The treaty between Tharros Vale and the Woodkins was signed with much celebration on both sides. After extensive review and thorough examination, I can confidently say that the numbers align—both parties stand to gain considerable profit from this trade agreement.
The construction of the Woodland Retreat commenced without major issue. Logistics were resolved through the combined efforts of Franz, Betha, and Hans—the ever-reliable administrator of the Bovinid community.
A new road network will be established, connecting Tharros Vale proper, the woodland realms, and the Bovinid settlements. Completion is projected within a year, fully funded by the previously allocated tax budget. Labor will be sourced from both Tharros Vale and the Bovinid populace. The Forest Spirit has blessed the endeavor, offering guidance in whatever form deemed necessary.
Zieg has been appointed as the official head of the project, charged with ensuring fairness, efficiency, and a humane working process. At his side, Kalkengard, the Bovinid commander, will serve as his aide to help shoulder the load when needed.
That evening, after a long and necessary discussion on the new worker contracts, I set down the final draft, seal it, and exhale slowly. My shoulders ache. My fingers feel stiff. My eyes sting. And yet, despite the exhaustion, there's a strange contentment lingering in my chest—one I never found in my old corporate job.
I don't earn nearly as much here. After tax, only a few spare coins make it into my pouch. But it feels... worth it. Like I'm building something real.
Then, something shifts in the air.
A scent floats through the half-open door. Familiar. Comforting.
Coffee?
I turn my head.
And there she is.
Mathilda, carrying two wooden cups, the steam dancing softly above them. Her silhouette backlit by the lantern outside, she steps into the room with practiced ease.
"All done, Leo?" she asks with a casual smile.
"Barely," I reply, taking the cup she offers me. I sip.
Life. Instant resurrection.
Mathilda settles herself on the edge of the desk, glancing briefly at the contract scrolls before returning her gaze to me.
"You know," she says with a tilt of her head, "Betha seems to know an awful lot about you. I take it you spend a lot of time with her? More than the other elves?"
I nod. "We talk quite a bit. There's another elf—Hywel. A male. But he can't leave the forest. He's their warden, after all."
Mathilda hums, her expression unreadable.
"Betha's a lovely woman," she says. "I had a long talk with her during the last banquet. She speaks highly of you. A little too highly, maybe. And she is... well, stunning."
"Yeah," I say. "The elves are a beautiful people. But even among them, Betha is... otherworldly."
Mathilda smiles at that. Something glimmers behind her eyes.
"And their customs…" she begins, voice lowering slightly. "I joined her for the purification ritual before the banquet, you know? I liked it. Stripping away ego, titles, masks. Seeing each other as we truly are. We spent a long while cleansing each other's bodies…"
My hand freezes mid-sip.
Her voice grows softer. More deliberate.
"It was… intimate. A kind of spiritual vulnerability, but also… physical. I felt seen, Leo."
She leans a little closer, her breath teasing the air between us.
"I told her, maybe next time we could invite you too. Just the three of us. One chamber. One ritual. No distractions. No secrets. We could… explore more. Deeply. Every… little… detail."
My brain stalls. A vivid image flashes behind my eyes—soft water cascading on bare skin, moonlight glistening through wooden slats, Betha's serene eyes, Mathilda's smirk...
NOPE. BAD LEO. DOWN, BOY!
Mathilda bursts into laughter at my horrified expression. A full, genuine laugh that fills the room. I try to chuckle but end up awkwardly swallowing the rest of the coffee—and immediately burn my tongue.
So much for the image of a dignified scribe. I probably look more like a nerdy office clerk caught fantasizing in a DnD tavern.
Outside, the wind rustles through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and old moss. I sit there with a slightly blistered tongue while Mathilda sips her coffee with calm amusement. Somehow, in all this chaos, I feel… alive.
And maybe—just maybe—that's enough for now.
The following morning, something unusual unfolds in Count Gerhart's courtroom.
There's a guest—a pale, frail man standing stiffly before our hulking Count. He's out of breath, twitchy, and looks like he hasn't slept in days. His robes suggest nobility, though his posture screams nervous intern on his first diplomatic errand.
Diplomatic visit?
"Greetings, Count Gerhart Ironwill of Tharros Vale," the man stammers. "Champion of Solarius, crusher of the demonic invasion, victorious hero of the war… I-I come from the County of Tilenburg, bearing wishes of friendship and… support."
