Dust swirled on the horizon, catching the dying light. Kale rode at the head of his small contingent, the silence of the approaching plains heavier than any battle cry. Ember’s Edge felt a lifetime away. They’d travelled for days, the landscape growing progressively emptier, scars of old conflict slowly erasing themselves from the earth. Blanchet City, once the jewel of the Soryn fiefdom, lay before them. A ghost. No smoke plumed from chimneys. No distant shouts of children at play. Not even the bray of a donkey or the bark of a dog. Only the wind, whistling through skeletal structures that clawed at the bruised sky. His heart tightened. Memories, faint echoes of stories his grandfather had told, tried to surface. Bustling markets, grand festivals, the river alive with merchant barges. Now, a vast, silent expanse of grey stone and crumbling walls. The air tasted of decay and forgotten dreams. It was a tomb, not a city. "Hold," Kale commanded, his voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet. He reined in his mount, a sturdy bay, its ears twitching. Behind him, the ten men from Ember's Edge halted, their expressions grim. Even they, used to the hardship of the frontier, seemed struck by the profound desolation. "This is it," Corvan murmured, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "The heart of what was." Kale nodded slowly. Blanchet had been more than a city; it was a symbol of House Soryn's prosperity, a vital artery of commerce and culture. Now, not a single memory lingered, no trace of the vibrant life that once teemed within its walls. The Imperial purge had been absolute, not just of people, but of history itself. He dismounted, the crunch of his boots on the parched earth shockingly loud. His gaze swept over the ruins. Buildings stood like hollowed-out eyesores, roofs collapsed, windows gaping. The main gate, once imposing, lay shattered, its massive timbers rotted and splintered. "Careful steps," Kale warned, leading the way. "We don't know what might be left." They moved like phantoms themselves, their footsteps muted by dust. Empty streets stretched out, lined with what were once shops and homes. A broken merchant's sign hung askew, creaking faintly. A child's toy, a wooden horse, lay half-buried in rubble, a stark reminder of the lives extinguished here. Kale felt a cold prickle of dread. This wasn't merely abandoned. It was meticulously, thoroughly purged. Every valuable, every personal item, every scrap of identity had been systematically removed or destroyed. An unsettling emptiness resonated from the very stones. Minutes stretched into a morbid exploration. No scavengers. No squatters. No signs of life whatsoever. This was a place the world had forgotten, or perhaps, was forced to forget. Kale ran a hand over a crumbling stone wall, feeling the grit and the cold, unyielding silence. Suddenly, a distant, piercing trumpet blast cut through the quiet. His head snapped up. "Imperial guard," he stated, his voice tight. Corvan and the others moved to form a defensive line, weapons drawn. They were few, but they were ready. Moments later, a column of Sedofos cavalry emerged from the plains, their polished armour glinting like cruel beacons in the fading light. At their head rode a figure in rich crimson robes, a gold chain of office glinting at his neck. The Imperial Chamberlain. Behind him, the Sedofos banner, a rearing black stallion on a field of gold, fluttered arrogantly. They stopped a respectful distance away, the Chamberlain’s gaze sweeping over Kale and his small group, then the desolate city. A slight smirk touched his lips. "Viscount de Soryn," the Chamberlain's voice boomed, carrying easily across the ravaged landscape. "We greet you on behalf of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Valerius the Third." Kale remained silent, his expression unreadable. Viscount de Soryn. The title felt hollow, a cruel mockery in this graveyard. He watched as a herald dismounted, unrolling a heavy parchment. The Chamberlain made a grand gesture. "By Imperial Edictment," the herald began, his voice surprisingly strong, "and in His Imperial Majesty's boundless benevolence, the shattered lands of Blanchet, and the four frontier villages, including Ember's Edge, are hereby granted to Kale de Soryn, to be held as a Viscountcy. You are tasked with their restoration, defence, and integration into the glorious Empire of Sedofos. This decree is made binding, and your oath of fealty is expected without delay." The parchment rustled as the herald rolled it back up. Kale's eyes narrowed. Blanchet. Ember's Edge. Four *frontier* villages. Not the fertile heartlands, not the thriving trade routes that had once defined the Soryn domain. No, he was given the husks, the forgotten edges, the most vulnerable points of the Imperial frontier. "Do you accept Viscount de Soryn?" the Chamberlain pressed, his smile widening slightly. There was an expectant glint in his eye, a challenge. Kale’s jaw tightened. He had no choice. Refusal here, in this desolate place, would be an act of open rebellion, and they were far too few. He would accept this poisoned chalice, for now. "I accept," he stated, his voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil within him. "Excellent." The Chamberlain's tone was dismissive. "His Imperial Majesty expects progress. We shall leave you to your new duties." With a curt nod, he