Half a month passed in AshenVale like a forge's rhythm—relentless, heated, transformative. The Tenebrae brothers threw themselves into training the three hundred recruits with the same unyielding discipline their father had instilled in them. Dawn drills began with shield walls and footwork in the square, progressing to mock skirmishes in the fields beyond the walls. Swords clashed on wooden dummies; bows thrummed at targets; everyday magic lessons from Jeffrey and Harold wove wards into basic maneuvers. The recruits—raw as fresh ore—stumbled at first, but potential glimmered in the sweat and shouts.
By week two, standouts emerged. Roland gathered his brothers in the makeshift command tent one evening, lantern light flickering over maps scarred by patrol routes.
"Look at this lot," Roland said, unrolling a parchment list. "Joren Hale—quick with a spear, keeps his squad tight. Could sergeant easy."
Chris nodded, leaning back on a crate. "Aye, and Marek Voss. Boy's got eyes like a hawk, spots ambushes before they form. Led his group through a drill without a single 'death.' Reminds me of how Father used to watch us spar—never missed a weakness."
Tom grinned, tracing a finger along the list. "Don't forget Lira Blackthorn. Steady under pressure, rallies the waverers. She's got the voice for it—cuts through chaos like Mother's spells. Yesterday she turned a panicked line into a proper wedge in under ten heartbeats."
Sam crossed his arms, eyes distant as he recalled the day's drills. "Thorne Calder, too. Strong as an ox, but smart—adapts formations on the fly. And Elias Piffel? That one's a natural tactician, reads the field like a book. I saw him reposition three men during a mock charge and turn a rout into a counter-push. If we don't promote him, someone else will steal him."
Harold added quietly, "Garrick Stone—wards come natural to him, even without formal magic. Pairs well with Durin Reed, who's got endurance for days. Durin ran the obstacle course twice without breaking stride—said he'd do it all day if it kept his sister safe."
Jeffrey smiled, voice soft but certain. "And young Silas Ironfist. Fearless, but not reckless. Reminds me of Matthew here—same fire, same stubborn refusal to quit."
Matthew puffed up, though a flush crept up his neck. "Hey, I'm not that green anymore. But Silas… he's got that look. The one that says he'll die before he lets the line break."
Laughter rippled, easing the tension. Roland rolled the list tight. "They've got the spark. We'll send this to Dane—recommend these ten as potential sergeants. Along with the update. They deserve to know what we've seen here."
The report went out by courier that night: details of the arrival battle—thirty harpies and a hundred lizardmen slain, forty-three AshenVale militia dead, twenty survivors folded into the new force. Subsequent patrols had cleared three dens: a lizardman burrow by the river, yielding fifty more kills; a harpy aerie in the cliffs, thirty beasts downed. Skirmishes dotted the weeks—quick, brutal clashes that honed the recruits.
One such skirmish came mid-patrol, a week in. Roland's squad, with twenty recruits in tow, pushed along the riverbank. The water gurgled ominously, mist cloaking the reeds.
"Hiss ahead!" Marek Voss whispered, hand raised.
Lizardmen erupted from the shallows—fifteen, scales dripping, spears glinting. They charged with guttural roars, tails whipping.
"Shields up! Line!" Roland barked. The formation snapped together, recruits holding better than expected.
The clash was fierce: spears clanged on shields, swords thrusting through gaps. Joren Hale skewered one through the throat; Lira Blackthorn bashed another's skull with her shield boss. A lizardman slipped the line, lunging at a recruit—Roland's blade took its head clean off.
"Flank them—now!" Chris called from the rear, his squad circling.
The beasts fell one by one, green blood staining the mud. No losses on their side, only minor gashes sealed by Jeffrey's quick spells.
"Harvest," Roland ordered post-fight. "Scales, cores, venom—same as before."
Men knelt, knives flashing: scales peeled in sheets, venom glands milked into vials, cores extracted with care—glowing orbs humming with latent power. The corpses were gutted efficiently, entrails buried to avoid attracting scavengers, hides rolled for tanning.
Another skirmish hit two days later—Harold's patrol ambushed in the woods. Ten lizardmen dropped from trees, claws slashing.
"Wards up! Steady!" Harold commanded, his magic flaring to blunt the initial rush.
