. Once they see order, once their sons wear discipline like armor, fear will turn to faith. Then, and only then, we shall levy a smaller, bearable tax. But for now, soldiers are worth more to us than three hundred sacks of grain."
Rowan bowed, a flicker of resolve lighting his face. "As you command. Within a week, the levy will stand ready to fight."
I leaned back against the high seat. "And the scouts—have they returned?"
"No word yet, milord," Rowan answered.
"When they do, bring them to me at once." My hand closed on the armrest of the throne. "Now go, Commander. Ashenvale waits."
Rowan inclined his head once more, then turned, his cloak sweeping behind him as the great doors shut upon his departure.
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Later that evening, I sat alone in my study, the ledger spread before me and a single candle guttering low. Figures danced in the wavering light—seven hundred and nineteen, one hundred, fifty. The ink blurred as exhaustion tugged at my eyes.
A sudden commotion in the courtyard below broke my focus. Shouts. The hurried tramp of boots.
I rose, frowning, and went to the window just as the door to my study burst open. A guard stumbled in, panting.
"Milord—the scouts have returned," he gasped. His face was pale, his hands slick with blood not his own.
"They bring news." He swallowed hard. "And it is dire."