The earthy aroma of wet ground greeted them as they arrived at the site late in the afternoon.

  Three wide tributaries merged here into a single broad river, running clean and steady toward the ocean. To the south, an old game trail marked the banks, pressed deep enough to show that something had used it for years without ever settling. Strange tracks marred the mud. On the northern bank, the ground rose gently and to the north, high enough to stay dry when the river swelled, yet low enough that hauling from the water wouldn't wear people down.

  Harold stopped, letting his boots sink slightly into the mud. He crouched down and ran a finger across the dirt, feeling the grain and noting its dampness. His eyes narrowed as he observed the subtle shifts in the landscape, assessing its potential strategically.

  He motioned to Hale. “Half a kilometer back from the river. I don’t want the Thresher King noticing us yet. Full marching camp, proper trenches, and clear the trees far enough out that we get a warning before anything reaches us. Stack the logs. We’ll need them when construction starts.”

  He nodded and turned back toward the approaching column, ready to relay the orders.

  The Prime Century fanned out immediately. Wagons were eased off the path, wheels chocked, animals unhitched, and led toward water. Adventurer scouts slipped ahead without being told.

  They built the camp the way Harold wanted it. The trench went deep. Stakes were driven thickly around the perimeter. Fire pits, shallow and wide. Cleared ground marked where watch fires would go once night fell. Trees came down, axed swiftly, stacked into rough barricades.

  It helped: with mana-coated axes, soldiers could cut through trunks in a single swing. However, the cost was not negligible; each swing consumed a significant amount of mana, leaving the soldiers feeling drained. The blades, despite their magical enhancement, dulled slightly after each use, requiring careful resource management to maintain their edge.

  They made a game of it until an optio stepped up, took an axe, split a tree clean through, set the blade down, and told them to get back to work.

  Near the riverbank, Elroy and Jenkins argued quietly over who had to carry the heavier axe.

  Jenkins grinned. "You've got the reach. Take it."

  “You’re built like a cave painting,” Elroy shot back. “Lift.”

  While Elroy and Jenkins argued by the bank, Hale joined Harold at the water's edge, arms crossed, watching downstream.

  “Dens are thick through here,” Hale said. “Wolves, goblins, something heavier inland, and signs of kobold raptors.”

  In the distance, a wolf’s howl pierced the air, sending a shiver across the camp. Nearby, an overturned kobold trap lay half-buried in the mud, its crude craftsmanship a reminder of unseen threats lurking just beyond sight.

  “Clear them,” Harold replied. “Take a few days if you need to.”

  Hale nodded. “Two or three.”

  “Do it properly,” Harold said. “I don’t want people moving through here just to get slaughtered. The sooner the villages go in, the sooner we start outscaling the other Lords.”

  “We don’t have the people to cover every settlement,” Hale said.

  “I know,” Harold replied, fatigue showing. “Caldwell’s already prepping a group to move down. They’ll march in three days with whatever soldiers we’ve summoned. I'll have Dalen send some his here to help until the village gets on its feet.”

  Parker’s knights set up a QRF and began bedding down. Hale started briefing the Prime on the next few days of fighting they could expect.

  Harold stepped back toward the river and watched the camp come to life.

  As the camp settled, Margaret approached with Bethel and Anselm, handing Harold a cup of coffee. Her hand lingered slightly too long on the cup, betraying unspoken worries. Bethel, sitting nearby, tapped her cane lightly against a stone, the rhythm quickening in a subtle display of unease. Bethel and Anselm had become inseparable on the road, always sharing a wagon, always talking quietly. Their closeness now set Harold on edge.

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  “Any updates?” he asked.

  Margaret sipped her tea. “Nothing new. The Thornwalkers are closing on the splinter group. They expect a resolution tonight. Vera is very...efficient.”

  “Good,” Harold grunted. “Caldwell’s update?”

  Margaret grimaced. "I saw it. Managing that mess isn't easy."

  She studied Harold. “Did you ever consider that the reason we’ve done this well is that you recruited competent people early and let them run things?”

  “I did,” Harold sighed. “I’m an alchemist learning how to be a Lord, I knew management wasn’t my strength.”

  Margaret held his gaze, unconvinced.

  A soft tap of wood on stone cut in.

