Chapter 3: Forging Iron and Wills

Chapter 3: Forging Iron and Wills

The dawn that broke over Stonefang Hold was grey and reluctant, much like the men who were prodded from their lumpy pallets by the newly invigorated shouts of Ser Gareth. A palpable tension hung in the air, thick as the sea mist clinging to the crumbling battlements. The previous day's pronouncements from their young, strangely altered Lord Ellys had settled into their minds like cold stones. Fear, yes, but also a sliver of bewildered anticipation. The torpor that had gripped Stonefang for years was shattering, replaced by an unnerving, demanding energy.

Darth Vorhax, observing from the arrow slit of his chamber, felt a grim satisfaction. The fear was good. It was a tool, as fundamental as a lightsaber or a starship. He had seen it in their eyes, felt it in their fluttering heartbeats when he had addressed them. Now, to temper that fear with the harsh discipline of labor and the faint, intoxicating promise of reward.

Ser Gareth, his youthful face set in a determined frown that Vorhax suspected was more for show than genuine conviction, was already in the courtyard. He looked as though he hadn't slept, his movements stiff. Vorhax had given him much to contemplate, much to execute. Today, the first true test of Gareth's ability to translate Vorhax's will into action would begin.

"You lot!" Gareth barked, his voice cracking slightly before finding its register. "Ten men with me – Hobb, you're one. We head for the northern tor. Axes, picks, whatever we can find for digging! The rest of you, Master Vymar has your assignments. Wall repairs, cellar clearance. No slacking! Lord Ellys expects results!"

The men chosen for the ore expedition exchanged nervous glances. A trek into the wilder parts of their meager lands to dig for… rocks? On the boy lord's inexplicable command? It sounded like a fool's errand. Hobb, the burly man Vorhax had singled out the day before, spat on the ground but shouldered his axe without open complaint. Vorhax's gaze from the previous day still burned in his memory.

Vorhax descended to the courtyard as Gareth's party was preparing to leave, their single rickety cart laden with what few tools could be mustered. He moved with a slow, deliberate gait, the servant's robe replaced by a simple, dark tunic and breeches scavenged from Ellys Vorant's meager wardrobe. They were ill-fitting, but he carried himself with an innate authority that transcended the quality of his attire.

"Ser Gareth," Vorhax's voice cut through the morning chill. The men stiffened. "Ensure you follow the map precisely. The richest deposits will be found on the south-eastern face of the tor, near the cluster of stunted pines I described." He had, of course, described no such pines to Gareth, but had instead implanted the image subtly in the knight's mind during their brief conversation, along with a Force-nudged certainty that this was the correct location. It was a minor manipulation, a test of how susceptible these primitives were.

Gareth blinked, a flicker of confusion quickly masked. "Yes, my lord. The stunted pines. I recall."

Vorhax nodded. "The ore there is close to the surface. Focus your efforts on prying loose the exposed reddish-brown rock. It will be heavy. Do not waste energy on the harder grey stone initially." He was providing basic geological markers that, combined with his Force-imbued directions, would make their task simpler, further cementing the illusion of his uncanny foresight.

"Understood, my lord." Gareth gestured, and his small, skeptical party trudged out through the main gate, the cartwheels groaning.

Vorhax then turned his attention to the remaining men. Maester Vymar was attempting to organize them into work crews. Some were reluctantly gathering fallen stones to patch the most glaring holes in the eastern wall, while others were being directed towards the cellar entrance with shovels and buckets. The progress was lamentably slow, their movements inefficient.

He walked towards the section of the wall designated for repair. Two men were struggling to lift a heavy, awkwardly shaped stone. After a moment of clumsy maneuvering, they dropped it with a thud, one cursing and shaking his jarred fingers.

Vorhax stopped before them. "You lack technique," he stated, his voice devoid of judgment but carrying an undeniable weight. "The angle is wrong. You fight the stone, instead of guiding it." He stepped forward, gesturing. "You, position your lever here, beneath this edge. And you, apply pressure upwards from this point, using your legs, not your back."

He didn't touch the stone himself. He didn't need to. He subtly used the Force, a minute telekinetic nudge, to slightly alter the stone's balance point as the men repositioned according to his instructions. This time, when they heaved, the stone lifted with surprising ease, settling almost perfectly into the gap.

The two men stared, first at the stone, then at their lord, then at each other. It had felt… easier. As if the stone itself had wanted to move.

