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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

He wasn't on the scroll. He wasn't part of any officer's squire corps. He wasn't even hauling spears today.

He just happened to be on log duty when he heard the signal horn: one long note, two short.

"Cold iron," someone muttered near the armory fire. "Officer doctrine drills."

Darin carried the logs. Then, when no one was looking, he stopped carrying the logs.

The overlook wasn't marked by banners or shields. Just a ring of stones, pressed flat by a hundred boots. The wind came harder up here, snapping at cloaks and tongues alike.

Six officers stood in a half-circle, chalking the dirt with blade hilts and fingers.

One of them—Sir Elrick of House Karden, lean as a lance and twice as sharp—spoke while the others listened.

"Steel is not cold because of winter," he said. "It is cold because it remembers nothing but purpose. When you wield men, you wield cold iron."

Another officer interrupted: "And when they break rank?"

"Then they are no longer iron," Elrick said. "They are fire. And fire spreads. Or it dies."

He crouched beside the bluff, just low enough to stay out of sight, just high enough to see the lines they drew in the dirt.

Phalanx. Hook-break. Rear torchline. Feint-step retreat.

None of these words had ever been said to him.

He memorized the spacing. The counters. The language.

When they paused, he whispered the phrases to himself.

An hour passed. No one noticed him.

He stood behind Darin, arms crossed, saying nothing.

Darin turned slowly. Didn't flinch.

Raive snorted. "Get back to logs before they notice you're smarter than half their lieutenants."

He left. But not without dragging a stick through the same battle lines they'd drawn.

Cold Iron Doctrine