The rain in the Northern Marches did not wash the world clean; it merely turned the earth into a slurry that sucked the boots off grown men.

  Kaelen Vane stood on the ramparts of Blackwood Keep, his knuckles white as he gripped the freezing stone. He wasn't looking at the horizon where the barbaric hill tribes usually gathered. He was looking at his own courtyard. Below, thirty men were attempting to form a shield wall. It looked less like a military formation and more like a tavern brawl in slow motion.

  A translucent blue pane flickered into existence at the edge of Kaelen’s vision. He blinked, but the text remained, hovering over the muddy scene like a persistent ghost.

  [Unit: Blackwood Garrison – 4th Squad]

  Drill Proficiency: 12% (Abysmal)

  Morale: 28% (Resentful)

  Equipment Status: 44% (Degraded)

  Current Action: Failed Shield Wall Maneuver

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  Kaelen sighed, his breath pluming in the cold air. Three days ago, he had been just the third son of a failing Baron, content to read histories in the drafty library. Then the fever had come, and when he woke, the world had numbers. He saw the durability of stone, the nutritional value of grain, and the loyalty of men expressed in cold, hard percentages.

  “They look like pigs trying to dance,” a gravelly voice grunted beside him.

  It was Ser Haldor, the Master-at-Arms. The old knight was missing two fingers on his left hand and half an ear, souvenirs from the Great War twenty years ago.

  “Pigs would have better footing, Haldor,” Kaelen corrected softly. He focused his gaze on the spearman on the far left flank.

  [Soldier: Miller, Tom]

  Strength: 3.1

  Agility: 2.4

  Fatigue: 88% (Exhausted)

  Hunger: High

  “Miller is about to collapse,” Kaelen noted. “And the leather strap on his shield is rotted through. If he takes a heavy hit, the shield will fly off his arm.”

  Haldor squinted at the young lord, a look of confusion crossing his scarred face. “From this distance? You’ve got elf eyes, boy.”

  “Call the break, Haldor. Feed them.”

  “It’s not noon yet, my lord. Discipline requires—”

  “Discipline requires energy,” Kaelen cut in, his voice flat. “Look at their feet. They’re dragging. You can’t drill muscle memory into a starving body; you only drill in bad habits.”

  Haldor grunted, conceding the point, and bellowed the order to halt. As the men collapsed into the mud, groaning, Kaelen watched the [Morale] ticker float upward by a mere 2%.

  It wasn’t enough.