Reyn descended the spiral staircase from his chambers toward the main hall, each creaking step reminding him of how precarious his situation truly was. The stone steps were worn smooth—evidence of countless feet passing over them through the years: lords, servants, guards, and perhaps even enemies.

  At the bottom of the staircase, he paused before a heavy wooden door that separated the private quarters from the hall. Pale light leaked around its edges, and beyond it he could hear the clink of crockery and the low murmur of voices.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The hall was modest, dominated by a long wooden table scarred by age. A few threadbare chairs were arranged around it. This was clearly a place of necessity rather than luxury, and the meager breakfast laid out—a tough loaf of brown bread, a bowl of thin porridge, and a small lump of cheese—spoke volumes about the castle’s straitened circumstances. Overhead, a pair of narrow windows admitted weak daylight, illuminating dust motes drifting in lazy spirals.

  Dohnal, the old butler, stood nearby with his hands folded before him. He straightened slightly at Reyn’s entrance, and a faint relief flickered in his tired eyes. To his left, a maid stood against the wall, head bowed. By the door waited a guard, spear in hand and posture relaxed, as though accustomed to long hours of silent vigilance.

  “Good morning, my lord,” Dohnal said softly, inclining his head. “Your breakfast is served.”

  Reyn nodded. “Thank you, Dohnal.” He approached the table and pulled out a chair, settling into it. The wood groaned under his weight. As he sliced the bread with a small knife, he struggled not to show disappointment. He had tasted richer fare before—fresh pastries, cured meats—but that was in another life. Here, even these humble rations were a luxury.

  He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully, keeping his features calm and accepting. He had to project gratitude. “It’s good,” he said, his tone even. Dohnal allowed himself a slight, relieved smile.

  For a few minutes, Reyn ate in silence, contemplating what he knew. The castle was old and half-empty, the territory impoverished and its people downtrodden. He needed to understand his surroundings, learn what resources he had, who could be trusted, and how best to proceed. He swallowed a mouthful of porridge and looked up at Dohnal. “After I finish, I’d like to see the storerooms and the stables. I need a clearer sense of where we stand.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Dohnal replied. “I shall accompany you.”

  Reyn nodded again. As he finished the bread, the maid approached to clear the dishes. She was young, perhaps late teens, with tangled brown hair and anxious eyes that never rose above floor level. He realized he didn’t know her name.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly as she gathered the bowl and plate. She flinched slightly, not expecting kindness, then managed a timid nod before retreating.

  With breakfast concluded, Reyn stood and straightened his tunic. “Dohnal,” he said, “lead the way. We have little time before winter sets in more harshly.”

  Dohnal bowed again, then guided him into a corridor lit by a single oil lamp. The castle’s interior felt cramped and dim—no grand halls, no gilded tapestries. They passed chipped plaster, old timber beams, and the occasional tattered banner. Ahead, a doorway led toward the kitchens. The scent of bacon lingered faintly in the passages, stirring Reyn’s appetite. It seemed there had been bacon at some point, though it hadn’t reached his plate.

  Just before they reached the kitchen, Dohnal paused and raised a hand. Reyn halted, following his gaze through the half-open iron door. Inside the kitchen—a cramped, soot-stained space—he saw Edward, the portly chef, busily slicing salted pork. Nearby, a maid knelt by a basket of scraps. Reyn recognized her as Mary, the dish-washer. She glanced around furtively, then tucked a half-eaten piece of bread and some leftover egg into her apron.

  Reyn’s stomach tightened. Theft? But he understood almost immediately. Food was scarce, and Mary likely had hungry mouths to feed in the village below. Even a noble’s leftovers were precious here. He glanced at Dohnal, expecting a reprimand, but the old butler only sighed softly—a tired, resigned sound.

  They stepped inside. Mary startled, nearly dropping the stolen morsels. Edward turned with a start, wiping his hands on his apron. Dohnal addressed him calmly, “Edward, the lord enjoyed the bread this morning. Keep a close eye on our flour reserves; we must make them last.”

  “Of course, Mr. Dohnal,” Edward said, relief in his round face. If he noticed Mary’s theft, he kept silent.

  As Dohnal moved to leave, he paused in the doorway and spoke without turning, “Mary, mind the grease. It stains easily and is difficult to wash out.” His tone was mild, but Mary’s cheeks flushed. She realized he’d seen everything. Bowing her head, both grateful and ashamed, she watched them depart.

  Outside the kitchen, Reyn followed Dohnal quietly down a short flight of steps into a side yard. A stable leaned against the outer wall, its timbers old but solid. The smell of hay and manure mingled with the crisp air. Inside the stalls were three horses: one white ceremonial mount and two dark ones, sturdy beasts fit for uncertain roads. Reyn ran a hand along one horse’s flank, feeling taut muscle beneath a dusty coat. The animal snorted softly.

  Nearby, a handful of servants loitered near the stable door, talking in low voices—Mav and Peter among them. They spoke of bandits, raids, and how winter would surely bring trouble. Their tone was resigned and fearful, as if convinced their lord would fall just like all who came before.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Dohnal cleared his throat, and the men froze. Reyn approached, trying to appear neither weak nor intimidating. “Good morning,” he said quietly, and continued on. He sensed their eyes on his back, uncertain whether to trust his resolve or dread his weakness.

  They passed through a half-collapsed stone arch into a small courtyard where two guards paced idly. Their armor was dented, boots worn thin, and they leaned on their spears as if they weighed too much. Reyn noted everything. He would have to improve their morale and equipment somehow. But how, with no coin, few allies, and almost no resources?