Gerhart blinks. "Tilenburg... Tilenburg… hmm…"
He squints like a child trying to remember where he hid his snack. Then—
"Ah! Our neighbor! Welcome, welcome!"
He claps his hands and grins.
"Apologies for not meeting sooner—our scribe has been keeping us very busy with all these important duties," he chuckles heartily.
I give him a deadpan stare. If it's important, maybe you should prioritize it, Sir.
"And you are?" Gerhart asks, peering at the man like a forgetful uncle.
"Ah! I'm Merkel, of House Dalmer. Current Count of Tilenburg."
Silence.
Excuse me?That's the Count?
My jaw doesn't drop, but mentally, it hits the floor. This man looks like he'd flinch at a sneeze. Compared to our own walking fortress of a leader, he's… a ghost with a title.
Probably the kind of boss who's scared of his wife. Or his own shadow.
"I came here personally," Merkel continues, "because our county faces a… a difficult threat."
Gerhart immediately grabs his war hammer—his shiny, golden war hammer.
"Monsters? Dark magic? An invading army?" he asks, eyes alight.
Merkel yelps and shields his face.
"Not… not quite. It's pirates. Corsairs."
Pirates?
"They've been raiding our river settlements," he explains. "Demanding gold beyond what we can afford. If we refuse… they'll take our children."
Well. That escalated fast.
Franz frowns. "And you want a loan? Why not appeal to the Crown?"
"The capital's too far," Merkel says quickly. "And the dukes will bleed us dry. We thought you… might be more reasonable. Especially given your new relations with the Elves."
That makes me narrow my eyes.
"And why is that your concern?" I ask, voice clipped.
He looks at me with a weak smile.
"Because these pirates, you see…"
He swallows.
"They're Elves. Dark Elves."
Ah. Of course. That explains the haunted look in his eyes.
Gerhart steps forward, hammer lowered, his smile blindingly sincere.
"Fear not, friend. Our protection extends to all who need it. I'll personally handle this matter. In return, all we ask is your trust… and your friendship."
Oh no.
Here we go again.
Gerhart makes another grand promise—without a plan, without a council, without a second thought.
He's earnest. Noble. Heroic.
And he's going to give us another migraine.
And so, we set off toward the County of Tilenburg.Count Gerhart rode at the front, unbothered by danger or warnings—ever the proud fool in shining armor. Count Merkel, our supposed host, lagged behind with his timid horse, riding beside me in awkward silence. His entourage? A pitiful sight. Two guards who looked more like malnourished scarecrows than trained men-at-arms, and not even a banner to signal his station. No fanfare. No presence. Just a man clinging to dignity by a thread.
"What happens," I asked, "if the worst comes to pass, Count Merkel? Say the pirates aren't paid. Say they take your children hostage."
The Count's expression crumpled. "When the Crown finds out," he muttered, "our estate will be confiscated. Titles gone. What little we have in the treasury, gone. We'd be stripped of our holdings. Landless nobles after barely two generations. I suppose… we'd have to become adventurers of some kind."He glanced at his own frail limbs. "Though I doubt I'd survive a single week."
"So why not fight back?" I pressed. There had to be a standing army. Right?
"I'd rather not, Sir Leonhart… Tilenburg is practically defenseless. Not a single soul among us with any martial talent. And as for hiring mercenaries—" he scoffed, though it sounded more like a sob, "—we can't afford them. And even if we could, what's to stop them from turning on us?"
You're desperate... and doomed.
"Wait. Your people. They're not farmers like ours?"
"No, Sir Leonhart. They're fishermen. We live off the river. At its mercy, really. Floods, raiders, or worse... water-monsters."He shivered just thinking about it.
I sighed. "And if we refuse to help?"
"Then... I'll present myself as a hostage. Ransom myself to the Crown. And hope to be allowed to live out my days as a commoner. Maybe as a clerk in the city, if I'm lucky." His voice was barely above a whisper.
"And if Count Gerhart dies here," I said coldly, "you might inherit Tharros Vale. Your wealth might grow."It wasn't a threat. Just logic.