"Efficiency in all things," Vorhax said quietly, his gaze sweeping over the other workers who had paused to watch. "Wasted effort is wasted strength. Wasted strength is weakness. Weakness invites… oblivion." He let the word hang, then moved on, leaving a trail of uneasy silence and renewed, more focused effort in his wake.

His next stop was the training yard, though it was currently deserted, Ser Gareth and a portion of the "garrison" being otherwise occupied. Vorhax picked up a discarded practice spear. It was poorly balanced, the wood rough, the tip blunted. He made a few experimental thrusts and parries. The body of Ellys Vorant was still too weak for sustained combat, too unconditioned. But the Force flowed through him, guiding his movements, lending them a speed and precision that would have been impossible for the boy. He could feel his muscles slowly responding, the Force subtly enhancing his physical recovery, knitting tissue, strengthening sinew. This process would take time, but he was patient.

He spent some time with Maester Vymar, reviewing the old man's hurried inventory. "These herbs," Vorhax pointed to an item on the list, "Procure more. They have antiseptic properties. All wounds, no matter how minor, are to be cleaned with a decoction. And the water source for the kitchens – ensure it is not the same used for livestock or washing." He explained, in simple terms, the concept of preventing contamination, knowledge that was rudimentary by galactic standards but bordered on medical revelation here.

Vymar listened, his eyes wide. "My lord, your wisdom… it is beyond your years. The maesters at the Citadel speak of such things, but rarely are they practiced in remote holds."

"Survival dictates adaptation, Maester," Vorhax replied cryptically. "Stonefang will adapt, or it will perish."

Midday saw the first real test of his new order. A lanky youth named Pip, assigned to clearing rubble from the designated smithy area, was found shirking in a shadowed alcove, pretending to be busy retying a bootlace for the third time in an hour. One of the older, more diligent workers, a man named Cole who had taken Vorhax's words about efficiency to heart, reported him.

Vorhax had Pip brought before him in the main hall. The youth was trembling, his face pale.

"You were assigned a task, Pip," Vorhax said, his voice dangerously soft.

"M-my lord, I was just… my boot…" Pip stammered, unable to meet Vorhax's gaze.

"You were idle," Vorhax stated. "While others labor for the survival of this hold, you contribute nothing but the consumption of meager resources."

He focused his will, channeling a sliver of the Dark Side, not into a visible display of power, but into an overwhelming wave of pure psychic dread. He let Pip feel the crushing weight of centuries of Sith malice, the icy touch of the void. The boy gasped, his eyes rolling back slightly. He stumbled, his knees buckling, and would have fallen had Cole not caught him.

"This is your only warning," Vorhax said, his voice a cold hiss that seemed to echo in the minds of all present. He did not raise his voice, yet every man in the hall felt a chill crawl up his spine. "There will be no second chances for parasites. Every soul in Stonefang pulls their weight, or they are excised. Do you understand?"

Pip, barely conscious, could only manage a terrified nod. Cole, looking shaken but also grimly satisfied, dragged the youth back to his duties. The message was clear. Lord Ellys Vorant was no longer a soft touch. He was a demanding, unforgiving master. And he knew things. He saw everything.

By late afternoon, the party sent to clear the walled-off cellar broke through the crumbling mortar and rotten timbers. A gust of stale, earthy air met them. Vorhax, alerted by their shouts, arrived as they were cautiously peering into the darkness.

"Bring torches," he commanded.

The space beyond was not merely a forgotten storage area. It was the entrance to a narrow, roughly hewn tunnel that sloped downwards into the bedrock beneath Stonefang Hold.

"It appears our predecessors had secrets, Maester," Vorhax observed, a hint of what might have been amusement in his tone. He took a torch from a trembling hand and stepped into the tunnel, Vymar and a few braver men following.

The air was cold, damp. The tunnel was clearly man-made, though ancient. After about fifty paces, it opened into a small natural cave, which in turn led to another, narrower passage. This one seemed to wind its way towards the sea cliffs.

"A sally port?" Vymar breathed, his scholarly curiosity momentarily overcoming his fear. "Or an escape route?"

"Potentially both," Vorhax mused. He extended his senses. The tunnel was stable, and he could feel the faint vibrations of the sea not far beyond, and a whisper of wind that suggested an outlet. "This is a significant asset. It must be cleared, mapped, and secured. None are to speak of this outside these walls."

