Oakhaven had once been a prosperous weaving village, known for its fine linens and the gentle song of the Silverbrook River. Now, as Archibald looked down from the ridge, it looked like a wound on the landscape.
The village green had been turned into a fortified stockade. Sharpened logs formed a perimeter, and in the center, a massive iron-bound wagon stood—a "Reaper's Carriage." Archibald felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning mist. Reaper's Carriages were used by the High-Ledger nobility to transport "living counts"—prisoners kept alive only until their deaths could be most efficiently harvested by a rising officer.
"Thirty guards," Captain Thorne whispered, peering through a brass farrier's glass. "Most are low-counts, fifty to eighty. But the one in the gilded breastplate... that's Centurion Hax. He's got a Ledger that's pushing five hundred. He's a butcher in a fancy suit."
"We can't take thirty men in a fortified position without losing half of ours," Sir Kaelen said, his voice tight with rare pragmatism. "And if Hax sees us coming, he'll start executing the villagers just to bloat his count for the fight."
Prince Valerius turned his gaze to Archibald. The boy was trying to make himself small, huddled in a cloak that was three sizes too big.
"Archibald," the Prince said.
Archibald jumped. "Y-yes, My Lord?"
"You are the only one among us who can walk into that camp without arousing suspicion. You don't look like a soldier. You don't smell like one. To them, you're just another stray dog looking for a bone."
Sir Kaelen let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. "Finally, the rat's true calling. Back to the pig-slop."
"Kaelen, enough," Princess Elara snapped. She walked over to Archibald, her silk dress torn at the hem but her posture still regal. She reached into a small pouch at her belt and pulled out a thin, silver vial. "This is a concentrated paralytic derived from Gallow-Wood fungi. One drop in the officers' wine, and their Ledger-links will seize. They won't be able to draw on their stolen strength."
Archibald looked at the vial, then at the fortified camp. His stomach felt like it was full of wet sand. "You want me to... poison a Centurion?"
"I want you to be the ghost in the kitchen," Valerius said, placing a heavy hand on Archibald's shoulder. "Find where they keep the keys to the Reaper's Carriage. If you can unlock that, the villagers can create a distraction from the inside. We'll hit the gates the moment the first scream starts."
Archibald took the vial. His fingers brushed Elara's, and for a brief second, the terror receded, replaced by a desperate, foolish need to prove he wasn't just a "rat."
"I... I can do it," Archibald whispered.
Two hours later, Archibald was trudging down the main road toward Oakhaven, carrying a heavy bundle of firewood he'd gathered. He had smeared soot on his face and torn his tunic further. He looked every bit the part of a village boy broken by the coup.
As he approached the gate, two guards leveled pikes at his chest. Their auras were a dull, sickly orange—low-level killers who enjoyed the bullying more than the combat.
"Halt, whelp," one of them barked. "Oakhaven is under military jurisdiction. State your business or give us your head for the count."
Archibald dropped the wood, letting his knees knock together. "P-please, masters. I was out in the woods when the fires started. I'm a pot-boy. I can scrub, I can peel, I can... I can handle the heavy cauldrons. The kitchens up there look like they need hands." He pointed toward the smoke rising from the village tavern, which Hax had claimed as his headquarters.
The guards exchanged a look. One of them kicked the wood. "Scrawny thing. But the Centurion's been complaining about the grit in his stew since we hung the old cook."
"Get in there," the other guard growled, prodding Archibald with the blunt end of his pike. "Report to the Sergeant of the Mess. If you steal so much as a crust of bread, I'll personally harvest your zero-count for the practice."
Archibald hurried past, his heart drumming against his ribs.
The interior of the village was a nightmare. Villagers were tied in rows near the Reaper's Carriage, their eyes hollow. But it was the Ledger-Pressure that was the worst. Centurion Hax was sitting on the tavern porch, drinking wine and laughing. His aura was a dense, vibrating sphere of red that seemed to pulse with every heartbeat. To Archibald, who only had a count of 52, the pressure felt like standing too close to a roaring furnace.
