Chapter 39
Tracks in the Bramblewood
The first light of dawn streamed through the high windows of Bluestone Manor's dining hall, illuminating two men breaking their fast. Renly, now twenty-five and filled out with the dense muscle of a seasoned warrior, tore a piece of bread from a loaf. Across the rough-hewn oak table, Ser Eldric of Frostfall sipped his ale, his presence a solid, reliable constant. Outside, the sounds of clashing wood and shouted orders echoed—the noise of Eldric's guards training with Renly's militia. It was a combined exercise, a mission ordered by Viscount Corvan himself.
"Viscount has a mission," Eldric said, setting his tankard down with a thud. "His scouts found tracks in the Bramblewood. Ferguson tracks."
Renly stopped chewing. The Ferguson clan, from the neighboring Viscounty of the Kingdom of Stonewatch, were known for their Swiftwind bloodline—preternatural speed. Their presence on the border was never a good sign.
"It's this damned succession war in Lythos," Eldric continued, his voice grim. "It's made the whole kingdom look weak. Our neighbors in Stonewatch are like wolves scenting a wounded deer. They see instability and think it's a good time to test our fences, see if they can snap up a stray piece of territory."
Renly nodded, his mind already racing ahead of the simple explanation. The "unstable situation" Eldric spoke of was a wildfire that had been burning for years, and he had been close enough to feel its heat.
As Eldric detailed the scout report, Renly's thoughts drifted to a letter, slipped to him discreetly last week when he'd visited Lakeside, the village of the Viscount's younger brother, Ser Tomas. The message from Anya was brief, as always: 'The winds shift. Are you prepared to cooperate again?' When he'd inquired about Ser Tomas, he'd learned the Viscount's own brother had quietly sent aid to Count Rose in the past. So, Renly had thought, even the supposedly neutral Corvans have dipped their toes in this game. In politics, it seems, no one is ever fully neutral.
He contemplated the dominoes that had fallen over the past six years, transforming Lythos from a stable kingdom into a cauldron of civil war.
It had started five years ago. A scandal erupted at the royal court: an attempt to poison the King. The investigation, fueled by evidence presented by the Second Princess, didn't just find a lone assassin. The trail led back to Count Henry of the Southern Plains, a key ally of the Duke of Ironwood. Worse, it was discovered the Count was involved in horrific blood sacrifices of entire villages, working with an evil shaman from the southern jungles to produce lifespan-increasing elixirs and the very same Heartfire poison Renly kept locked away.
The King was furious. He dispatched his fiercest weapon, Lady Olivia, the Pinnacle Knight of the royal family. With her Flaming Serpent bloodline—a dual ability allowing her to manipulate fire and manifest scales of immense hardness—she led the Flaming Serpent Cavalry to crush the Count. But Count Henry, a Grand Knight himself, and this evil shaman put up a fierce fight. They managed to injure Lady Olivia, poisoning her with a vile toxin. Though the royal apothecary, the Great Shaman Velyn, saved her life, lingering aftereffects remained.
Count Henry and his family fled across the eastern border into the vast desert kingdom, escaping the King's justice. This failure frustrated the King immensely. Unable to directly move against the old and powerfully established Duke of Ironwood without risking catastrophic losses, he directed his fury at the Duke's primary ally: his own son, the First Prince. Presented with damning evidence of the Prince's connection to the Duke's crimes, the King disinherited him. The Prince fled, his whereabouts unknown. The King then nominated the Second Princess as the Crown Princess.
For two years, there was a tense calm. The Crown Princess, shrewd and capable, even advanced to the Grand Knight stage, solidifying her position. But then, two years ago, the old King suddenly fell bedridden due to a sickness of age.
That was when the civil war truly ignited. The First Prince emerged from the shadows, accusing the Crown Princess of harming their father to seize the throne. Backed by the full might of the Duke of Ironwood, he raised his banners. The first major battle had erupted in the south a year ago, and the war had been raging at a stalemate ever since, supposedly now reaching its bloody climax.
Chaos, Renly thought, finishing his meal. But chaos is both a danger and an opportunity. He had reached the peak of Senior Knight. The path to Grand Knight was a chasm that required immense resources, rare catalysts, or great battle epiphanies. In the orderly peace of the past, his progress would have stalled for decades. But in the fires of war? A loyal and powerful Knight could be rewarded with the very things he needed to make the leap.
"Your militia looks good, Renly," Eldric said, pulling him from his thoughts. They walked out into the training yard.
