The village of Grunfeld lay before her. Hilda had chosen it because this was where remnants of Leandrian resistance had last been reported. Also because here, they said, the men still had teeth and the women weren't afraid to glare at nobles.
She came with three people—two Dornenholz archers remaining from her old unit, and a thin scribe named Rolf whom Lord Harald had assigned for administrative matters. Their horses were tired, their saddles dusty, and Hilda's stomach had been growling since morning.
The village square was muddy. Last night's rain hadn't fully soaked in yet. At the center, an old tree towered, its roots emerging from the ground like half-buried serpents.
Beneath it, the men had gathered. Not because they'd been summoned—they already knew royal envoys were coming. News spread quickly in the village, faster than horses.
Hilda dismounted. Her boots sank into the mud. The smell of damp earth and chicken dung greeted her.
"We're from the Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment," she said. No need for pleasantries. "We're looking for volunteers. Pay, food, and lodging. Minimum one-year contract."
The men were silent. A few spat to the side. One with a straw hat asked, "The war's over. Why do you still need soldiers?"
"The war is over," Hilda repeated. "But the border is still empty. Guards, patrols, securing new villages. No war, but that doesn't mean soldiers aren't needed."
Silence again. A young man—with muscular arms and a scar on his eyebrow—stepped forward. "How much is the pay?"
"Three copper coins per day. Plus food rations. Equipment and weapons provided."
The man nodded. "I'm in."
"Can you use a bow?"
"Yes."
"Show me."
The man took a bow from one of Hilda's archers—a short bow with medium draw weight. He shot at the banyan tree trunk from twenty paces. The arrow embedded in the bark, not dead center, but close enough.
Hilda nodded. "What's your name?"
"Harold."
"Sign him up."
Rolf, the thin scribe, recorded the name on a sheet of parchment with neat but slow handwriting. Harold stood beside him, waiting with an impatient expression.
Other men began stepping forward. A middle-aged man with a white beard, perhaps forty, his hands calloused, his back slightly hunched. "I'll join."
"Can you use a bow?"
"I can hold a spear. I don't need to be an archer."
Hilda looked at him. His eyes—grey, tired—stared back without fear. "Your name?"
"Bram."
"Sign him up."
Two. Three. Four. A thin young man with messy red hair, still with pimples on his chin. "Me too."
"What can you do?"
"I can read and write."
Hilda raised an eyebrow. In a village like Grunfeld, literacy was a rare skill. "Where did you learn?"
"The village priest taught me. Three years, before he moved away." The young man gave his name. "Arnold."
Hilda glanced at Rolf. Rolf shrugged. "We need someone who can read and write for logistics."
"Alright. Sign him up."
Arnold smiled—a relieved smile that made his pimpled face look almost sweet.
One by one, they came. Not a long queue—just a few dozen. Hilda needed many. The eastern border needed locals who knew the terrain, knew the language, knew how to survive in forests and hills.
A woman—in her thirties, hair tied back, muscular arms—approached. "I want to join."
Hilda looked at her. The woman didn't look like most village women. Her clothes were worn but clean. At her waist, a dagger in a neatly stitched leather sheath.
"What can you do?" Hilda asked.
"I can use a bow, cook, and stitch wounds."
"You're a healer?"
"Learned from my mother. My mother learned from her mother. Not a village healer, but good enough for wounds that aren't too severe."
Hilda nodded. The recovery tent needed someone who knew how to stitch wounds. "Your name?"
"Greta."
"Greta," Hilda repeated. "I have another Greta elsewhere, but that's fine. Sign her up."
The afternoon wore on. The sun tilted westward, its light orange, illuminating the mud in the square. Twelve names had been recorded. Perhaps enough. Perhaps not.
Hilda looked at the men and women standing under the tree, watching her with varied expressions—hope, doubt, fear, desperation. They weren't soldiers. They were farmers, laborers, the unemployed, people whose lives had no direction. But they could be trained. They could become something.
"Tomorrow morning," she said, "gather here again. Bring bedding, a change of clothes, and anything you consider valuable. We'll walk to the city. There you'll be trained. Those who can't keep up will be sent back."
No one protested. They just nodded, then dispersed. Footsteps in the mud, leaving tracks that would be swallowed by the next rain.
Hilda sat on a tree root. Her legs ached, her back hurt. Rolf was still writing, reviewing the names, checking spellings.
"We need more," Rolf said. "Twelve people aren't enough to man the guard posts along the border."
"We'll go to another village tomorrow," Hilda said. "And the day after. And so on. Until we have enough."
"What's the target?"
"A hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty. That's up to Lord Albert."
Rolf sighed. "That's a lot."
"Not a lot. Not for a territory this size."
They fell silent. The evening wind carried smells from the village—woodsmoke, cooking, livestock dung. Smells that reminded Hilda of her hometown in Dornenholz, before the war, before everything changed.
