Wallace

The traders watched as Steven gestured toward a large wooden board behind him. Painted in rich strokes were new tax codes—simplified, flat rates. A charter of rights for merchants. A detailed map showing safe routes guarded by his men.

One of the traders, a young spice merchant, raised his hand hesitantly. "What about the noble levies? Baron Atkins demands taxes on all goods leaving the province."

Steven narrowed his eyes. "That is why I stationed Twyford at the southern checkpoint. From now on, if a man flies our banner, no tax leaves this land."

A murmur broke out.

"You will start a war," someone said.

"I am very well aware of the situation," Steven answered firmly.

The older merchant, Maren, stepped forward. He looked Steven up and down, then motioned to the trade charter. "If Atkins rides down with iron and fire, do you stand or run?"

Steven stepped forward. "Let him come. This town will stand because it has more to gain by living than dying. And so do you."

Maren watched him for a heartbeat longer than he pressed his seal to the parchment. "If you break this pact, I'll be the first to hang your banner upside down on my mast." 

The other merchants followed one after another, stamping the pact as the banner of House Talvace fluttered above.

Later, as the crowd dispersed and the pavilion emptied, Clinton clapped Steven on the shoulder. "A new market, a new charter in one week."

Steven only murmured, "One leak could ruin it all."

Beaver emerged from the shadows, dropping a small bag of coins. "A few rats tried selling our routes to Atkins. They have been… eliminated."

Steven looked out over the glistening river and the bustling docks. What had once been a sleepy town plagued by internal strife was now the beating heart of a growing economy.

The River Market Pact was only the beginning.

The morning sun spilled golden light over the newly constructed forges. A rhythmic clang rang out as hammers struck steel.

Inside the largest forge, Clinton stood with sweat on his brow, his sleeves rolled up, watching a burly man shape glowing metal.

"This one has got hands like a god of war," Clinton muttered, impressed.

Steven stepped forward. "Can you produce sixty blades a month?"

The blacksmith answered. "With a proper team? Double that. But I'll need assistants, a steady ore supply, and no one breathing down my neck."

"You will get all three," Steven replied, then turned to Beaver. "How is the iron shipment?"

Beaver replied, "Arrived yesterday. Hidden in grain carts, just as you instructed. Baron Atkins is breathing heavily on our border trade—he hasn't sniffed out the mines yet."

Steven gave a small smile. "Good. Then we move to phase two."

Outside the forge, crates were already being packed for delivery. The new plan was simple: forge tools and nails for the surrounding towns. 

He would supply them all.

That afternoon, Steven convened with Jeremy in the study.

"Won't this make us a threat?" Steven asked.

Jeremy shook his head. "Not if you sell to both sides. Even your enemies. Make them depend on you for tools, and they won't want to burn your forge down."

"Rely on us, and we own their rhythm," Steven murmured.

Jeremy smirked. "Exactly."

Later, Rosina brought good news. "The potters have agreed to set up shop next to the forge. Said something about stable trade routes and protection for their caravans."

Steven leaned back, satisfied. "The hearth beside the hammer… Excellent."

As twilight fell, the forge district was still aglow. Sparks danced in the air. Workers moved with purpose. Beneath it all pulsed a quiet pride.

Steven stood on a high balcony overlooking it all. He could feel it—momentum. The feeling that something grand was unfolding.

Twyford joined him with a flask of warm tea. "It is good," he said. 

Steven didn't answer. He looked up at the stars, then toward the town.

Jeremy stood by the large map table, fingers tapping on a sketch of Headow and the surrounding territories. "We have controlled Iron. Craftsmanship. It is time for the stomach."

Steven raised a brow. "You mean food?"

"Grain, to be exact," Jeremy said, rolling out another parchment.

"The three villages have fertile fields. If we offer them better terms, then they might switch sides."

"Baron Atkins will feel this one in his gut," Steven said, finishing the thought.

"Exactly," Jeremy smirked.

Twyford rode on his horse. One hand on his reins, the other resting casually near the hilt of his longsword. 

Rosina pulled her hood low as she rode ahead, her sharp eyes scanning the hedgerows where farmers watched their arrival with silent suspicion. Ten men followed, the silver hawk banner whipping in the crisp morning wind.

