When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was stone — cracked, damp, and cold. A ceiling above me, rough-hewn, as if carved in another age. My body ached, and the smell of rot lingered in the air.
"Milord," a voice whispered beside me.
I turned. A gaunt man, clad in rusty chainmail, knelt at my side. His eyes carried both loyalty and despair.
"You must wake. Ashenvale needs you."
Ashenvale. The word struck like lightning through my fogged mind. Memories rushed in — not my own, but belonging to another man. The Baron of Ashenvale, dead from fever, leaving behind nothing but ruins for his heir. An heir who, by cruel twist of fate, was now me.
I stood, unsteady, and looked around. The "castle" was nothing but a decaying keep, its walls cracked, its banners moth-eaten. Through the arrow-slit window I saw the land beyond: blackened fields, burned homes, and smoke rising from distant villages.
"How many soldiers remain?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
The knight hesitated. "…Fifty, milord. Of which half are wounded or too old to march."
"And the peasants?"
He bowed his head. "Starving. Many have fled. Bandits roam freely. The treasury…" He swallowed. "…is empty."
I clenched my fists. A ruined castle, starving peasants, no gold, and enemies on every side. Any sane man would despair.
But I was not the old Baron. I was someone new. Someone who had studied history, read strategy, and knew that even the smallest seed could grow into a mighty tree.
I looked at the knight, fire burning in my chest.
"Then we rebuild," I said. "Stone by stone, man by man. Ashenvale will rise again."
And so began my rule — not as a doomed baron, but as a lord who would carve his name into history.