Darian stood in the garrison's guardhouse, meticulously counting the last stack of coins. The room smelled of musty parchment and spilled ink. Sunlight streamed through the narrow window, illuminating dancing dust motes and glinting off the copper and silver pieces arranged in neat piles across the table.

  "Twelve hundred and eighty-three silver marks, four hundred and twenty-six copper pence," he muttered, making a final notation on the ledger. "Blood money squeezed from three villages: Oakvale, Hemvale, and Rosevale."

  He moved to the window and rested his hands on the rough stone sill. The parade ground below bustled with activity. The surviving Veyltharion soldiers—eight men who'd bent the knee to Bran after the battle—were showing the villagers how to properly maintain the weapons they'd captured from the slain Azgraburians. Their weathered faces still bore uncertainty, but they moved with purpose. Men seeking redemption often made the most dedicated converts.

  His gaze shifted to his Rebel Footmen. All thirty-two had survived, though several sported bandages on arms or faces. They moved differently now—their backs were straighter, and they held their heads higher. The shared triumph of victory bound them together in ways Darian recognized from countless Campaigns.

  Alberan once said a man who tastes victory becomes addicted to its flavor. These farmers have had their first taste. They're soldiers now, whether they realize it or not.

  At the center of it all stood Bran, his massive frame unmistakable even from this distance. The blacksmith-turned-duke spoke quietly to a circle of men, his gestures measured and calm. They leaned toward him, hanging on his words.

  Darian couldn't hear what Bran was saying, but through the Warsong link, he felt the ripples of the man's natural authority. It wasn't the practiced command of a drill sergeant or the cold authority of a noble. It was something rawer, more genuine—the leadership of a man who'd spent decades working alongside common folk, understanding their fears and hopes.

  That's what I lack, Darian thought. What all Warmasters lack. Myrmidos trained us to command perfectly but never to connect truly.

  He remembered Alberan's weathered face in the monastery's stone halls. "A Warmaster alone is a sword without a hilt," the old man had said. "Sharp, deadly, but impossible to wield without injury. Find your hilt, boy. Find the leader whose hand fits your blade."

  Watching Bran below, Darian felt a quiet certainty. I've found my hilt.

  Darian descended the guardhouse steps with the ledger tucked under his arm. The late morning sun warmed his face as he strode across the parade ground. Conversations died away as men noticed him approaching, and a respectful hush fell over the assembled rebels and soldiers.

  His War Frame activated automatically and analyzed the armed men before him. Darian grinned slightly—just earlier today, they had been a ragtag band of peasants with pitchforks and scythes. Now they stood arrayed in chainmail coats and leather jerkins, with helmets gleaming in the sunlight. Captured Azgraburian and Veyltharion weapons—well-crafted spears, swords, and axes—rested in their hands with growing familiarity.

  Bran stood at the center, his massive frame made even more imposing by the chainmail coat he'd donned. Beyris's ornate half-plate armor lay discarded nearby—it was too small for the blacksmith's broad shoulders.

  "Quite the transformation," Darian said, approaching Bran with a slight nod. "Your men look ready for a proper fight now."

  "Your men," Bran corrected. "I'm just the face they rally behind."

  Darian's War Frame flickered to life as he studied the Veyltharion soldiers who'd survived the battle. His gaze settled on a lean soldier cleaning a bloodied spear with methodical precision.

  Colm Vickers (Veyltharion Soldier)

  Individual Stats

  Offense: 35 (Spear Specialization)

  Defense: 65

  Morale: 70%

  Special: Formation Fighting, Drill Experience

  Weakness: Limited Versatility

  Darian's attention shifted to a wiry man practicing quick, darting movements with a short sword.

  Gendry Malm (Veyltharion Soldier)

  Individual Stats

  Offense: 45 (Melee), 55 (Ranged)

  Defense: 25

  Morale: 65%

  Special: Throwing Weapons Expert, Hit-and-Run Mobility

  Weakness: Vulnerable in Sustained Combat, Countered by bowmen and crossbowmen

  His gaze then found a mountain of a man hefting a massive two-handed mace.

  Baram Calber (Veyltharion Soldier)

  Individual Stats

  Offense: 75 (Crushing Strikes)

  Defense: 30

  Morale: 65%

  Special: Breakthrough Potential, Enemy Morale Suppression

  Weakness: Low Movement Speed, Low Stamina

  The remaining five soldiers registered as solid, well-rounded fighters with balanced stats across the board.

