Mark could hardly believe his eyes as he watched wounds evaporate under the power of Mira’s blessing.

  He had seen similar power before from the priests of the Archbishopric but not from Mira. He wondered where this power had come from and why now.

  From his understanding, Star Maidens were numerous within the Imperium. He learned that they once possessed god-given powers like those Mira displayed but had disappeared hundreds of years ago. Thus, the order became glorified healers relying on questionable medicines.

  Not that he was in a position to complain. He needed healers, and the priest lent to him from the Archbishopric was hardly someone he wanted to rely on. Not because he had an issue with the man but because he was ultimately loyal to a foreign lord.

  Not only that but the way Mira spoke of her god and their relationship with the Imperium had always struck Mark as strange. It wasn’t direct obedience, not like the other masters of the Imperium. There was animosity—a divergence of thought and beliefs. But perhaps his god, the Lightning God, and Winterclaw, under Mark’s command, could foster a healthier relationship between these two orders.

  He was getting ahead of himself; Mark realized as he watched from the corner of Mira’s cabin as she healed another man. His hand had been mutilated during a work accident, but within minutes of the cooling glow from Mira’s hands, the damage had been repaired.

  Maybe a new alliance between his people and the Star Maidens could be achieved, but that was a task for another day, far away.

  “Thank you for letting me watch, Mira. Your work is truly amazing.”

  “Of course, my lord,” she bowed softly. “Feel free to return whenever you desire.”

  “Thank you. And citizen, it looks like you’re in good health. Take it easy out there. Taking a little longer to finish our work and avoid injury is perfectly okay. Don’t feel the need to be reckless.”

  “Yes, me lord,” the man bowed. “I’ll remember your words.”

  “Okay, I must be off now,” Mark waved and left.

  Preliminary reports had returned from the two new settlements. It would be a while before they contributed to Winterclaw in any meaningful way, but it sounded like things were moving along smoothly.

  They had begun erecting small palisades and temporary accommodation. Once the semblance of a settlement was completed, the could get to harvesting raw materials to be processed in Winterclaw.

  Mark was using the same strategy as he had in the fort itself. His goal was to keep Winterclaw at the top of the value chain and have his vassals and auxiliary settlements become feeders for its economy. This way, the town could rid itself of more tedious, manpower-expensive tasks and focus on efficiency. It would also solidify Winterclaw as the heart of wealth and industry within the Frontier.

  Despite all his victories, Mark knew that he was still new and unfamiliar in the eyes of many. This could be dangerous if left to chance. He had already made lords and helped empower their own bases with his decisions, and if he wasn’t careful, Mark knew this could come back to haunt him, which was precisely why he needed Winterclaw to be a step above everything else. There could be no competitor to its wealth and fame within the Frontier.

  However, there were undeniable problems with that plan. He wanted to plan more steam engines to increase the industrialization of the town. But he needed both iron and fuel.

  It was increasingly clear that timber, whilst plentiful, was less than ideal. His people traveled further and further for the fuel, and it had so many other usages. What he needed was a readily available alternative that was densely located for extraction and exploitation.

  Mark thought back to the history of Earth’s industrialization. Unfortunately, those thoughts troubled him. Winterclaw didn’t have many of the assets that those famous cities had. There was no river, no coal—at least as far as he was aware—and no readily available workforce.

  There were a few gullies and shallow rivers frozen over nearby, but nothing he could build into a canal way. With engines, he could potentially alleviate this issue, but the resources, time, and manpower required to develop some kind of train system seemed far too out of reach to even consider.

  It dawned on him that Winterclaw might be limited in what it could achieve as the capital of this tiny kingdom he was building. Maybe it had no future as a hub of industry, and he would need to look elsewhere.

  Sighing, Mark pushed his thoughts away. He felt himself building up this land on an unsteady foundation, but ultimately, there wasn’t a lot he could do until they dealt with their immediate threats.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  **Warg Army**

  “Let him speak,” a warg lazily waved from the cushioned center of a grand hut, surrounded by his pampering wargs and armored guards.

  “Thank you, Great Warg,” the young man said, falling to his knees as the guards let him pass. “Please, listen to what I have to say.”

  “I am. But I bore quickly,” the warg hissed and narrowed its sharp, yellow-eyed gaze.

  “The Imperial to the north of here. The one that has defeated your arm–”

  “What of him?” Roared the warg, rising to its feet.

  “Sorry, Great Warg,” the man held his hands out. “I-it’s just that I was there. I witnessed him and his ingenuity, which allowed him to destroy my uncle’s army. We underestimated him, and because of that, we lost against stupid odds. I come here to beg you not to do the same.”

  “The same? You consider me the same as your pathetic race and uncle, me, the Great Warg?”

