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

Winter knocked at the trench in the form of brittle wind and a dusting of silvery frost. The morning ration arrived thinner—a glimmer of what had been promised, reduced to a promise of ration. The men ate in silence.

By nightfall, whispers had begun. A smuggler trail ran within two hours' march, one direction south to crossroads markets, the other north to cloistered villages hungry for salt and cloth. Whispers spread under breath.

Some spoke of steel too—two worn out swords, crude but serviceable.

Counsel at the Fire

Darin and Raive stood by the single flame, its flicker taunting the night.

"They have furs better than ours," Raive muttered. "And pay's fair."

Darin held a bowl of root broth. He traced the rim.

"Men are hungry, sir. And rumors die hard."

"If we barter," Darin said slowly, "we barter with risk."

"In Command's, in the nobles', and in this trench's own story."

The Messenger Arrives

Late that night, a figure appeared, crouched by the wall—hooded, shifting silhouette. No weapons drawn, only pouches and a soft knock.

"He comes through the trading gap," Jorah said quietly, stepping forward.

Out of the dark, a woman emerged—lean, dressed in patched coat of midnight leather.

"My name is Maris," she said, voice low but firm. "I carry goods."

She laid open a roll of oilskin: salt-sized cubes of sealed brine, swatches of coarse linen dyed green, tinned elk grease, and two swords.

"Your word. I know what griffon feather means when ink dries."

Division in the Ranks

Maris's presence lit sparks in every eye—but not flames.

Ollen, the young lad, stepped forward.

"Sir," he said, voice tremulous. "Our bellies ache. We'll trade your safe reputation for this?"

"That's not how deeds build. That's how reputations burn."

Tension flickered around the fire.

"We don't trade tonight. I will sleep on it."

The trench fell silent. Men drifted away to bunkers, divided. Some murmured in small groups. Others stared at the fire's dying glow, wondering what courage meant tonight.

Darin poured himself a thin liquor of boiled root and water.

He stepped back from the flame, alone. Jorah followed.

Darin lit a smoldering root on a steel flint, watching sparks die.

Morning—frozen, quiet, deadly crisp.

Maris waited, boots planted in mud that had drained overnight. She held two steel nails tied with leather—representing the swords. She waited for Darin's answer.

"All we take is salt, cloth not trade, oil for warmth. Nothing in steel."

Maris offered the salt, silk-wrapped blades resting unused.

She pocketed the swords, nodded once.

"Deal lasts as long as winter breaks."

And vanished back down the snowy road.

Consequences of Quiet Trade

By night, the salt stew glowed richer, warmth in every lip.

Just quiet comfort and subdued eyes.

Aftermath at the Fire

That night, near the embers, Raive spoke.

"We eat again. And we keep faith in the ditch."

Darin nodded, looking up. "That's all a man needs sometimes."

They shared iron smiles in the dark.

The Black Trade