They were an odd sight to the villagers: a small column of hardened warriors and a woman with a bow across her back, passing weathered cottages and barley fields heavy with grain.

Rosina leaned closer to Twyford. "See their eyes? They are tired of paying twice for one harvest."

Twyford grunted, barely glancing at the villagers peering from behind rough stone walls. "Tired people do desperate things. That is probably good for us."

A boy darted from a doorway, and he was clutching a loaf of bread. He stopped in the path to stare at the bow. 

Rosina smiled softly but said nothing. 

His mother snatched him back inside, the wooden door closing with a thud.

They reached the village square. A crooked well sat in the center, the rope frayed and the stones chipped from years of misuse. Chickens scattered as Rosina and Twyford dismounted, boots crunching over brittle straw.

A man approached, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff. His clothes were threadbare but clean. His eyes, though rheumy with age, still held a spark of shrewdness.

"Esteemed guests." He bowed low enough that his back popped. "You honor Blacklake with your presence."

"Headman Wallace," Rosina greeted him, nodding once. She handed her reins to one of the soldiers, then withdrew a folded parchment from a leather satchel. "May we speak inside? Your people deserve to know what is offered — and what it will cost."

The headman glanced over her shoulder at the armored men. He nodded. "Aye. The harvest hall is yours."

They crossed the muddy square. Villagers gathered at a distance, murmuring among themselves. Some crossed their arms, their expressions pinched with doubt. Others watched with the glimmer of hope that Rosina always looked for — that tiny flame that made people follow banners and trust in dreams of protection.

Inside, the harvest hall was small, its beams blackened by years of hearth smoke. A long table took up most of the space, with battered chairs lining both sides.

Rosina dropped her hood and placed the parchment on the table. Twyford stood behind her, arms folded, his eyes sweeping every corner of the room.

Headman Wallace lowered himself onto the creaking chair. Three elders joined him, their faces drawn and eyes that held depths.

Rosina spoke first, her voice carrying the quiet certainty that often made men mistake her for gentle. "Blacklake has fed the Atkins manor for decades. You pay the quota, but your children starve when bandits take the remainder."

A murmur of assent rippled from the elders.

She tapped the parchment. "Lord Steven offers protection, granaries guarded, markets opened. In exchange, you pledge your harvest surplus to House Talvace. You keep enough to live through winter. The rest fills our stores."

An elder named Maeryn leaned forward. "We will face the wrath of the Baron."

Twyford spoke, his low voice rumbled like distant thunder. "For how long will you continue to serve him? House Talvace will defend you to the last breath."

Silence settled over the hall. 

The wind is stirring dry stalks. 

Rosina waited, reading the hesitation in Wallace's sunken eyes.

"You ask for open rebellion," Wallace said finally. "The words of Baron Atkins are law. If his knights come demanding taxes…"

Rosina pushed the parchment closer. "He will come. But not with enough knights to smother six villages at once. He spreads you thin. Break together, and he cannot threaten you."

Wallace looked at the elders — they looked at him. Twyford could see the crack forming, the seed of defiance sprouting in soil worn dry by decades of forced tribute.

He felt something then. The faintest vibration through the dirt floor. Hoofbeats. Many.

Twyford gripped his sword tightly.

It happened quickly — the muffled shouts outside, the pounding of hooves, the slam of the harvest hall door flung open so hard it slammed into the wall.

A voice thundered across the smoke-dark room.

"Wallace! Get your wormy hide out here!"

A figure strode inside without waiting for permission — tall, broad, clad in black armor. 

He drew the blade from its sheath halfway already. Behind him, two men flanked the door, the stink of sweat and leather armor thick around them.

Usher of Black Hollow, Twyford knew the name before the man opened his mouth.

Headman Wallace blanched as he rose from his seat. "Sir Usher… we were—"

Usher cut him off with a bark of laughter. "Are you plotting rebellion with these weaklings?" He gestured at Twyford and Rosina with a dismissive flick of his hand.

Twyford stepped forward, blocking Rosina from view. "Mind your tongue, dog."