Act I /The Harsh Reality of Survival

The midday sun bore down on Emberhold, its warmth doing little to ease the weariness hanging over the settlement. Smoke still drifted from the last of the funeral pyres, the acrid scent mixing with the ever-present staleness of the dry land. The battle was over, but the true fight—the one for survival—had only just begun.

Alexander walked through the camp, taking in the state of his people. The settlement was restless, but there was no idle chatter, no unnecessary movement. Every action had purpose. People worked in silence, reinforcing broken defenses, tending to the wounded, or gathering what little remained of their supplies.

The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders as he moved toward the center of camp. A makeshift war table had been set up in what remained of the largest intact tent, maps and supply ledgers spread across its surface. Elias, Marcus, Tyrell, Gareth, and Silas were already waiting.

Alexander sat down and looked at them one by one. "Report."

Elias was the first to speak. "The wounded are stable, but we don't have the supplies to treat them properly. Clara's doing what she can, but if infections spread, we're in trouble. We also lost too many good fighters. Morale's low, and food is running out faster than expected."

Alexander's gaze sharpened. "How bad is it?"

Elias exhaled. "We've got ten days of rations at best. Fifteen if we push half-rations, but at that point, people start collapsing from exhaustion. We've already cut portions to stretch supplies."

Alexander nodded, his mind already working through possible solutions.

Marcus, his arms crossed, added, "The walls are in bad shape. We've reinforced the worst of it, but if another attack comes, we won't hold. We need barricades, trenches, and proper watchtowers. But we don't have the manpower or materials for all of it."

"We'll prioritize," Alexander said. "Defense comes first, but we need food. If we can't produce it, we need to trade for it. Which means we need something to offer."

He turned to Gareth, their blacksmith. "What about industry? Can we salvage enough to start producing weapons or tools?"

Gareth scratched his beard, frowning. "The forge survived, but barely. We can work with what we've got, but iron is scarce. We pulled what we could from the battlefield, but it's not enough for large-scale production. If we want to start real industry, we need a steady supply of raw materials—iron, coal, anything we can melt down and reshape."

Alexander leaned back in his chair, absorbing the information. No food. No supplies. No trade.

And then Tyrell spoke. "We scouted farther north. Most of the land's the same—barren, rocky. But we found something. Ruins."

The conversation paused.

Alexander narrowed his eyes. "What kind of ruins?"

Tyrell shrugged. "Not just broken stone—there are tunnels beneath. Whoever built it abandoned it a long time ago, but there could still be something valuable inside. Could be dangerous, though. No telling what's left in there."

Silas, the former strategist, spoke up. "Old ruins can mean a lot of things. Wealth. Artifacts. Resources. But they can also mean traps, hidden dangers, or worse—territorial claims from people we don't know about."

The table fell into silence.

Alexander considered the risks. If the ruins held resources, it could be exactly what they needed. But if they lost people exploring them, it might not be worth it.

He made his decision.

"We'll investigate, but carefully. Tyrell, pick your best men. No unnecessary risks—this is reconnaissance first. If there's anything of value, we'll come back properly equipped."

Tyrell gave a small nod. "I'll take a team at dawn."

Alexander turned back to the group. "That covers potential resources, but we still have a more immediate problem. Food. If farming's impossible here, we need trade. Gareth, start setting up small-scale production with whatever materials we have. Even basic tools will be worth something."

Gareth frowned but nodded. "I'll make do with what we've got."

"Marcus, reinforce the walls however you can. Prioritize the weakest sections. Make sure patrols are doubled."

Marcus grunted. "I'll need more men for that."

Alexander glanced at Elias.

Elias sighed. "I'll pull from those fit enough to stand guard duty. But it's a temporary fix. Without more fighters, we're spread thin."

"We'll have to make do," Alexander said.

Silas studied him for a moment before speaking. "There's another issue you haven't addressed."

Alexander met his gaze. "Go on."

"The Baron may have accepted a truce, but that doesn't mean he's done with us. His forces are still camped nearby. He's watching. He knows we took heavy losses. If he sees weakness, he won't need to break the truce—he'll just wait for us to collapse under our own weight."

The room grew heavier at his words.

Silas continued. "We don't just need to survive. We need to look strong. That means controlled movements, organized defenses, and trade. If we act like a thriving settlement instead of one on the brink of collapse, it'll make people hesitate before coming after us."

Alexander exhaled.

He already knew it. Survival wasn't just about food and walls—it was about perception.

"If we're going to make Emberhold into something real," he said, "then we start today."

He turned to each of them in turn. "Tyrell, your scouts leave at dawn. Marcus, reinforce what you can. Gareth, get the forge running. Elias, ration supplies without breaking morale. Silas—work with me. We're drafting the first trade strategy today."

Each of them nodded.

Alexander pushed away the lingering exhaustion in his bones. There was no time to rest.

This was the foundation of Emberhold's future.

And failure was not an option.