  "With your permission," Darian said to Bran, "I'd like to formalize our force structure. These men need proper organization to maximize their effectiveness."

  Bran gestured broadly. "Do what you must. You're the Warmaster here."

  Darian stepped forward, raising his voice to address the assembled men. "Yesterday, you fought in ad-hoc units. Today, you begin training as a proper military force."

  He paced before them, mentally sorting them into functional units. "First squad—those who fought alongside Duke Ironheart. Step forward."

  Ten men, most of who'd been farmers just earlier today, moved forward hesitantly.

  "You will now be known as the Ducal Spearmen." Darian beckoned to Colm. "Corporal Vickers will be your drill instructor. Your purpose: to form the line and hold it."

  Ducal Spearmen

  Veteran Level: 1

  Offense: 40 (+10 with Colm)

  Defense: 65 (+5 with Colm)

  Morale: 60% (+5% with Colm)

  Special Abilities: None

  Passive Abilities: Effective against Cavalry

  Weakness: Poor offensive capabilities

  "Second squad—those with lighter armor and quicker feet," Darian said, pointing to ten men in turn. They stepped forward proudly. Each of them has now carrying a light crossbow and had a quiver hitched to their belts. Those who'd wielded slings earlier on still kept their weapons tucked into their belt pouches or wound around their forearms.

  "You are now the Ducal Skirmishers, under Corporal Malm," Darian told them. "Your purpose: to harass, flank, and exploit openings."

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  Ducal Skirmishers

  Veteran Level: 1

  Ranged Offense: 45 (+10 with Gendry)

  Melee Offense: 30 (+5 with Gendry)

  Defense: 35 (+5 with Gendry)

  Morale: 55 (+5% with Gendry)

  Special Abilities: None

  Passive Abilities: Parthian Shot (can move while using ranged skirmish weapons)

  Weakness: Vulnerable to Cavalry

  "Third squad—those who fought at my side with two-handed weapons." Darian turned to the twelve men who'd followed him into battle. They grinned and stepped forward proudly. He gave them a nod of acknowledgement. "You are the Ducal Assault Infantry, under Corporal Calber. Your purpose: to break enemy formations when the moment is right."

  Ducal Assault Infantry

  Veteran Level: 1

  Offense: 55 (+10 with Baram)

  Defense: 40 (+5 with Baram)

  Morale: 65% (+5% with Baram)

  Special Abilities: None

  Passive Abilities: Armor Piercing

  Weakness: Vulnerable to Missile Fire

  Finally, Darian gestured to the five remaining Veyltharion soldiers. "You men will form the Ducal Bodyguard, personally responsible for Duke Ironheart's safety. Your purpose: to ensure our leader lives to see Malevora's fall."

  Ducal Bodyguard

  Veteran Level: 1

  Offense: 45

  Defense: 55

  Morale: 75%

  Special Abilities: None

  Passive Abilities: Bodyguard (+10 to Defense of Duke)

  Weakness: Limited Numbers

  As the men rearranged themselves into their new units, Darian felt the War Frame humming with satisfaction. Order from chaos. Structure from randomness. This was what Warmasters did best.

  The War Frame overlay continued to flicker in his mind's eye, displaying the vital statistics of each unit. His attention lingered on the "Veteran Level: 1" indicator that appeared for each squad.

  Just babies in the art of war, he thought, recalling Alberan's teachings at Myrmidos. But they've survived their first battle. That's the crucial step.

  Veteran Levels were perhaps the most important metric in Darian's War Frame. While raw numbers and abilities could be enhanced through his spells, Veteran Levels represented something deeper—the accumulated experience, instinct, and cohesion that only came from surviving combat together. No spell could fabricate that bond.

  Alberan used to say that a Veteran Level 3 squad could defeat a Veteran Level 1 squad twice its size, Darian reflected. And he wasn't exaggerating.

  Each battle these men survived would forge them into more effective fighters. Their reflexes would sharpen, their coordination would improve, and their confidence would grow. The War Frame would reflect these changes with increased offense, defense, and morale percentages.

  If I can keep these squads intact through the next few engagements, they'll develop into something formidable, he thought. By Veteran Level 3, they'll move as one organism. By Level 5, they'll anticipate each other's actions without words.

