The carriage journey finally ended, not with the grand view of a castle, but with a choked, despairing silence.
Kael stepped out of the carriage. The wind here was worse than on the road, carrying a fine, pale gray dust that coated everything. The sun, a dim, sickly disk in the sky, struggled to break through the atmospheric haze.
The settlement of the Ashen Frontier—Ashfall Village—was a ruin.
It wasn't a village in the common sense. It was a cluster of stone and timber buildings huddled against a low, wind-worn hill. Half the roofs were collapsed, windows boarded up with splintered wood, and a sense of slow, inevitable decay hung in the air like the dust. There was no bustling market, no sound of children playing, only the incessant moan of the wind and the creak of loose hinges.
"My lord Baron," the carriage driver murmured, his voice heavy with dread. He didn't look at Kael, only at the village as if it were a grave. "This is the seat of the Ashen Frontier."
Kael's eyes, the eyes of Adrian Cole, scanned the environment. His soldier's mind was already at work, cataloging defects.
Defect 1: Water: A small, shallow well sat near the center, covered by a makeshift, rotting lid. The area around it was muddy and stained. Contaminated.
Defect 2: Food/Shelter: The supposed granary was a sagging structure, its doors hanging open. No obvious crops grew in the surrounding fields—just cracked, pale earth. Supply chain failed.
Defect 3: Defense: A short, uneven palisade of rotted wood offered no real defense. The few figures Kael saw moving were thin, listless, and wrapped in heavy cloaks. Defenseless.
He felt the familiar, sharp jolt in his mind.
[DANGER ALERT: The primary well is severely contaminated. Drinking the water without treatment will lead to immediate sickness and eventual death for the settlement population.]
Immediate problem: Water and disease. Adrian was thinking Cholera, typhoid, dysentery.
Kael turned to the escort of knights. "Sergeant Rylen, have your men post a guard on the well. Under no circumstances is anyone, even you, to drink from it until I give the command. Is that clear?"
Rylen, a grizzled man with a skeptical frown, hesitated. "My lord, we have survived on that well for a month. It is the only source—"
"It is a source of death," Kael cut in, his voice ringing with the clarity of a logistics officer who knew the precise threat of a compromised water source. "You said you understood the chain of command, Sergeant. I am ordering you to secure the well. Now."
Rylen saw the absolute conviction in the Baron's eyes. This was not the weak noble he expected. He snapped a salute. "Securing the well, my lord."
As the knights moved, Kael strode toward the largest stone building, which he assumed was the baronial manor—a title too grand for the crumbling structure. He was met at the doorway by a tall, gaunt man in surprisingly tidy, if faded, robes.
"My lord Baron Veynar," the man said, bowing stiffly. "I am Steward Elms. I confess, we had lost hope of your arrival." His tone suggested that hope was perhaps a greater curse than the despair.
"Steward Elms," Kael acknowledged, stepping past him into a gloom-filled hall. It smelled of mildew and dust. "I need three things immediately. First, all ledgers and records pertaining to the barony's finances, land holdings, and current stores."
Elms blinked. "My lord… the ledgers?"
"Second," Kael continued, ignoring the man's confusion. "A detailed list of the remaining population, categorized by age and health. Third, the location of any remaining seed stock, no matter how small."
Elms swallowed, his gaunt face pale. "My lord, there is little to record. And less to eat. Your predecessor… he left nothing. We are starving, my lord. We are dust."
Adrian Cole's eyes narrowed. He left nothing. The nobles hadn't just exiled Kael to a wasteland; they had sent him to inherit an empty box, guaranteeing his demise.
"Steward Elms," Kael said, turning to face him. "I am not interested in what your previous Baron did. I am interested in what I will do. Bring me the ledgers and the seeds. I require an immediate inventory. Until then, you will send word through the village: No one leaves the settlement. The work starts tomorrow."
The Steward looked at the young Baron, seeing not Kael Veynar, the disgraced son, but a man giving orders with the cool, unforgiving precision of a drill sergeant. The despair that had choked Ashfall for years cracked slightly, admitting the first tiny shard of a new command.