turned his horse. The Sedofos banner, a cruel black stain against the twilight, moved, and the entire Imperial contingent began to withdraw, leaving Kale and his men once more alone in the vast, echoing silence of Blanchet Corvan watched them go, then turned to Kale, a question in his eyes. "A Viscount? Here?" His voice was laced with disbelief. Kale ran a hand over his face. A restoration? At first, the thought had flickered, a dangerous hope. A return of his house to some semblance of power, even if diminished. But the reality was far more sinister. This wasn't a gift. It was a strategic manoeuvre, a calculated burden. They had been given the periphery, the most vulnerable edge of the Empire. Blanchet was a ruin, a buffer against whatever threats lay beyond. Ember's Edge and the other villages were frontier outposts meant to absorb the first blows. He wasn't being restored; he was being set up as a shield, given the responsibility to rebuild and defend a region the Empire itself had no interest in truly governing. "They've given us a wasteland," Kale finally said, his voice flat. "A buffer zone. A place to bleed, should something come from the north or east. This isn't generosity, Corvan. It's a calculation. They expect us to fail or to exhaust ourselves, protecting their borders with our own lives and resources." His initial bewilderment gave way to a cold, hard clarity. The Imperial family's goals were not simply to suppress and control, but to manipulate, to use any and all means to consolidate their power while minimizing their own risk. They had presented him with a title and a ruin, hoping he would either die trying to make something of it or become a convenient scapegoat for future failures. "But why us?" One of the men, a young farmer named Gareth, ventured. "Why give *you* anything?" "Because they wish to use the Soryn name," Kale replied, his gaze sweeping over the desolate city. "A name still remembered in some corners, perhaps. To lend legitimacy to their claim over these lands without actually investing anything themselves." He clenched his fists. "They want us to fight their battles, on their terms, in the ruins they created." Slowly, the bitterness began to recede, replaced by a steely resolve. If they wanted a shield, he would be a shield. But not for them. He would rebuild, yes. He would defend. But for the people who called these lands home, for the memory of what Blanchet once was, and for the truth that still lay buried. He would turn their calculated trap into an opportunity, a forge for his own rebellion. "We need a base," Kale declared, turning to his men. "Something defensible. Something intact enough to provide shelter. We search what remains of the Soryn keep." His voice resonated with a newfound authority, a determination that hardened his features. "We will take what we have left of our home and build the remains of Soryn regardless, and one day... the Imperial family will come to regret this edictment-- this ridicule." It was a gruelling day, and Corvan, along with the rest of Kale's subordinates, were nesting beside a fire outside the Soryn Manor. Corvan Veyr was the son of a faithful Soryn vassal family from Blackwater, one of the few households that remained loyal through House Soryn's long decline. Raised on stories of the house's lost glory, he grew into a hardworking young sailor and militia fighter known for his reliability and stubborn loyalty. Raised on stories of Soryn's former glory, Corvan grew into a capable sailor, hunter, and fighter. His loyalty deepened when Kale's father personally saved the Veyr family from ruin during a harsh tax season, an act Corvan never forgot. To him, the Soryn Household were masters he could trust like family, nobles he could serve with sincerity, and the sole reason he could hold his head high. --- Navigating the labyrinthine streets, lanterns casting dancing shadows that made the ruins seem to stir. The blazing sun pouring gentle white light upon the remains of a truly grand structure, however, in a state of ruin. Standing proudly on a rise overlooking an ancient city. Its outer walls, thicker than any other building, had largely withstood the ravages of time and conflict. Inside, however, was no better. The grand hall was choked with rubble, the throne room a gaping maw to the sky. found within were a few intact chambers, thick with dust and the scent of decay. One chamber, tucked away in a less damaged wing, seemed to have been overlooked by the systematic destruction. A heavy wooden door, though scarred, still hung on its hinges. A cloud of ancient dust billowing out. Inside, the chamber was small, almost a storage room, but surprisingly dry. And on the far wall, behind a makeshift wooden panel that had fallen away, a section of the wall was different. It wasn't stone. It was fabric. Closer and closer, the sense of familiarity with the sprinting was stifling. Gently, he peeled back a corner. What lay beneath was a royal tapestry, faded but still magnificent. A blazing sun dominated the upper half, its rays spreading across the rich silver and gold threads. Beneath it, a majestic silver dragon rose, its wings spread wide, its gaze piercing. And underneath, woven into the very fabric of the tapestry, a phrase in the ancient tongue: "Nitan Alnur, Nitan Sorinius" Kale reached for the tapestry again— —and the world folded.

Chapter 7: The Glory of Blanchet