The messenger stumbled through Fort Despair's gate just as the sun was dying behind the cliffs—mud-smeared, gasping for air.
"They hit Riverdale," he choked out. "Three days ago. Bandits—organized ones. Burned the market. Took everything."
Rider stood still, eyes fixed on the man. Three days ago. The words felt heavy in his chest. By now, the smoke would be cold, the killers long gone.
"How many dead?" he asked.
"Ten… maybe more. They didn't slaughter, just robbed and torched the rest. But the people—" The messenger swallowed. "They say you can't protect them."
Of course they did. Fear always found a voice before hope did.
Rider turned to Captain Kane. "Ready the men. Full rations. We ride at dawn."
Kane hesitated. "Your Grace… they'll be gone before we reach it."
"I know," Rider said quietly. "We go anyway."
---
They rode hard for two days—fifty men cutting through the dry plains, dust trailing behind like ghosts. By nightfall, Rider could barely feel his legs, but he didn't stop.
Every hoofbeat felt like accusation. Too slow. Too late.
When Riverdale finally appeared, it wasn't a village anymore—just blackened bones of houses and the stench of burnt grain.
The elder, Mara, met him in the square. Her hands shook as she pointed to the ruins.
"You said we were safe," she said. Her voice cracked, half anger, half grief.
"I came as fast as I could."
"Fast isn't enough."
Rider looked at the ash beneath his boots. "No," he said. "It isn't."
---
The forest swallowed them for the next week.
The bandits' trail was easy to find but harder to keep. Mud. Rain. Vanishing tracks. The forest didn't want to be followed.
Kane spoke up one night as they camped beside a dying fire. "We've lost two horses, three men sick, and no sign of them. We should turn back."
Rider didn't answer right away. He stared into the flames, the heat burning his face.
"If we turn back," he said at last, "they win again. I'm done losing."
Kane sighed. "Aye. Then we keep going."
---
They found the camp two weeks later—hidden deep among the pines, smoke curling lazy through the branches.
"Sixty men," the scout whispered. "Drunk. Sleeping. Barely a guard posted."
Rider exhaled slowly. "Perfect."
At dawn, the arrows came first. Then chaos.
The forest exploded—steel, fire, screaming horses. Rider led the charge himself, cutting through half-awake men still reaching for blades.
By sunrise, it was over. Dozens dead. Four of his own gone. Twelve wounded.
He stood over the blood-soaked ground, his armor streaked with soot. "Tie the rest," he said flatly. "We're taking them back."
---
The march home was slower. Too many wounded. Too many thoughts.
The captured leader—a grizzled man with one eye—walked in chains beside his horse.
"You'll hang us," the man said, not even asking.
"Maybe." Rider's voice was low. "Or maybe I'll give you a choice."
The man barked a humorless laugh. "Choice? You killed half my crew."
"And spared the half smart enough to surrender."
The man looked up, surprised. "You want us to work for you?"
"I want survivors," Rider said. "You live, you serve. Step out of line once, and I'll end it myself."
The man's jaw tightened. Then he nodded. "Deal."
---
Months passed.
The outlaws Rider spared began turning into something else—trackers, scouts, raiders under command. Their old instincts for hiding and ambush became weapons for his army.
From fifty men, they became two hundred.
From a desperate band to The Iron Host.
They no longer called Fort Despair a prison. They called it home.
---
Winter crept in slowly. Frost bit through the barracks.
Rider stood before the gathered host, their breath fogging in the cold air.
"You came here as thieves, soldiers, beggars," he said, voice steady. "But now you stand as my army. The first to believe this land can be something more."
He paused, eyes sweeping the crowd.
"Serve me, and you'll eat, you'll be paid, you'll have land when we build it. Betray me—" His tone hardened. "—and you die where you stand."
The roar that followed echoed across the fort.
Kane stepped beside him, smiling faintly. "They're yours now."