  The most tantalizing prospect lay beyond that. Darian had commanded a few Veteran Level 10 regiments during his previous Campaigns. Those elite units had developed special abilities that seemed almost supernatural to observers—the ability to march for days without rest, to reload crossbows with impossible speed, or to maintain perfect formation even in chaotic melees.

  That's the true power of a Warmaster, Darian thought. Not the spells we cast, but our ability to nurture these men from frightened villagers into hardened veterans who fight as one.

  He knew most of these men wouldn't survive to see those heights. War was merciless that way. But those who did would become the core around which he could build an army capable of challenging Malevora.

  Darian turned to Bran, conscious of the men waiting at attention. "Perhaps we should let them rest. They've earned it."

  Bran nodded, his voice carrying across the yard. "You heard the Warmaster. Get some food, tend your wounds, and rest. Tomorrow brings new challenges."

  The men dispersed with surprising discipline, breaking into their newly formed units. Darian watched them go, his mind already calculating the impossible odds they faced.

  "Thirty-eight men," he murmured once they were alone. "Thirty-eight soldiers and you."

  "Against the might of the Veyltharion Empire," Bran finished, his face grim. "Hundreds of thousands of troops across the realm."

  Darian paced, the War Frame in his mind rapidly cycling through potential strategies. "We need to grow quickly. Very quickly." He stopped and faced Bran directly. "I intend to seize Volkus Keep within five days."

  Bran's eyes widened. "Volkus Keep? Baron Leontus Harvan's fortress?" He shook his head in disbelief. "That's madness, Warmaster. Harvan is a butcher on the battlefield. His Black Bolts have broken armies three times their size."

  "I'm aware of his reputation," Darian replied calmly. "And I know five garrisons answer to him. That's precisely why we must move against him."

  Control Volkus Keep, and we control the crossroads to a third of the Golden Plains, Darian thought. We gain legitimacy, resources, and a defensible position in one stroke.

  "We'll march for the next garrison at first light," Darian continued. "There will be more Veyltharion soldiers there—men who resent the Azgraburians as much as Sergeant Glenn did. We'll turn them, add their numbers to ours."

  Bran looked up at the sky, where the first stars were appearing against the deepening blue. "Night's coming on already." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully, then nodded. "You're right about one thing—time isn't our friend. If we don't grow stronger quickly, Malevora will crush us before we've properly begun."

  Alberan always said revolution is like a fire, Darian thought. It must spread rapidly or be stamped out.

  "Five days to Volkus Keep," Bran repeated, his voice a mixture of doubt and determination. "May the old gods help us, because we'll need more than skill to pull this off."

  Darian glanced down at the ledger he'd confiscated. The tax records revealed patterns of systematic exploitation—villages stripped of resources under the guise of "imperial necessity." His fingers tightened around the leather-bound book.

  "We need a name," he said suddenly, looking up at Bran. "Something for the men to rally behind. Something that represents what we're fighting for."

  Bran raised an eyebrow. "A name?"

  "Every army needs a banner and a name," Darian explained. "It gives men purpose, identity. Makes them part of something larger than themselves."

  "Then you should name it," Bran said, crossing his massive arms. "You're the military mind here."

  Darian shook his head. "No. I'm an outsider to these lands. The true heir to the Empire should name its liberators." He smiled slightly. "It's your birthright, after all."

  Bran fell silent, his weathered face thoughtful as he gazed across the garrison yard. The setting sun cast long shadows and painted everything in amber and gold. Darian watched the calculations behind Bran's eyes and noted the careful consideration that belied his rough appearance.

  He thinks like a ruler already, whether he admits it or not.

  "The Veyltharion Liberation Front," Bran said finally. "That's what we'll call ourselves."

  Darian tilted his head. "Interesting choice. I thought you might name it after the Ironheart Imperial Family. Your family."

  "If—" Bran paused, correcting himself. "When I become Emperor, I intend to take a less traditional approach to rulership." His voice grew stronger, more certain. "The common people will have more say and a greater stake in the nation's success. There will be a common code of law to which all are bound, be they royalty, nobility, or commoner."

  Ambitious, Darian thought. His War Frame automatically calculated the political resistance such ideas would encounter. Potentially revolutionary.