  “That’s not entirely accurate,” Bethel said.

  She sat a little apart, hands folded over her cane. Her posture was easy, assured.

  “I’ve been watching you over the last few days,” she continued. “When you enter a space, people straighten without realizing it. Conversations slow, and they check themselves.”

  Harold frowned. “I don’t—”

  She lifted a finger, and he stopped.

  “They aren’t afraid of you, I know you don’t want that,” Bethel said. “They aren’t waiting for orders. They’re aligning because your presence creates awareness.”

  Margaret nodded slowly; she had noticed it too.

  “I’ve known men with titles who couldn’t manage that effect with guards and shouted commands,” Bethel went on. “You walk past, and people make room because it feels correct.”

  “They defer to him,” Margaret said.

  Her gaze returned to Harold. “Capable people follow direction when they recognize it.”

  Harold muttered, "Yeah, well...that's unsettling."

  “As it should be,” Bethel replied. “Influence that feels comfortable is usually being wasted.”

  She tapped her cane. “Now, you’ve been moping since your sister stormed off. We have work to do.”

  Margaret stepped forward. “I administered the other oath to Bethel and Anselm. They had an idea, I think you should hear.”

  Bethel kept her eyes on Harold, her motivation apparent—she yearned for stability amid chaos. “The Knights Templar,” she said. “The function they served, not all the legends. Escorts. Wardens and fighters placed where kings wouldn’t send armies.”

  “They made a hostile land survivable,” Anselm added, the quiet man finally stepping up.

  “Here,” Bethel continued, revealing her concern for vulnerable villages, “villages vanish because no one strong enough is close when monsters come. I want to build an order whose purpose is to keep land livable and knowledge open to the people.”

  “You’re thinking crafters?” Harold asked.

  “Anyone willing,” Bethel replied. “I watched Marshal turn fire against centaurs because he understood his craft well enough to fight with it.”

  “It happens,” Harold said. “But it’s not common.” Harold explained.

  “There are combat alchemists. When they use their own potions in combat, they can be terrifying. There was a time I tried going for those perks,” he continued. “Miners who can mine a monster's armour as thick as a tank. Surveyors who can find hidden places. But every one of them who steps forward fights without a respawn.”

  “And,” Bethel slammed her cane against the ground. “That is why they’re trusted,” Bethel explained. “They fight because someone has to.”

  Soldiers fight when ordered," she continued. "Adventurers fight because the system rewards them. These people fight because no one else is there. Bethel paused, then carefully removed a small, worn token from her pocket. The token, a smooth stone engraved with a simple emblem. She turned it over in her hand then returned it to her pocket.

  “You want an order that answers to me without belonging to me,” Harold said.

  “I want an order that people believe in when they don’t believe in their lord, but it will also belong to you. I understand how this world works. But I want to give people more agency in their own lives.” Bethel replied.

  “What do I get out of this arrangement?” Harold asked. "I wouldn't think it would be smart to arm a force I don't control."

  “We would be your arm, and we would report what actually happens,” Anselm said. “Monster activity, unsafe roads, neglected villages, and abuses people don’t think anyone will hear.”

  Harold asked, "And if I need something done?"

  “Then you authorize action,” Anselm replied. “Specific people with a specific scope.”

  Harold turned to Margaret. “How does this differ from your agency?”

  “My people infiltrate,” Margaret said. “They listen quietly and shape outcomes without being seen. They don’t fight monsters.”

  She looked at Bethel. “This order would be visible. When my agents find something they can’t fix quietly, they’ll have someone to call.”

  “So you are two sides of the same coin,” Harold said.

  Conversation faded as Harold looked out over the camp again, watching the fires take shape.

  “Alright,” he said at last. “We’ll think it through properly. I don't have the resources to help you get this off the ground for the foreseeable future. I know you are both deeply religious still, but I don't want this turning into a religious arm. It stays a martial arm for solving problems when I can't send soldiers or it doesn't exist at all. You both know who I need you to vet at Dalen's hold? You'll be escorted there and back to the Landing.”

  Bethel inclined her head as she sipped her tea. “Yes, yes we have some travel ahead of us, but that’s all we’re asking. Now talk to your sister, she’s been waiting patiently for us.”