kxxrt

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

The fire had no right to burn as bright as it did.

It shouldn't have caught. The wood was wet. The wind was cruel. But someone—probably Big Thom from the sling crew—poured just enough grease on the kindling to make it matter.

The men gathered around slowly. No orders. No roster.

They came because there was warmth.

Not one of gold or noble silk. Just an older lad with a patched cloak and a cracked harp. His boots were held together by cloth-wrapped cord, and his breath steamed as he plucked.

The kind that rose slow, like smoke, but stayed sharp, like pine.

He began with a camp song. An old one—about stealing boots and outmarching fleas.

Laughter followed. Light, broken, real.

The voice dropped low. And without preamble, the words came:

"No name. No saddle. No silk for his back.But the boy with the blade never once turned back.In frost he stood, when the noble spat.The parchment walked, and it answered back."

Darin, who had been sitting with Harl near the back edge of the fire's reach, went still.

The words spread like warm drink on a cold stomach.

Some men clapped. Others just nodded. A few didn't react at all—but listened harder than they wanted to admit.

Harl whistled low. "Then someone else did."

The bard finished the verse. Didn't name him. Didn't need to. The details did the work.

As the fire burned low, and the men settled into a silence not born of fear but of fading laughter, Darin sat a little straighter.

He was still nameless. Still rankless.

But now, when he walked past, three men nodded. One even said "Evenin', parchment."

Fire and Song