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He begins as a peasant. A name no one bothers to learn. When war calls, he joins—not for glory, not for honor, but because refusal is a rope around the neck.

In the mud and fear, among the screams of men whose blood matters more than his, he survives.

Not by strength. But by perception. Structure. Obedience that becomes command. Calm that turns to instinct.

He rises. Slowly. Visibly. From footsoldier, to file leader, to sergeant. He drills when others drink. He watches when others fight. He speaks when silence stings—and men listen.

A captain. A banner. A village. A holdfast.

The kingdom fractures. Nobles splinter. War returns in waves.

He builds what others forget: order, discipline, belief.

He is knighted. Not as courtesy. As necessity.

He commands. Then governs. Then inspires. Soldiers seek him. Outlaws swear to him. Minor lords ask his judgment. Not because of blood—but because of outcome.

And when at last he is crowned, it is not inheritance. It is design.

His kingdom is not forged by divine right. But by salt, sweat, and seen deeds.

He was never meant to inherit. He was meant to unify.

By Right of Conquest

It wasn't a fanfare. It was worse: velvet boots in slush.

The nobles arrived just after noon—four riders under a cream-and-blue standard, flanked by cloaked houseguards with too-polished helms.

Their horses were clean. Their coats dry. Their words even drier.

"Where is your senior?" called the eldest—a man with cheekbones like carved flint and a voice that treated everyone within hearing like spoiled meat.

Raive stepped forward. "Sergeant Raive. You are?"

"Tharlin Vex of House Markholt. Knight-legate. You've pitched in poor ground."

Raive didn't blink. "We pitch where the enemy flees."

"Then perhaps chase better," Tharlin said, dismounting with exaggerated disdain. He looked around. "Is this the forward rank?"

"It was," Raive replied. "You've arrived two battles late."

A few men chuckled behind their hands. Darin didn't.

Tharlin's eyes swept the camp. Landed briefly on Darin. Stopped.

Darin stepped forward. Mud squelched underfoot. "Darin."

That earned a pause. And a curl of Tharlin's lip. "No name. No saddle. No lineage. And yet you stare like a scribe."

"Only if the parchment has legs," Darin replied.

The laughter came louder this time—from behind Raive, from the cook line, from the men cleaning their blades with rags and snow.

He turned to his aide. "See that this one's kept busy. Muck pit detail. Three shifts."

Raive didn't object. He didn't even move.

But as Tharlin walked off, he murmured just loud enough for Darin to hear: "He won't last three days out here."

Later, while Darin hauled broken timber and slop to the pit trench, he heard it.

"Only if the parchment has legs," someone said.

Then someone else: "No name. No saddle. Just Darin."

The Banner Above The Mud