  "Where did these ideas come from?" Darian asked, genuinely curious. "They're... progressive for someone of royal blood."

  A shadow of grief passed over Bran's face. "My late wife, Lysa. She studied abroad in a distant land called the Republic of Lantai. Their governance fascinated her."

  "I know of Lantai," Darian said carefully. "Their system has merits, but I believe it will be very difficult for you to get Veyltharions—commoner or nobility—to accept republican notions."

  Bran laughed, unleashing a deep rumble that seemed to lighten the weight on his shoulders. "It's not my intention to turn Veyltharion into a republic. I'm just sowing seeds for a future I will not likely live to see."

  The statement struck Darian with its selflessness. The War Frame couldn't quantify such qualities, but he recognized them nonetheless.

  "You're planning generations ahead," Darian observed.

  "A true ruler should," Bran replied simply. "Malevora thinks only of herself, of power she can grasp now. That's why she'll never be a true Empress, no matter what crown she wears."

  "Bran!" Thomwell shouted from the compound's gate. The Ironheart banner was carefully rolled and secured to his back. The young bannerman caught himself and turned red as he realized how he'd just addressed the Duke. "I… I mean… your Grace! You said you wanted to return to Oakvale—"

  "I did," Bran called back. "We'll get going shortly, lad." Running a hand through his beard, he turned back to Darian. "I should see to the village elders. Thomwell's arranged for them to meet me at the tavern. They'll need reassurance about what comes next."

  Darian nodded. "Of course. A leader's work is never done."

  "Neither is a Warmaster's, I suspect." Bran clasped Darian's shoulder with his massive hand. "Get some rest tonight if you can. We have a long road ahead of us."

  "Goodnight, Duke Ironheart," Darian said with a slight bow.

  Bran's laugh was a rumble of distant thunder. "Still not used to that title." He turned to leave, then paused. "Darian... thank you. For giving me purpose again after Lysa. I'd forgotten what it felt like."

  As Bran strode away and left the compound with Thomwell and the Ducal Bodyguard, Darian watched their silhouettes fade into the gathering darkness. The weight of responsibility settled more firmly on his shoulders as he made his way back to the guardhouse.

  There, he spread the garrison's financial records across the commander's desk. By lamplight, he counted coins and tallied resources, relying on his War Frame to make dozens of concurrent logistical calculations and projections.

  One hundred men for a week, he thought, as he traced his fingers down a column of numbers. Not bad for a start, but far from what we'll need.

  The arithmetic was brutal and unforgiving. An army marched on its stomach and fought with steel. Both required gold—or the willingness to take what was needed by force.

  At least Bran understands the necessities of war, Darian reflected. Many leaders I've served would have immediately distributed this money to curry favor with the locals.

  He leaned back in a creaking chair. Memories flooded unbidden through the cracks in his mental wall. He let them through—this always happened to him during the opening stages of a Campaign—and they flashed the faces of leaders long dead before his mind's eye. Some of them had been noble, and some had been cruel, but they were all ultimately dust.

  Two hundred and seventeen years, he thought. Two hundred and seventeen years since I first drank the Elixir of Myrmidos.

  The War Sages had explained it clinically: "Your body will remain as it is now. Every fifty years, you must return for another dose. This is the price and privilege of a Warmaster."

  Darian had executed dozens of Campaigns for an equal number of leaders across those centuries. Some leaders had been idealists like Bran, burning with visions of a better world. Others had been pragmatists, fighting for stability above all. A few had been monsters wearing masks of righteousness.

  And how many remained true to their ideals after victory? he asked himself. Three? Perhaps four?

  The pattern was depressingly consistent. Victory corrupted more surely than power. He'd watched noble revolutionaries transform into paranoid tyrants, their former rhetoric hollow against their new decrees. Those rare few who clung to their principles rarely survived their first year of rule. Without exception, they would be betrayed by lieutenants who'd decided their idealism was a liability.

  Will you be different, Bran Copperfield? Darian wondered, staring at the ceiling. Or will you follow the same path as the others?

  Part of him—the part still capable of hope after centuries of war—wanted to believe that Bran might be the exception. His measured approach to reform, balancing idealism with pragmatism, suggested a wisdom that might endure the corrupting influence of power.

  But then, Darian thought grimly, they all seemed promising at first.