"Why did you join?" Rolf asked suddenly.
Hilda looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"You're from Dornenholz, not Götthain. But you followed Lord Albert. Why?"
Hilda didn't answer immediately. She gazed westward, toward where the sun was setting, toward where Götthain lay.
"Because he never ordered me to do anything he wouldn't do himself," she finally said. "Because he never hid in the rear while his men died. Because he... he's strange, but strange in a good way."
Rolf nodded, not truly understanding. But he didn't ask further.
They walked back to their lodging—a small wooden house on the edge of the village provided by the village head. Inside, there were only two beds, a table, and a nearly spent candle.
Hilda lay down on the bed, not bothering to remove her boots. In her head, the names spun. Harold, Bram, Arnold, Greta. And so many more still to find.
Tomorrow, another village. The day after, another. Until enough. Until Lord Albert could leave for his new territory with enough manpower.
She closed her eyes. Outside, an owl began to call.
***
Two weeks. That was the deadline she'd given herself. Two weeks to settle everything in Götthain, then leave for her new territory.
But two weeks felt shorter every day.
His office—a former small storage room on the castle's ground floor converted into a makeshift workspace—was piled high with stacks of paper. Maps, letters, contracts, inventory lists. The candle on the desk had melted into a frozen puddle. Outside, the night had grown late, but Albert wasn't finished.
He read the official document from Lord Harald for the third time.
"...Mostly wheat and potato farmers. No mines. Water source from the river. The forest to the south remains unmapped..."
Albert set the document down. No mines. Just a river. Honestly, this wasn't a reward but a burden.
But he couldn't refuse. Not after what he'd done at Vallenwood. Not after King Wilhelm himself had offered it.
He picked up another document—a report from scouts he'd dispatched.
"...Holstein Village: wooden houses, most dilapidated. Wheat fields to the east, but crop yields low due to poor soil. Villagers are friendly but suspicious of outsiders..."
"...Grunfeld Village: A small market every Saturday. Village head is Alaric, a former royal soldier crippled in a war ten years ago. Villagers tend to be reserved but not hostile..."
"...Stein Village: A small church in the center. A river runs through this village. Residents rely on wells during the dry season. No reports of remaining Leandrian forces in this area..."
Albert rubbed his face. No local forces besides his own, no fortresses, no food reserves. Just land, farmers, and a river.
He needed a list.
He took a blank sheet of parchment and began to write.
Requirements for the new territory:
1. Food. At least three months' worth of supplies. Grain, salted meat, legumes. Need contracts with merchants in the city.
2. Equipment. Farming tools, building tools, kitchenware. Borin will bring some, but not enough.
3. Weapons and armor. For one hundred and fifty people. Swords, spears, bows, arrows, gambesons, helmets.
4. Wood and stone. For house repairs, barracks construction, and guard posts.
5. Healer and medicine. Gerit is available, but needs assistants and herbal supplies.
6. Seeds and fertilizer. For the next planting season.
7. Horses. For patrols and transportation.
8. Legal documents. Land ownership deeds, village agreements, merchant contracts.
9. Money. Lots of it.
Albert stared at the list. Nine items. Each requiring time, labor, and coins. And he didn't have enough of any of them.
The door opened. Luise entered with two cups of tea. Her face was tired—dark circles under her eyes, hair slightly disheveled. But her posture remained straight, her hands steady.
"You're still here," she said, placing one cup on Albert's desk. "I thought you'd gone to bed."
"I can't sleep."
Luise sat in the chair across the desk, sipping her tea. "What's wrong?"
Albert pushed the list toward her. Luise read it, her eyebrows rising slowly.
"This... is a lot."
"I know..."
"Do you have the money?"
"Not enough."
"Do you have the people?"
"Not enough."
"Do you have—"
"I know." Albert cut her off. "I know none of it is enough, but I don't have a choice."
Luise was silent. She read the list once more, then set it on the desk.
"I can help," she said. "Handle recruitment, training, logistics. But you need to set priorities. What's most important?"
Albert pointed at the first item. "Food. Without food, people will die before we can build anything."
"Next?"
"Equipment and weapons. We need tools to work and weapons to protect ourselves."
"Next?"
"Wood and stone. Shelter and barracks."
Luise nodded. "I'll talk to Borin tomorrow. See what he can bring. Also with the village heads here—maybe they have timber stock we can buy."
Albert sipped his tea. Warm, bitter—ordinary castle kitchen tea, no honey, no sugar.
"Hilda has started recruiting," he said. "From the villages around Vallenwood. Still short."
"What's the target?"
"One hundred and fifty. But for the start, fifty is enough. The rest can follow later."
"That's quite a few."
"Yes."
They sat in silence. The candle on the desk was nearly gone, the wick drowning in melted wax, the flame growing dim.
"Albert," Luise said.
"Hmm?"