  Beyond the courtyard lay the castle’s outer gate. It opened onto a dirt road winding downhill toward a cluster of huts along a sluggish stream. Reyn halted, surveying the bleak landscape. The Black Water Territory stretched before him—fields either unplowed or bearing stunted crops, thin rocky soil, and farmers struggling with primitive tools. To the north loomed a dark forest, rumored to shelter beasts and savage tribes. Further beyond lay even harsher lands populated by bandits who raided when hunger drove men to cruelty. To the south, rival noble holdings, like Blackstone Castle, threatened his fragile domain, harassing weaker lords for their own gain.

  He clenched his jaw, feeling a wave of old memories—his predecessor’s failures—wash over him. They might as well have been his own now.

  “Let’s return inside,” Reyn said, pulling his cloak tighter as a cold breeze swept past. He would gain nothing standing here, staring at the barren fields.

  Dohnal nodded, and they retraced their steps. Back through the stable yard, where servants hastily pretended to be busy. Back into the gloom of the castle’s corridors, which seemed to resent even the faint glimmer of hope Reyn dared carry.

  Dohnal led him to a smaller hall adjacent to the main one. It was cramped, drafty, and warmed only by a single brazier. Two men stood at the far side: Sir Morris and Sir Murkoc. Reyn recognized them from his inherited memories. They were knights of this territory—loyal enough, he supposed, given the circumstances. Morris was stocky and middle-aged, with a beard threaded with gray. Murkoc was younger, lanky, and hollow-eyed, sporting a faded scar on his left arm.

  They bowed at Reyn’s approach. He motioned them to rise and sat on a stool, beckoning Dohnal closer. “I’m told you have urgent matters to discuss,” he said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Morris began quietly, as if wary of eavesdroppers. “A small band of raiders was spotted along the northern edge of the forest two nights past. Perhaps a dozen men—nothing large. But we know how this goes: a few now, more as winter deepens.”

  Murkoc nodded grimly. “We have too few guards. The militia is poorly trained, and none of us have proper arms or armor. If the raiders strike, we’ll have to rely on these old walls and what courage we can muster.”

  Reyn tapped his fingers on his knee, thinking. Yearly raids, drawn by weakness. If he wanted to break the cycle, he needed more than swords. He needed resources, alliances, and perhaps better methods—something no lord before him had managed.

  “Any surplus grain or dried meat? What about weapons?” Reyn asked.

  Dohnal shook his head sadly. “Very little, my lord. Enough to feed the castle for a month if we’re careful. The villagers have even less. As for trade, few merchants dare venture so far north, especially with winter coming and our grim reputation.”

  Reyn set his jaw. “What of training or acquiring new weapons?”

  Morris sighed. “Training requires time and skilled instructors. We’ve lost many veterans—some fled, some died. Weapons are costly. Blackstone Castle controls the iron mine that once belonged to us. Without that ore, we rely on secondhand arms or whatever we salvage from raiders.”

  Murkoc spoke up, “We could attempt diplomacy. Perhaps send an envoy to the Count of NorthSeet or the Marquis of Edbarth Mountain. They might offer assistance or at least acknowledge our plight if it’s in their interest.”

  Reyn listened, troubled but not defeated. He had the mind of a modern thinker. Perhaps he could reorganize the territory, offer incentives, experiment with new farming methods, or adopt different crop rotations. Even the smallest improvement might help. But he knew that real progress would only be possible if he overcame the challenges this coming winter would bring.

  “Sir Morris, Sir Murkoc,” Reyn said calmly, “increase patrols near the forest. Even a small show of force might deter small raiders temporarily. I’ll consider sending someone to NorthSeet for aid. Meanwhile, I want an exact inventory—every weapon, every man who can fight, every scrap of leather we can use as armor. We waste nothing.”

  The knights exchanged surprised glances. Morris inclined his head. “As you wish, my lord. We’ll prepare the list.”

  Murkoc added, “My lord, if I may suggest—let the villagers see you. They know little of their new lord. Even a brief appearance might reassure them. If they believe you care, they might rally behind you.”

  Reyn nodded. “I’ll visit the village soon.”

  Dohnal’s gaze warmed slightly. He had known Reyn as timid and uncertain, but perhaps hardship had kindled a spark of resolve.

  As the knights departed, Reyn remained with Dohnal in the small hall. The brazier’s coals glowed softly, reflecting in the old butler’s weary eyes. Outside, the faint clang of a distant hammer suggested a lone blacksmith at work.

  Reyn stood and approached the door. Beyond lay the castle’s dim corridors and, beyond those, a harsh and unforgiving land. He felt centuries of failure pressing down. The Black Water Territory had been abandoned at the world’s edge, and he was its latest caretaker. If he failed, he’d join the bones of countless predecessors, buried and forgotten.

  He placed a hand on the rough wooden surface, feeling splinters against his palm. Dohnal followed, and together they stepped into the dark hallway. This time, Reyn moved with more purpose. He would inspect storerooms, speak with servants and guards, understand each person’s role. He would find Mary again, perhaps offer a kind word and a scrap more food. He would work with Morris and Murkoc to plan patrols and, eventually, stand before the villagers to spark some faint hope long dormant.

  Outside, dull sunlight pressed against narrow windows, and a chill wind sighed across the barren fields. Winter closed in, bringing darkness and hunger. Yet within the old stone castle, a spark had been lit. Reyn hoped, however naively, that it might burn bright enough to guide them all.