His "discovery" of this hidden feature, something no living soul in Stonefang knew existed, further solidified the growing legend of the new Lord Vorant. He was not just wise beyond his years; he seemed to possess an almost supernatural perception.

As evening approached, Ser Gareth's party returned. They were exhausted, mud-stained, but their expressions were ones of stunned disbelief. The cart was laden with chunks of reddish-brown rock.

"My lord," Gareth said, his voice hoarse with fatigue and awe. "The ore… it was there. Just as you said. A vein richer than any I've ever seen or heard tell of in these parts." He held out a particularly dense piece. "This is… this will make strong steel."

Vorhax took the rock, weighing it in his hand. The Force had not misled him. "Excellent, Ser Gareth. You and your men have done well. See that they are given an extra ration of ale tonight." This small reward, the first tangible benefit of the new regime, did not go unnoticed by the other men. "Tomorrow, you will establish a permanent mining camp. We will need a steady supply."

The makeshift forge, a crude structure of stone and clay with a bellows salvaged from a rotten heap, was completed by nightfall, largely thanks to the desperate efforts of Old Man Hemmet, the castle's ancient, nearly blind smith, and his equally ancient apprentice. The first load of iron ore was piled nearby.

Vorhax approached the old smith. "Hemmet," he said. "This ore is unusually pure. It requires a different heat, a more careful process than the bog iron you are accustomed to." He proceeded to give the astonished smith a series of precise, almost alchemical instructions regarding charcoal types, airflow, smelting temperatures, and quenching techniques – knowledge that seemed to come from another world. He spoke of things Hemmet had never heard of, yet they made a strange, compelling sense.

"I… I will try, my lord," Hemmet croaked, peering at Vorhax with his one good eye, a new light of professional curiosity dawning within it.

Vorhax left him to it. He knew the first results would be crude, but it was a start. The psychological impact of producing visibly superior metal, even in small quantities, would be immense.

Later that night, alone in his chamber, Vorhax meditated. He drew deeply on the Dark Side, feeling its raw power course through him, accelerating the transformation of Ellys Vorant's frail body. The boy's physical shell was becoming a more fitting vessel, his senses sharpening, his reflexes quickening. He could feel the tendrils of his influence spreading throughout Stonefang Hold, a network of fear, obedience, and a dawning, reluctant hope.

He reviewed his plans. Food security was paramount. The meager harvest from their stony fields would not suffice. He would need to organize hunting parties, fishing expeditions. Perhaps he could use the Force to subtly guide game towards his hunters or fish into their nets. He also considered raiding nearby, less defended coastal villages, but dismissed it for now. Too overt, too soon. He needed to build his strength internally before projecting it outwards.

The iron was key. Superior weapons and armor would give his men a decisive edge. He envisioned a small, elite unit, clad in dark, functional armor forged from Stonefang steel, wielding weapons of Sith-inspired design – perhaps not lightsabers, but certainly something more terrifying than the crude implements of this world.

A knock on the door. It was Maester Vymar, looking pale but resolute.

"My lord," he said, "Old Hemmet… he has produced this." He held out a crudely shaped, but undeniably sharp and resilient spearhead. "He says… he has never crafted metal like it. It is… stronger. It holds an edge like nothing he has ever worked."

Vorhax took the spearhead. It was still rough, but the metal itself hummed with a latent potency. A small smile touched his lips. "A beginning, Maester. Only a beginning."

Vymar stared at him, at the spearhead, then back at his young lord, whose eyes seemed to glow with an almost palpable darkness in the torchlight. "Who… what are you, my lord?" the maester whispered, the question escaping him against his better judgment.

Vorhax's smile widened, becoming predatory. "I am Lord Ellys Vorant of Stonefang Hold," he said softly. "And I am your future."

He dismissed the shaken maester and returned to his window, looking out at the moonlit sea. The waves crashed against the rocks below, a timeless rhythm. Stonefang Hold was still a dilapidated ruin. Its people were still ignorant primitives. But they were his primitives now. And under his guidance, this forgotten speck of rock would become the crucible for a new order. The iron was being forged. So too, were the wills of its people. The War of the Five Kings seemed a distant storm, but Vorhax knew that with every passing day, every command given, every mind bent to his purpose, he was one step closer to riding that storm to ultimate power.

(Word Count: Approx. 4050 words)