Vitality

Steven woke up two hours later, and the sky outside was tinged with twilight. 

He lay there looking at the ceiling for a while, experiencing an odd buzzing sensation in his chest.

He felt a nagging sensation in his head.

He grabbed his side and pressed the button on the modern console built into the side of his bed. 

A gentle blue interface came to life, the internet.

His eyes were scanning through articles, old records, and realistic simulations as he leaned back. 

The space around him dimmed. 

His world grew again, this time through knowledge.

His breath came more deeply. 

Excitement glowed in his eyes.

He had moved beyond simply surviving.

His preparations were underway.

The door opened with a soft hiss. 

Holding a warm drink and some snacks, Justin peered in. "Are you awake?"

Still staring at the screen, Steven nodded.

Justin entered the room slowly. "What are you doing?"

"Studying," Steven said plainly, his voice more animated than it had been for weeks.

Justin smirked. "You sound like the person you used to be."

At last, Steven turned and nodded.

The hospital wing was shrouded in silence, its darkness descending like a velvet curtain. 

The pod inside the chamber hissed softly and closed tightly. 

Inside, Steven lay with his eyes closed and his heart steady.

The chamber emitted a flash of light. 

Next— the connection was completed.

He awoke under a stone ceiling, with the subtle smell of steel and oil lamps permeating the room.

He arose slowly in the small room. 

The curtains rustled in the wind.

Across the horizon, blades clashed. 

Steven stood up, cinched his bracers, and went out. 

Grunts and the ringing clash of steel filled the training grounds. 

Clinton watched each pair spar with brutal accuracy from a distance, his arms crossed and his eyes piercing.

Steven made his way toward them. 

The soldiers came to a stop. A half-dozen men gazed expectantly at him.

"Do not stop on my account," he said in a firm tone.

Twyford raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness, do you want to spar with me?"

Steven had a sly smile. "Definitely."

A couple of men laughed. 

With a smile on his face, Twyford retrieved two practice swords and tossed one to Steven. 

The prince successfully caught it.

In the center of the circle, they squared off. 

The soldiers gathered in a circle, their eyes shining with anticipation, and mumbled.

Fast, hefty, and unrelenting, Twyford was the first to strike.

Steven adapted, parried, and learned as he took each hit. 

He recalled the times he had spent with Twyford. 

He did not hesitate this time. 

He went with the flow. 

He adapted.

Twyford was still stronger, though.

A few hundred blows later, the training sword clattered over the dirt as it flew from Steven.

Twyford lowered his sword and extended his hand.

Steven accepted it, smiling but breathless. "I held out longer in this round."

Twyford remarked, "You have made tremendous progress."

Weapons slamming against shields, the men cheered. 

Clinton moved forward and gave a nod of approval.

"I believe it is time for us to cease being an anonymous group," Steven stated.

The training grounds were silent.

"Brothers in arms, side by side we have bleed on the battlefield. You will soon march to greatness with me."

Turning, he unfurled a rolled cloth nearby. 

A silver and deep blue banner glistened in the sunlight, a hawk encased in a flame crown.

"The Ashguard is our name as we emerge from the ashes of the past. If necessary, I will guide everyone to hell to battle against death."

Silently, the men lifted their hands together.

The banner was caught in the wind and rippled like flames.

Looking at his men, their weary eyes and scarred arms. 

Steven saw only determination.

Even as the crowd scattered, the banner hung there, swaying in the wind like an unkindled flame.

As the refurbished manor gradually took shape around him, Steven stood by the tall window of his study, the fire crackling low in the hearth. 

Golden lines appeared on the polished floor as the morning sun streamed in through the glass. 

Outside, hammers pounded wood, and the roar of timber sawing reverberated like a marching beat—a rhythm for advancement.

A knock on the door prompted him to turn.

He yelled, "Come in."

First to enter was Rosina, carrying a leather-bound notebook under her arm and her cloak covered in morning dew.

Beaver, who was quieter than normal, had keen eyes and hands behind his back, he was a man who was always making calculations.