He was directed to the tavern's back kitchen. It was a chaotic mess. Dead chickens hung from the rafters, and the floor was slick with blood and cabbage water.
"You!" a fat Sergeant roared, pointing a meat cleaver at Archibald. "The boy from the road? Get to the basins. The Centurion wants his mid-day feast in an hour, and the plates are filth!"
Archibald dived into the work. It was familiar—the scalding water, the caustic soap, the rhythmic scrubbing. It calmed his nerves, allowing him to observe.
He saw the keys. They were hooked onto the Sergeant's belt—a heavy iron ring that clattered every time the man moved.
He also saw the wine. A large cask of "Aethelgard Gold" sat on the sideboard, ready to be decanted for the officers' table.
Archibald waited for his moment. It came when a fight broke out between two soldiers over a dropped tray of sausages. The Sergeant roared in fury, stepping away from the sideboard to cuff the men over the heads.
Archibald reached into his tunic for the silver vial. His hands were slick with dishwater. He moved toward the wine cask.
Suddenly, a hand clamped onto his wrist.
Archibald froze, his blood turning to ice. He looked up into the cold, calculating eyes of a woman wearing the dark leather of a Malakor Scout. Her Ledger was a sharp, needle-like violet. A count of 200.
"What do you have there, little rat?" she whispered, her grip tightening until Archibald's bones groaned.
Archibald's mind raced. He could feel the vial slipping from his wet fingers. If it hit the floor and broke, he was dead. If she saw the silver, he was dead.
"It's... it's salt, mistress!" Archibald squeaked, his voice cracking. "The Sergeant... he said the stew was bland. I didn't want to get whipped!"
"Salt doesn't come in silver vials," she hissed, her eyes narrowing.
She began to twist his arm, forcing his hand open. At that exact moment, a stray cat—startled by the shouting soldiers outside—leaped from a shelf above. It landed directly on the scout's head, claws digging into her scalp.
The woman shrieked, her grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
Archibald didn't just stand there. As he stumbled back, his elbow hit the tap of the wine cask. A stream of dark red wine began to pour out. In the confusion of the cat attack and the splashing wine, Archibald managed to flick the stopper off the vial and dump the contents into the decanter sitting beneath the tap.
"Cursed beast!" the scout yelled, throwing the cat across the room. She turned back to Archibald, her hand on her dagger. "Show me your hand!"
Archibald opened his hand. It was empty. The vial had fallen—not onto the floor, but perfectly into the open mouth of a discarded fish-head in the scrap bucket.
The scout stared at his empty palm, then at the overflowing wine decanter.
"Messy brat," she spat, shoving him away. "Clean up that wine and get out of my sight before I decide I need a few more points for my Ledger."
Archibald scrambled to the floor, pretending to sob as he wiped the wine. He watched as the Sergeant, still cursing, grabbed the poisoned decanter and marched it out to the Centurion's table.
Phase one is done, Archibald thought, his chest heaving. Now for the keys.
But as he looked out the window, he saw something that made his heart stop. Sir Kaelen hadn't waited for the signal. He saw the glint of silver armor in the tree-line. Kaelen was moving early, trying to claim the glory of the kill for himself.
"No," Archibald whispered. "Not yet."
The glint of Sir Kaelen's silver pauldrons was like a flare in the dark woods. It was a move born of pure, arrogant stupidity—Kaelen didn't want to share the "Kill Count" of a Centurion with a scullery boy's plan. He wanted the five hundred points for himself.
"Intruders at the North Tree-line!" a sentry screamed from the watchtower.
The kitchen exploded into motion. The Sergeant, who had been reaching for a tray of roasted potatoes, spun around, his heavy iron key ring jangling against his thigh like a death knell.
