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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

Bonehill wasn't a hill. It was a long, rocky finger of land that jutted up through the snow like a broken jaw.

They called it Bonehill because of what the boars dragged there in spring. Deer parts. Bits of antler. Once, a man's arm with a red tattoo and no hand.

Darin was posted low. Not with Raive—he was ahead with the flank screens. Darin was walking near the rear wagon trail, shield on back, eyes on the slope.

A glint of steel.The wrong kind of torch.And the birds had gone silent.

He ducked fast. Raised his arm. "Back! Forward trail—flank rise!"

Only two heard him.Only one believed.

The skirmishers came down the slope fast. They weren't in uniform. Light boots. Curved knives. Border raiders.

The greenhorns in Darin's file raised their shields too late.

He stepped left, onto the small outcrop he remembered from the supply map.

And shouted: "Pull left! Break middle, drag fire!"

They didn't listen. But two followed him. That was enough.

The raiders surged forward to the unbroken center — right into the place where footing gave way to scree.

The fight didn't last long after that.

Raive's horn sounded from the upper ridge.

Spears came.The flank held.The wagons stayed upright.

Only one man died — a green boy from wine duty.

"You think that gives you the right to command?"

Raive paused. "But it gives you the instinct."

He turned to the quartermaster. "Assign this one to trail-point forward scout rotation."

Bonehill Feint