Renly surveyed his men. Thirty strong, now. They moved with a discipline that would have been unthinkable six years ago. Will, now a young man of twenty-one and the militia captain, barked orders with authority. He had reached the peak of the Squire stage through relentless training, but the spark of a Bloodline still eluded him. Lyra, now his chief steward, also showed the same promising strength, managing the manor with fierce efficiency while maintaining her drills. Both were on the cusp, a testament to the training culture Renly had built.
"They'll hold the village if needed," Renly said with pride. "But let's see what these Ferguson tracks are about."
The mission was clear: find the source and motive of the scouts and if possible eliminate it. Renly checked Aethon's saddle, the warhorse stamping with eager energy. Will, leading a squad of ten militiamen, fell in beside him. Ser Eldric and his thirty-five guards completed the formidable party. They moved into the Bramblewood, a forest Renly knew as well as his own backyard.
The search was methodical. Renly used the tracking skills honed over years of lordship, while Eldric's men provided a wide security net. It was Will who found the main trail—not of a few scouts, but of ambush.
They discovered the camp nestled in a hidden valley just inside the Bramblewood. A hundred men, their banners bearing the Swiftwind hawk of the Ferguson Viscounty, were in a state of alertness. And at their center was their leader, a Knight clad in fine mail, his arrogant posture marking him as a noble, likely the Viscount's younger brother.
There was no parley. The Ferguson Knight knew they had came and, confident in his troops with his bloodline's speed, drew his sword and charged in a blur. He was fast, incredibly so. But Renly was not the raw Knight he had been six years ago.
He didn't try to match the speed directly. He stood his ground, his senses expanding, reading the flow of the Knight's movement. As the Ferguson Knight closed in, his sword a silver streak aimed at Renly's throat, Renly executed the Explosive Lunge.
He didn't retreat; he exploded forward. His body became a projectile. He didn't dodge the swinging blade; he moved inside its arc. The world narrowed to the single, devastating point of his sword. There was a deafening crack of condensed vital force and shattering steel as Renly's blade met his opponent's, breaking it, and his armored shoulder slammed into the Knight's chest. The man flew backward, crashing into a tent, his ribs audibly cracking, his speed useless against overwhelming, focused power.
The fight was over before it began for their leader. Seeing their Knight defeated in a single move broke the morale of the Ferguson men.
Will, with a fierce cry, led the militia forward. They didn't charge wildly. They used the terrain, fought in pairs, and executed the drills Renly had drilled into them for years. Beside them, Eldric's professional guards moved like a machine, a wall of steel that crushed any organized resistance.
It was a rout. The Ferguson force now leaderless, was shattered. Within minutes, the battle was over. Will, his face smeared with dirt but glowing with triumph, approached Renly.
"Aftermath report, my lord!" Will said, his chest puffed with pride. "No fatalities on our side. A few minor injuries, nothing serious. We've killed nearly half of them. The rest, about fifty, have surrendered." He gestured to the groaning Ferguson Knight being hauled to his feet by two guards. "And we have their leader, alive as you ordered."
Renly clapped Will on the shoulder. "You and the men did well, Captain. Very well."
They marched the prisoners back to Viscount Corvan's castle, a tangible victory. In the great hall, the Viscount listened to the report, his stern face breaking into a rare, wide smile.
"By the King's grace!" he boomed. "You've not only defended the border, you've struck a blow against Stonewatch's arrogance! You've brought me a noble prisoner and fifty of his men! This is a significant victory." He looked from Eldric to Renly. "You have both served me with excellence. Your loyalty and strength will be remembered."
The reward was practical and generous: a hefty sum of silver for the troops and a large portion of grain from the castle's stores to replenish Bluestone's reserves. It was a lord's reward, cementing their status and ensuring the well-being of their people.
The next morning, after a night spent in the castle, Renly and his Bluestone contingent prepared to leave. The Ferguson prisoners were now the Viscount's problem to ransom or use as political leverage.
Standing in the castle courtyard, Renly swung onto Aethon's back. The horse, sensing the return journey, snorted and pawed at the ground. Renly looked over his troop—Will, and his militiamen, all standing taller, their belief in their lord absolute. They had faced a superior force and emerged victorious without losing a single comrade.
As he rode out under the portcullis, leaving the stout walls of Corvan Castle behind, Renly felt the weight of the moment. The border was heating up. The civil war was reaching its endgame. Anya's letter was a call back to the larger stage. He was no longer just the Lord of Bluestone; he was a Peak Senior Knight with a battle-hardened militia, a growing web of contacts, and a vial of Heartfire poison locked in a box. The peaceful years of training were over. The game of powers was beginning again, and this time, Renly intended to be more than just a player. He intended to win.