"You! Boy!" the Sergeant roared, grabbing Archibald by the collar and nearly lifting him off the floor. "Get the oil! If they breach the gate, we burn the stockade with the villagers inside. No one gets a free harvest today!"
Archibald's feet dangled. He saw the keys. They were right there, inches from his hand. But the Sergeant's grip was like an iron vice. Outside, the sounds of combat erupted—the rhythmic thrum of Royal Guard crossbows and the shimmering vwoom of Ledger-enhanced blades clashing.
"The oil, I said!" the Sergeant screamed, shaking Archibald.
In that moment, Archibald's "luck" took a violent, clumsy turn.
A stray crossbow bolt, fired from the woods, hissed through the open kitchen window. It wasn't aimed at the Sergeant; it was a wild shot. It struck a heavy copper pot hanging from the ceiling. The pot spun, the hook snapped, and the heavy vessel fell—not on the Sergeant, but onto the bubbling vat of dishwater Archibald had been using.
A wave of scalding, greasy water splashed upward. It hit the Sergeant squarely in the small of his back.
The man let out a howl of agony, his muscles spasming as he released Archibald to clutch at his burns. As he buckled, the key ring caught on the edge of the prep table. The leather thong snapped.
The keys slid across the floor, coming to rest right at Archibald's feet.
Archibald didn't wait. He scooped them up, the iron cold and heavy in his palm, and dived through the back servant's hatch just as the Sergeant lunged for him with a meat cleaver.
The village green was a vortex of red mist and steel. Sir Kaelen had breached the North gate, his violet aura cutting a swath through the orange-clad conscripts. But he was being surrounded. Centurion Hax had stood up from his table, his hand on a massive, two-handed executioner's sword.
"Kaelen, you fool," Archibald hissed, staying low and darting between the shadows of the weaving huts.
He reached the Reaper's Carriage. Up close, it was even more gruesome—the wood was stained dark with the "drainage" of previous harvests, and the air around it felt heavy, as if the very atmosphere were mourning. Behind the iron bars, dozens of villagers were huddled together, their faces masks of gaunt terror.
"The keys!" a man whispered, his hands clutching the bars. "Boy, the keys!"
Archibald fumbled with the ring. There were twelve keys. His hands were shaking so violently he dropped the ring into the mud.
"Come on, come on," he pleaded with the universe.
Above him, on the tavern porch, Centurion Hax prepared to join the fray. "Malakor wants their heads!" Hax bellowed, his voice amplified by his five-hundred-count Ledger. "The first man to bring me the Prince gets a triple ration and a week's leave!"
Hax stepped forward to leap into the courtyard—and suddenly staggered.
He clutched his throat. His red aura, usually a stable, terrifying sphere, began to flicker like a dying candle. The Gallow-Wood poison was working. It didn't kill; it severed the spiritual nerves that allowed a warrior to draw from their Ledger. To a man like Hax, who relied on his stolen strength to move his heavy armor, the loss was catastrophic. He felt his own weight for the first time in years. He fell to one knee, the porch boards cracking under his sudden, unmitigated mass.
"My... my strength..." Hax gasped, his face turning a sickly shade of gray.
Archibald found the right key. The lock turned with a heavy thunk.
He threw the door open. "Run! Go to the woods! The Prince is there!"
The villagers didn't need to be told twice. A flood of humanity poured out of the carriage. But they didn't all run for the woods. Some, fueled by a lifetime of oppression and the sight of their weakened captors, snatched up fallen pikes and stones.
"For Oakhaven!" an old man screamed, plunging a pitchfork into a distracted guard's side.
Archibald was caught in the middle of the surge. He was knocked down, trampled by a dozen feet, and slid through the mud until he hit the base of the tavern porch.
He looked up.
Centurion Hax was struggling to stand, his eyes bloodshot and fixed on Archibald. The Centurion knew. He saw the empty silver vial glinting in the mud where Archibald had dropped it.