Her auburn hair was pulled back, and the promise of a job well done glistened in her eyes.

"My Lord, you called us?" Rosina said, smiling briefly. 

Steven pointed at the pair of chairs close to the table. "Take a seat."

Opening her notebook, Rosina sat with a sigh of relief. "Recruitment is proceeding smoothly, many competent hands in Headow. Blacksmiths, scribes, herbalists, some veterans, and even a few combat-experienced hunters.'

Steven gradually nodded. "I wish for more, both intellect and combatants. People with the ability to construct, instruct, or counsel."

Beaver leaned forward and tapped the wooden armrest with his fingers. 

"And spies," he stated bluntly. "You are aware that they will attempt to evade detection."

Steven looked at him. "That is your domain. I want every recruit screened, no matter how long it takes. Family ties, affiliations, and background checks."

Beaver had a sly smile. "I have already begun. There were three questionable ones this morning. One was spotless, but the other two—well, they are not coming back."

Slowly, Steven paced while folding his arms. "The house is nearly completed. We will have a suitable base of operations after it is finished, one that is safe, staffed, and independent. However, if we do not fill it with the right people, that is just a shell."

Then Rosina turned the pages. "There are two carpenter brothers with no noble connections, just grit, and a local herbalist."

"Make them a top priority," Steven advised. "As soon as they are cleared, assign them a spot."

Beaver scowled thoughtfully. "Steven, your movement is drawing attention. They may not be aware of the full extent, but rumors are circulating."

Steven grinned slightly and said, "Good, allow them to ponder and mutter. It will be too late for them to realize what is growing."

He moved towards the window. "Start working on it. We are now sowing the seeds. The only people left standing when the storm hits will be us."

Snapping her notebook shut, Rosina closed it. "I understand."

Beaver nodded abruptly. "Ahead of you already."

They departed, each vanishing down a separate hallway like roots extending underground.

The air was buzzing with purpose as Steven stood by himself in the middle of the room.

---

Rosina stood at the edge of the newly constructed market quarter, the wind carrying the smell of dust and pine. 

Headow was different. 

At this moment, the joyful sounds replaced the silence. 

There were voices full of ambition and laughter.

The manor in the center of the town caught the attention of passersby. 

She recalled that it had once been a ruin, a remnant of a name that had vanished. 

It stood firm once more, like the people.

She whispered, "This is just the beginning."

She went inside the blacksmith. 

With the steady clang of the hammer on steel, the air was hot. 

A man with broad shoulders and scarred hands. 

Wilson was in his late thirties and raised his head. 

When he saw her, his face hardened.

Before her speaking, he declared, "I am not interested in noble games." 

Rosina furrowed her brow. "Do you want to spend the rest of your life in this shop?"

He continued working without responding.

She moved in closer. "You have enough experience to know that this is about preventing men like Baron Atkins from getting Headow."

"I am working and doing perfectly fine," the man whispered.

"So does Lord Steven," she uttered quietly. 

She continued. "How many nobility engage in the behavior of dining with their men?"

The hammer hung in midair as the blacksmith hesitated.

"We require competent hands," Rosina continued. "Not cowards. You once stated you wanted your kids to grow up in a valuable environment. Assist us in making that place."

After a while, the man put down the hammer. 

Eyes narrowing, he studied her and gave one nod. "I will not be involved in politics."

Rosina smiled at him. "You will blend in perfectly."

The back hall of the old granary, a forgotten space that was now the den of secrets, reeking the smell of mildew. 

Beaver waited, listening, crouching next to a wooden box.

From the darkness up ahead came two voices.

"That boy is a privileged bastard, to put it plainly. Acting arrogantly as though he is the Messiah." One whispered.

Another said, "Hush, Baron Atkins will not tolerate him. We must be the first to shift alliance and turn him over as soon as he attacks."

Beaver squinted. 

Both voices sounded familiar to him; they were men who had turned down Steven weeks earlier. 

He vanished back into the shadows.