Arthur stood on a low, windswept ridge, his gaze sweeping over the desolate land. Below him lay the site he had chosen for the first settlement of his Crimson Vale Territory, the ground upon which its future capital would rise. He had picked the location for its geothermal vent, a faint warmth seeping from the earth that was just enough to keep his people from freezing in their sleep. The ridge itself served as a natural wall, blunting the bite of the bitter northern winds and offering a sliver of shelter to the new arrivals. “My lord, is it time to begin building the castle?” asked Michael, the man standing at his side. Michael was the most experienced of the craftsmen Arthur had brought with him from Duke Conrad’s domain. In recognition of his skill, Arthur had named him the master builder of the Crimson Vale Territory. “The castle can wait,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “We’ll build the people’s homes first.” “But where will you live, my lord?” “I’ll live with everyone else for now.” “With… us?” The old craftsman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why not? Are you worried I’m too soft for it?” Arthur gave a small shrug. “This is the Northlands. We’re all in the same struggle.” A new respect for the young lord kindled in the old craftsman’s eyes. And so, after a brief discussion, they settled on a design for the territory’s first homes: a type of semi-subterranean communal dwelling. The design was a hybrid, blending the typical pit-houses of the Northlands with the longhouses Arthur remembered from the books of his past life. Each structure was dug a third of its height into the earth, sinking it below the wind-lashed terrain for insulation. A sturdy timber frame gave it shape, while woven willow lathes formed the outer walls, which were then daubed with a thick plaster of mud and grass to seal them against wind and damp. Most importantly, they could be built with astonishing speed. Michael’s admiration grew with every detail Arthur outlined. The young lord, in a matter of moments, had conceived a building so perfectly suited to the harsh northern clime. He was nothing short of a genius. With the design finalized, construction began at once. The workforce was divided into teams of twenty—eighteen slaves or refugees supervised by two of Arthur’s soldiers—each with a clear division of labor that allowed them to work with grim efficiency. As the cold wind howled, slaves hunched their shoulders and tightened their grip on their rough iron spades, striking at the frozen earth. Thud. The impact sent a painful shock up their arms, but the permafrost finally yielded, cracking just a little. “Don’t just stand there, keep at it!” a soldier barked. As they toiled, their breath misting in the frigid air, a figure descended into the pit they were digging. It was Arthur. He rolled up his sleeves, took a shovel from a stunned worker, and began to dig alongside them. “The lord is… working?” The question rippled through the crew in hushed whispers. “Hmm… this is harder than it looks. You’ve all worked well,” Arthur said after ten minutes of strenuous digging, leaning on the shovel with a thoughtful sigh. “Dinner is almost ready. Take a rest.” He then moved on to the next construction site, continuing his rounds among the laborers. At first, some of the soldiers had grumbled. They were a fighting force, not a construction crew, yet here they were building houses like common laborers. But seeing their lord with his own hands in the dirt, how could they complain? The sentiment was even stronger among the slaves. Many of them had spent their lives struggling just to eat. Now, they were being given not only food, but a permanent place to live. It was a blessing beyond imagining. Arthur made a habit of it. Between planning sessions, he would “happen to pass by” a work site, lend a hand for a few minutes, offer some words of encouragement, and then move on, dusting the dirt from his hands. “This framework is solid. You’ll sleep warm tonight.” “A little thicker with the mud plaster. No slacking, or the cold will find its way in.” “Is this side almost finished? I’ll have some hot soup sent over. Once this section is done, you can rest.” Wherever Arthur went, the pace of work quickened, and spirits soared. Bolstered by his presence and the promise of sufficient food, the soldiers no longer complained. The slaves, meanwhile, worked as if their lives depended on it, their morale higher than it had ever been. The entire settlement seemed to rise from the earth with impossible speed. In just a few days, the first cluster of semi-subterranean dwellings was complete. They looked like great mounds rising from the ground, their roofs covered in a thick layer of grass-laced mud that blended with the snowy landscape. Mostly buried, with heavy log frames and walls of woven willow and rammed earth, they were both insulated and resource-efficient. Built in a crescent around the geothermal vent, the entire residential area was shielded from the worst of the cold. Though they appeared primitive, they were among the finest homes in the whole of the Northlands. With the completion of the first dwellings, the Crimson Vale Territory finally had a true foothold in this frozen land. Of course, shelter was only half the battle. A true home was built in the hearts of its people. To foster that spirit and cement his image as a benevolent and wise lord, Arthur decided to hold a grand celebration. He would make it clear to all of them: following him was the best choice they could ever make. As night fell, a giant bonfire was lit on the open ground before the new homes, its light and heat pushing back the northern cold. The patch of barren permafrost, once lifeless, now teemed with activity for the first time in its history. Nearly a thousand residents gathered in the flickering firelight. They were a motley collection: slaves purchased from traders, indigenous people of the north, refugees taken in along the march, and the soldiers and knights who had followed Arthur from his old life. Their pasts were different, but at this moment, they shared one identity: they were all citizens of the Crimson Vale Territory. The crowd’s gaze was drawn instinctively to a high stone set before the bonfire. Standing upon it was their lord—Arthur Beaumont. The young Baron of the Frontier wore a long black cloak, his features dancing in the firelight, his expression unreadable. When all had gathered, Arthur finally spoke, his voice carrying over the crackling flames. “Tonight, we hold the first celebration in the history of the Crimson Vale Territory! We celebrate the completion of our first homes. With these walls to shelter you, this land will become your home. And you will become its true masters!” The crowd below did not react. An uneasy silence fell. They merely glanced at one another, their faces blank with bewilderment. What did it mean to be a master? These slaves, refugees, and laborers had never imagined they could be the “masters” of anything. They knew only how to work, how to obey. The long years of suffering had scoured away even the courage to resist. They had assumed this celebration was for some new oath of loyalty, or perhaps a display of intimidation from their new lord. Arthur had anticipated their reaction. It didn’t matter. He would show them what hope looked like, one action at a time. “Next,” Arthur announced, his eyes scanning the faces in the crowd, “I wish to reward those among you who have been the most diligent and loyal.” He raised a hand. Behind him, his steward, Silas, immediately unrolled a parchment and began to read from a long list of names. “Hugh, Morgan, Sabina…” As their names were called, the slaves flinched, their expressions twisting in fear. In their experience, to be singled out by a lord meant only one thing: punishment. Or death. Some began to tremble. Others lowered their heads, staring at the frozen ground. A few looked ready to drop to their knees and beg for mercy. They had no idea how profoundly their fate was about to change.

Chapter 10: Homes Before the Castle