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Steel & Sigils: A Runic Journey

Manav_Dhillon
21
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 21 chs / week.
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Synopsis
Banished prince Edric Vale inherits a crumbling keep, fifty-seven terrified villagers, and a rune-scarred serpent that feeds on his blood. His only edge—the blood key—can steady battle runes but drains his life each time he sparks one. With a one-eyed drill-knight, a bean-pole farmhand wielding a door for a shield, and zero coin, Edric must turn mud into soldiers before rival barons and his power-mad cousin arrive with a walking iron fortress. Kingdom-building, bruising drills, and battles where every victory bleeds—Steel & Sigils is a low-magic, high-stakes fantasy about forging legend one shield wall at a time
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Chapter 1 - The Rotten Bridge

Rain hammered the border road like a smith at the anvil—steady, merciless, loud enough to drown a thought.

Prince Edric Vale tightened the black cloak around his shoulders; dull-gold runes along its hem winked with every drop. Twenty-two, lean from years on the road, he carried a scholar's grace: dark hair swept back, a neat beard, and clear grey eyes that weighed each hazard in turn.

Ahead, Innisford Bridge sagged across a slate-grey river. Half the planks were mushwood, the gaps wide enough to show black water boiling below. His gelding balked. Edric slid from the saddle, soothed the trembling animal, and spoke in an even, steady tone. The first hoof touched wood. A board bowed, another groaned, but together they crossed—one deliberate step after another.

Lightning split the clouds. For an instant the keep on the far bank leapt into view: cracked curtain walls, a watch-tower listing like a drunk, banners in tatters. The last scrap of House Vale looked more tomb than fortress, yet a sharp spark kindled behind Edric's ribs. If this is all that remains, then this is where we begin.

At the gate, a lone knight waited—short, sinewy, cloak plastered to corded shoulders. Sir Brynn Iron-Thorn rested one scarred hand on a plain arming sword. Rain slid off the leather patch covering her right eye; the left, bright flint-green, studied him without blinking.

"Welcome home, Your Highness," she said, voice rough as whetstone. "What's left of it." She cocked her head toward the bridge. "If that span had dropped, I'd have called it mercy—less to rebuild."

Edric answered with a single nod—more promise than greeting—and led the gelding through the portcullis. His rune-bracer flared once, a needle of heat along the scar beneath. A flash of memory: lamplight, steel, his father's knife opening skin so blood could bind glowing sigils. Power always asks a price, son. The ache faded, but the warning stayed.

The courtyard smelled of wet straw, churned mud, and burnt cabbage from a stubborn kitchen fire. Rain drummed through broken gutters into puddles that mirrored torchlight. A cracked fountain dribbled down its side. Overhead, a midnight-blue griffin banner drooped; one thin silver thread still caught the light—stubborn, unbroken.

Ink-smudged Rafe, the keep's young clerk, splashed up with a patched ledger clutched like a life ring.

"Fifty-seven remaining souls, Your Highness. No coin in the box. Five roofs down; two more half-gone."

"Fifty-seven." Edric exhaled fog. "How many can carry a spear?"

"Twelve," Rafe said, "counting Old Fenna."

"Then we count her," Brynn put in. She jerked a thumb toward a mound of shingles. "Roofs first. Dry heads, fewer fevers."

Edric touched the cracked fountain, feeling slimy stone under his glove, and straightened. "We mend spirits first," he said. "Money will follow."

Brynn's mouth twitched—her idea of a grin. "Training ground at dawn. Bring nerve and—" she tapped the patch on her helm "—eyes forward; daydreamers bleed."

Rafe lingered. "I tried to hold everything together."

"And you still are." Edric squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Stay close, keep those pages dry, and we'll fill that ledger with better numbers."

Rafe managed a shy smile and hurried off.

Edric's gaze rose to the banner. The lone silver thread winked back—not dead yet. Enough for tonight.

Fog crept into the yard with dawn, muffling every sound. Edric buckled his weather-scarred coat, stepped onto churned earth that had been a courtyard before the rain. Villagers formed a shaky line: goat herders in patched cloaks, washerwomen gripping broom handles, three apprentice smiths still dusted with coal. Will, a freckled beanpole whose limbs hadn't signed a peace treaty with each other, clutched a chopped-off farmhouse door as a shield. Edric looped a dented pot-lid to his own arm and stood beside him. Lead from inside the wall, not above it.

Brynn paced before the ranks. "Shields high, feet wide. When I clap—push!"

She clapped.

Wood slammed wood; sap-sweet splinters flew. Breath fogged the chill air; mud clutched boots like greedy hands. They pushed again and again—five shoves, six, seven—each harder than the last. Shoulders burned, ribs rattled. On the tenth shove the wall locked.

Will's door creaked like an old mill wheel; Edric's pot-lid rang a thin, defiant note. Apprentice Merra barked a surprised laugh, half joy, half disbelief.

Brynn's eye swept the line. "Does it stop hurting?" Hope flickered in tired faces. "Yes—once you're too numb to notice." A chorus of groans. She added, drier than salt, "Cheer up; numb fighters stay upright longer."

Will sagged, panting. "Thought I'd drop this plank on my toes."

"Lift your toes next time," Edric said, smiling though his arms shook. The sight of a wall—however shabby—sent warmth through him.

Pain stabbed his bracer; the runes thrummed, hungry. He slowed his breathing until the light faded. Not now, he warned, and the magic settled like a sated cat.

Sunlight speared the fog, laying a sword-thin bar of gold across the parapet. The torn griffin banner caught it, lighting that single silver thread until it blazed like dawn made solid. Heat pooled behind Edric's ribs, easing the ache in his shoulders and the throb beneath the bracer.

He raised his voice. "We hold this yard together. Tomorrow we do it again—maybe it stings less, maybe we're stronger. Strength is a habit; so is fear. Choose."

No one laughed. They simply breathed, listening to their own hearts.

The drill ended. Some limped toward the smithy, others for the kitchen. Will propped his door-shield against the wall and wiped mud from the crooked griffin he'd painted across it.

Edric knelt, scooped a fistful of wet earth, let it slide through his fingers, then flicked it aside. "From this, iron," he said—no prayer, just a promise.

Brynn watched from the broken fountain, arms folded. "That hope you're handing out," she called, softer now, "keep a slice for yourself."

"I will," Edric said. "But they needed it first."

She nodded once and strode off to bully roof beams. Edric lingered, breathing the clean, cold air that follows heavy rain. Around him lay cracked stones, tattered banners, and a bridge that should have fallen years ago—yet under his boots he felt solid ground for the first time in seven years.

One wall stood. Tomorrow they would raise another, and another.

Sometimes a single wall is where a kingdom begins.