"Are you sure about this? That territory... it won't be easy. The soil isn't fertile, the people are stubborn, and to the south there's an unmapped forest. It could be a hiding place for bandits or remnants of Leandrian forces."
Albert looked at her. "Are you suggesting I refuse?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just asking if you're sure."
Albert didn't answer. He picked up the documents from Lord Harald and his father, reading them once more.
"No," he finally said. "I'm not sure. But I'm going anyway."
Luise looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. Then so am I."
She stood, took her empty cup, and walked to the door. Before leaving, she stopped.
"Lady Alena asked you to meet her before breakfast. She has something to discuss."
"What?"
"I don't know. Maybe about her move to Lanser, or about the wedding."
The door closed.
Albert sat at his desk, staring at the still-lengthy list of requirements. Nine items. Each needing money, time, and labor. And he didn't have enough of any.
But he would go anyway. Because he had no other choice.
***
The next morning, Albert woke before sunrise. He hadn't slept well. His dreams were a jumble—unclear, just disconnected fragments of images.
He bathed in cold water, changed into simple clothes—a linen shirt, wool trousers, a light cloak. No need to dress up.
He went to Borin's workshop.
The blacksmith was already awake. The furnace was lit, orange flames reflecting off stone walls blackened with soot. On the anvil, a half-finished piece of iron shaped like a chest plate—the front of a suit of armor.
"You're here, My Lord," Borin said without turning. "Try this."
He took the piece of iron—still warm, not fully cooled—and handed it to Albert. "Put it on your chest. Feel it."
Albert removed his cloak and strapped the iron piece to his chest. Borin had curved it to fit his shoulder and waist measurements. Leather straps on the sides for fastening.
"It fits," Albert said.
"Not yet. Stand straight and raise your arms."
Albert raised his arms. The iron piece shifted slightly at the shoulders.
"Not enough," Borin muttered. He took charcoal, marking the area that needed reduction. "Take it off."
Albert removed it. Borin brought the piece to the anvil and began striking it with a small hammer—not the large forging hammer, but a fitting hammer, his movements slow, precise.
"This will take time," he said. "Full plate armor can't be rushed. Do you want good or fast?"
"Good."
"That's the right answer."
Borin continued working. Albert sat on a wooden bench in the corner of the workshop, watching. The hammer rose and fell. Clang. Clang. Clang. The same sound he'd known since childhood, since he'd first come to this workshop with curious eyes.
"Borin," he called.
"Yes?"
"Have you spoken with your family? About moving?"
Borin stopped hammering. He looked at the iron on his anvil, then at Albert.
"Not yet. But they know."
"They agree?"
"They don't have a choice. I'm the one who puts food on the table." He resumed hammering. Clang. Clang. "My wife said, 'Don't stay too long out there. Come home when you can.' I said, 'I'll come home.'"
Albert nodded. Nothing more to add.
"Borin."
"Yes?"
"I need a list of the tools you're bringing. Not just for the workshop, but for farming too. Plowshares, scythes, axes, hammers."
Borin stopped again. He set down his hammer, took a worn cloth from his shoulder, and wiped his sweat.
"You're serious about building that territory from scratch?"
"Yes."
"That's insane..."
"Maybe."
Borin grunted. "I'll make the list. But you need to provide the raw materials. Iron, charcoal, oil. Can't keep bringing everything from Götthain."
"I'll find suppliers in nearby towns."
"Don't forget whetstones. Sharp tools without whetstones are just dead iron."
Albert nodded. "I'll make a note."
He took out a small notebook from his cloak pocket—a leather notebook he'd carried since Vallenwood. Inside, random notes. Numbers. Names. Ideas that came in the middle of the night.
He wrote: Whetstones. Don't forget.
Borin watched him write, then returned to his work. Clang. Clang.
***
From the workshop, Albert went to the kitchen. Alena was already waiting at the breakfast table, a cup of tea in her hand, an open book in her lap. But she wasn't reading. Her eyes had been on Albert since he entered.
"You've been to Borin's?" she asked.
"Yes."
"The armor?"
"Still needs time."
Alena nodded. She closed her book, setting it beside her plate.
"I'm going to Lanser tomorrow," she said. "My father has summoned me. Matters that can't be delayed."
Albert sat in the chair across from her. A servant brought a bowl of porridge and a glass of warm milk.
"Will you come back?" he asked.
"Of course. I just need a few days." Alena looked at him. "But if you leave before I return... we won't see each other until you're settled in your new territory."
Albert didn't answer. He stirred his porridge, letting the steam rise.
"I'm leaving next week," he said. "Maybe sooner."
Alena sighed. "I know."
They sat in silence. Behind them, kitchen sounds—pots clanging, servants whispering, firewood crackling.
"Write letters," Albert finally said. "Every week. So I know you're alright."
"You too."
"Promise."
Alena smiled. A small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Promise."