"You..." Hax wheezed, drawing a jagged dagger from his boot. "The scullery rat... poisoned the wine..."
Even without his Ledger-strength, Hax was a trained killer. He lunged off the porch, his weight pinning Archibald into the muck. The jagged dagger descended.
Archibald scrambled backward, his hand searching the mud for anything—a rock, a stick, his frying pan. His fingers closed around something long and cold.
He pulled it up and swung it blindly.
It was the iron key ring.
The heavy bunch of keys swung like a flail, catching Hax directly in his open mouth. The impact shattered teeth and sent a shock of pain through the Centurion's skull. Hax recoiled, spitting blood and broken enamel.
Before he could recover, a golden blur hit him from the side.
Prince Valerius had arrived. He didn't use his Ledger-strength for a flashy execution. He moved with the cold, efficient grace of a man reclaiming his home. His golden blade took Hax through the throat in a single, fluid motion.
The Centurion's red mist erupted. Because Valerius was the one who struck the blow, the massive count—all five hundred points—surged toward the Prince. Valerius stood in the center of the village, his aura expanding, glowing with a new, fierce intensity that pushed back the shadows of the trees.
"The Centurion is fallen!" Valerius roared, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "Aethelgard stands with Oakhaven! Lay down your arms and you shall live to see the dawn!"
The remaining guards, seeing their leader dead and their Ledger-links failing from the tainted wine, threw down their swords.
The battle was over.
As the sun began to peek over the horizon, the village of Oakhaven was a scene of somber victory. The loyalists were tending to the wounded. Sir Kaelen stood apart, cleaning his blade, his face a mask of wounded pride. He had taken thirty kills, but the "Big Harvest"—the Centurion—had gone to the Prince, and the tactical victory belonged to a boy who smelled like dishwater.
Archibald sat on the steps of the tavern, cleaning the mud off his boots. His hands were finally still.
"You did well, Archibald," a voice said.
He looked up. Princess Elara was standing there. She wasn't wearing her royal finery anymore; she had donned a simple leather tunic, but she looked more like a queen than ever. She sat down on the step beside him.
"I almost dropped the keys," Archibald whispered.
"But you didn't," she replied. She reached into her belt and handed him a small, carved wooden token—the seal of the Oakhaven weavers. "The villagers wanted you to have this. They say you're the first 'Ghost' of the rebellion."
Archibald took the token. He felt the '52' inside him hum. It wasn't just 52 anymore. In the chaos of the kitchen, when the Sergeant had been scalded and the sentry had been struck, a few wisps of "unclaimed" counts had drifted his way. He was now at 68.
"We have more than thirty men now," Archibald noted, looking at the dozen villagers who were currently being sworn in by Captain Thorne.
"We have an army in the making," Elara agreed. "But Malakor will hear of this. He won't send a Centurion next time. He'll send something worse."
"What's worse than a man with a count of two thousand?" Archibald asked.
Elara looked toward the capital, her expression darkening. "The Ebon-Guard. Men who have stopped being human entirely. Men whose counts are so high they no longer breathe air—they breathe the mist of the dead."
A sudden shout from the forest edge interrupted them.
One of Thorne's scouts came riding in, his horse lathered in foam. "Highness! Message from the Southern border! It's not just Malakor's men. The Kingdom of Draksis has crossed the river! They're seizing the outer territories while we fight ourselves!"
Valerius stood up, his new, five-hundred-count aura flared. "An invasion? Now?"
"They aren't just invading, My Lord," the scout gasped. "They say they've made a pact with the Chancellor. Vane has promised them half of Aethelgard in exchange for our heads."
The stakes had just doubled. It wasn't just a civil war anymore. It was a fight for the survival of the realm itself.
Archibald looked at his frying pan, then at the wooden token in his hand. He was just a boy with a bit of luck. But as the horizon turned blood-red with the coming of a second war, he realized that luck was the only thing Aethelgard had left.