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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 arrived with two mules and a pair of wool-gloved hands too clean for this road.

No armor. No banner. No scrolls in hand — just a leather ledger pressed flat between his elbow and ribs, wrapped in waxed cloth.

His name, when asked, was Colm Aerlin.His sigil — worn not on chest, but barely visible in the embroidery of his left sleeve cuff — was a clamshell in silver thread, denoting Lansehall minor nobility. The same court root as DuVaul.

He smiled when Raive challenged him at the ditch edge.

"I am not here to command. Only to account."

Darin met him standing, arms unarmed, but eyes alert.

"I'm to walk your trench. Observe your systems. Ration method. Digging sequence. Personnel intake process. If permitted."

Colm reached into the fold of his coat.

Produced a narrow document sealed with three colors:

Blue for court-mandated transparency

White for "Unobstructed Survey" — the most dangerous kind, as it meant any resistance would be interpreted as admission of fault.

He walked like a clerk in a museum: careful steps, eyes too wide, noting everything with quiet judgment.

At trench post four, he asked about stew allocation.

At post seven, he paused to examine the wooden pins — the ones carved by the kneeling man. He said nothing, but his thumb rested too long on the downward-facing blade symbol.

At post nine, he asked how many unassigned men had arrived in the last 20 days.

Darin answered each question in full sentences, never defending, never elaborating.

At last, near the stone-line wall, Colm halted.

Darin looked sideways. "I've held a ditch."

"Ditches do not hold themselves. They do not attract the unassigned. They do not inspire carvings."

Raive stepped forward, but Darin raised a hand.

Colm turned slightly, his tone soft.

"I have no mandate to strip command. I wield no sword. But I will write. And my writing goes where it's meant to go."

"I'll say this trench is efficient. That the men follow you. That morale here is higher than in any sanctioned division in the southern line."

"But I will also note — with care — that some of them kneel."

Jorah stepped closer. "He never told them to—"

"I know," Colm said, almost kindly. "That's why it matters."

The soft sound of a shovel being driven into frost-bitten soil at trench post six.

At last, Colm tucked his ledger away.

"I'll be here one night. I've seen most of what I need."

"Then you may keep it — for now."

That night, the trench was silent.

Even the dice players at post eight rolled quietly.

And though no order was given, no one wore their pin.

Morning came with light snow and no goodbye.

Colm was gone before the sun rose, leaving only a kettle with a folded note beneath it.

You run a clean ditch. That's the danger.

The Auditor's Eyes