That broke him. Count Merkel began to cry—openly and without shame. A nobleman. Sobbing.Not the angry or indignant kind of tears. Just pure, exhausted grief. The kind that makes a man spit as he weeps, mucus dripping from his nose, all pretenses discarded.
"I—I admit... some other Count might scheme like that, yes. But not me. Ever since House Dalmer was burdened with ruling Tilenburg—since my grandfather's time—we've only prayed the Crown wouldn't notice us. We're understaffed, underfunded, and surrounded by hostiles... Tharros Vale is our only friendly neighbor."
Ah. The classic unwanted promotion. The kind where your superior steps down just before disaster hits and leaves you holding the bag, hoping no one notices you're unqualified. Middle management, medieval edition.
I chuckled. "Worry not, Count. We're not petty. Our court resembles more of a war council than a royal salon—filled with veterans, roughnecks, and other unsavory sorts—but we're above petty politicking and backstabbing."I paused. "Usually."
Sometimes, the kindest act comes not from gentle words, but from blunt honesty. Count Merkel had braced for suspicion or veiled threats. Instead, he found absurdity and sincerity in equal measure. Somehow, it gave him hope.
He thanked me profusely, invoking Solarius and Bellastris—the goddess of justice—between sniffles and bows.
And not long after, we arrived at the so-called capital of Tilenburg.Or rather... a fishing village pretending to be one.
The River Tilen is not a river.Not really. It's more like a clear-watered sea—wide, deep, and at times, ferocious. I can only imagine the kind of hardship fishermen face each day, especially with those rickety little boats of theirs. Along the way, the scenery is bleak.
Awe-struck peasants line the road, staring at us as if gods have descended. Their homes are barely standing. A dilapidated bridge groans beneath the weight of Count Gerhart's steed. The air here carries more than just the stench of fish—it reeks of poverty. Thick. Lingering.
Gerhart rides on, his eyes flickering with a complex blend of conviction and concern.
Then we reach the "castle."It's not a castle, of course. More like an oversized, haunted house from my old world. A few faded banners still hang on the walls, trying and failing to disguise the atmosphere of a bankrupt corporation clinging to the illusion of legacy. No retainers. No servants. No protocol. Just emptiness.
"Please sit, honored guests. I'll bring you clean glasses and water to quench your thirst," says Count Merkel, trying to sound noble.He shuffles back with wooden cups—the cheapest kind—and pours water. At least it's clean.
He scurries upstairs. Moments later, his family descends.
His wife, Edith, is beautiful but timid, just like her husband. Behind her, two daughters—five and seven, perhaps. None of them look remotely noble. They're dressed like peasants, faces weary yet polite.
"Forgive us, Count Gerhart," Edith says, bowing deeply. "I was washing clothes with Alice and Adelheid when my husband called."The daughters mimic her bow with shy smiles.
"We present to you what we have in abundance," Count Merkel says, revealing simple grilled fish. "Please, gentlemen… help yourselves."
We eat together. The fish, to my surprise, is fresh and quite delicious. With lemon and some Elven dipping sauce, it could rival tavern fare from the capital.
Then Gerhart brings out his gift—a barrel of Bovinid appleberry moonshine. Merkel takes a timid sip, then sighs, eyes lighting up with momentary joy. Even while drinking, the man can't seem to relax.
Later, he shows us to our "quarters."A clean floor. A blanket. Sacks of straw for pillows. Luxury, in a place like this.
Gerhart and I sit in silence. One glance at each other is enough—we understand.Tilenburg needs us.
"Our shared dream," Gerhart says, "will only live if everyone, everywhere, shares in its prosperity. We must be a shining example, Leo—not just rulers of our realm, but torchbearers of something greater. Tomorrow, I ask you... please find the best path forward. I trust your judgment. Your mind sees solutions where others see ruin."
Normally, I'd scoff. Roll my eyes. My stomach would churn at speeches like this.But this is different.
People will suffer—are suffering. This isn't politics anymore. It's survival.
"I can't promise you anything, sir," I reply, matching his fire. "The Woodland Tribes didn't tell me anything about Dark Elves. I'm in the dark here. But I do intend to solve this—fairly, if possible. Shared burdens, shared goals… shared consequences. Sir."
Tomorrow, maybe I'll find a solution.And just maybe...I'll find a way for Tilenburg to profit from this whole mess.