  “N-no, that’s not what I meant, Great Warg. But he is unconventional. Using tactics and weapons I have never seen before. I fear that leaving him to his own up north is a grave mistake. If he grows too strong, who knows what he will be capable of.”

  “My scouts tell me that he cannot raise even a thousand warriors. His arms are of below-average quality, and so is the training of his army. Fools have fallen to him; you’re correct. But what of the clans we face? Even if the Imperials truly have retreated back behind their walls, as the reports suggest, they still possess an army of over ten thousand. We don’t even possess that many warriors anymore, not after the failures of your uncle. Thankfully, each of my wargs is worth ten men on the battlefield. Still, underestimating a real army and allowing them to regroup while I chase down some vagrant fool pretending to be a king sounds like the height of stupidity. And now I stand here wondering what incompetence led my advisors to recommend raising you to the rank of captain?”

  “Please, Great Warg. Even half your force could crush him. I can help. I can lead them and deal with this problem before it grows out of hand.”

  “Silence! I will not break my army apart, so you may use it to fulfill a vendetta. You’re a failure and a fool. And I hereby strip you of the rank of captain. Be gone from my sight, priestling, and make yourself useful lest I decide to punish you further.”

  Sensing that another word was unwise, the man bowed and hurried out from the grand tent.

  He ran through the snow and to the edge of the warg encampment by the dense forest nearby. He knew that his uncle's failure had doomed them. Now, the Great Warg saw him as a parasite not to be trusted. But he knew the threat that man possessed.

  The clans might have a stronger army now, but they weren’t getting any stronger. In fact, their flayed alliance was weakening by the day as clan leaders tussled with one another for power.

  The Wolf Priest doubted that the Federation of Clans would last out the winter, even if left alone. And now that the Imperials had fled back behind their walls, there was no urgency he could see in defeating the Clans in the current situation. But the wargs had been scorned. Their armies, which they had praised as unbeatable, had been stopped. Their marches were halted by the men they saw as beneath them, and they needed revenge for that dishonor.

  “Who of us is actually chasing down a vendetta?” he muttered beneath his breath. “Fools. You’ll see—the lot of you. When the flames douse your furs.”

  The man shook his head and turned to the forest. Following the Seven-Headed Wolf God and his pups—the wargs—had been his entire life. It was all he knew. But he couldn’t continue this madness.

  His respect for their leadership had been compromised, and he no longer wanted to die for this. It was time to find a new path. It was time to leave.

  **World’s Edge Citadel**

  Legate Athriel sighed and waved his messenger in as he stood patiently by the door of his massive, stone-walled chamber.

  “What is it now?” He asked, turning in his chair to look out through the grand windows that watched over the courtyards of his impenetrable fortress.

  “News from the capital.”

  “Let me hear it,” Athriel exhaled.

  “They request more throne ships and Imperators. The build-up on the Eastern Front has increased. It appears our enemies are in alliance now. Their armies grow bigger by the day, and the College of Legates believes war is inevitable.”

  “And what of us?”

  “In his address to the princes and the college, the Emperor said that he has confidence that no matter what is brewing within the Frontier, it will never pierce through the strong walls of World’s Edge Citadel.”

  “So, he does plan to leave us here stranded. Watching over this place like prisoners of the very prison we have been asked to warden?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” the man nodded.

  “We won’t even be able to feed ourselves if they keep taking our throne ships. See to it that a suitable number of people are ferried back with the ships. We will have to run on a skeleton crew, it seems.”

  “I don’t believe that will be an issue, sir.”

  “Huh?” Athriel’s brow rose.

  “No, you see, Legate. It’s worse than that. The Imperators and masters that the College has requested will already reduce our numbers enough that supplying ourselves shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “Come again,” Athriel swung around to face the messenger. “What are we being left with?”

  “All but four of our Imperators. They also request all of the Imperators from across the Frontier.”

  “How exactly do they intend to do that after they take our ships? Am I to march out and collect them myself?”

  “The Imperators have been ordered to march here and await a ferry to the Imperium at your convenience.”

  “At my convenience?” Legate Athriel roared as he shot up from his chair. “I will be left to rot here with a couple of Imperators and their acolytes? This disrespect, it’s beyond me,” he fell back into his chair.

  “Sir…”

  “Order them to do as the College demands,” Athriel let out a defeated sigh. “It seems they have forsaken this place and left it to the wolves. So be it. I was never one for politics. What point is there in arguing with those men in the capital? That’s why I’m here, after all.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man bowed and left the high-ceiled, gothic office.

  “It’s just you and me now, World’s Edge,” Athriel muttered as he turned back to the window to watch his people as they organzied and loaded throne ships. “Just you and me.”