Recruits held, Thorne Calder anchoring the center with brute swings, Durin Reed darting in for kills. Spears pierced scales; axes cleaved limbs. When the last lizardman fell, harvesting began: cores pulsing blue-green, tails severed for leather, teeth bagged for tools.
"These'll fetch good trade," Sam noted, wiping his blade. "And the cores—enchant a dozen swords easy."
Progress mounted: dens cleared, patrols securing work crews for logging and farming. Monster tally climbed—two hundred slain total, materials stockpiled in warehouses: stacks of scales, crates of feathers, jars of venom, sacks of cores.
Captain Dane's response arrived swiftly, sealed with the guard's thorned tower.
Sergeants Tenebrae,
Your report pleases. Battle well-fought, losses minimal on your end—AshenVale owes you. Assessments of potential sergeants align with mine; promote and train them hard. Hold another full month—drill deep, clear threats. Reinforcements from capital unlikely; make AshenVale self-sufficient. Return when ready.
Captain Ulric Dane
The brothers shared grim nods. "Another month," Roland said quietly. "We forge them unbreakable."
Far north in Eldermere, Byrt Tenebrae delved deeper into the mine, the bluish glow from that fateful strike guiding his picks. What began as a ray had revealed a vein—not just iron, but laced with mithrilite, the rare magic ore that hummed with arcane potential, ideal for enchanted weapons and wards.
He emerged dust-caked, sample in hand—a chunk veined with shimmering blue, warm to the touch. That night, by hearthfire, he showed Cindy.
"Magic ore, love," he murmured, turning the stone in the light. "Connected to our iron vein. Could change everything—weapons that turn spells, armor that mends itself."
Cindy's eyes widened, her fingers tracing the glow, magic responding with a faint spark that made the ore pulse brighter for an instant. "Gods, Byrt… this isn't ordinary mithrilite. Feel it—there's something deeper here, older. Like it's been waiting." She looked up, worry etching lines around her eyes. "If word gets out, every mage-lord, every bandit captain, every desperate noble will come crawling. We're already stretched thin with the boys gone."
Byrt set the ore down carefully, as though it might shatter. "That's why I'm calling on Fairbourne urgent. We mine quiet, stockpile. Protect the family, the settlements. This could arm our sons proper when they return—give them an edge the wilds can't match."
She reached for his hand, her touch steady despite the tremor in her voice. "And if the vein runs deeper? If it's not just a pocket—if it's a mother-lode?"
He met her gaze, voice low and fierce. "Then we guard it like we guard our own. No one touches this unless we say so. I'll take only the men I'd trust with my life—Stanley, Harlan, the old guard. We dig in secret, vault it deep. The boys are out there holding AshenVale together. This… this might be the way we hold the north for them."
Cindy leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. "Promise me you'll be careful. The ore's beautiful, but beauty like that always draws shadows."
"I promise," he whispered. "And when they come home, they'll find a legacy waiting—steel and magic, forged by their father."
By dawn, Byrt rode to the manor, sample concealed. The Viscount met him in private chambers, face paling at the sight.
"Mithrilite? In the Gilded Wilds?" Fairbourne whispered, holding the ore like a holy relic. "This could tip balances—especially with the capital fracturing. Weapons that channel spells, armor that drinks magic… gods, Byrt, if Vermont or Winsington learn of this…"
Byrt leaned forward, voice steady. "They won't. Not yet. We mine it now, Viscount. Quietly. No fanfare, no leaks."
Fairbourne nodded sharply, eyes gleaming with something between fear and hunger. "Gather your most trusted men. No word beyond them. Stockpile deep—vaults under the mine. We'll need it when the storms hit. And Byrt… if this vein is as rich as it looks, it may be the only thing standing between us and oblivion."
Byrt departed immediately, mind racing. He summoned Stanley Levithoro, Harlan Piffel, and three others—old comrades, sworn to silence—at the mine mouth under cover of dusk.
"Trusted only," he said, voice low as the wind through the pines. "Magic ore—mithrilite, laced through the iron. We dig, we hide. For our kin, for the boys, for Fatum itself."
Stanley's eyes widened as he touched the sample, feeling the hum. "By the forge… this is no small thing. We'll keep it quiet. My apprentices won't breathe a word."
Harlan nodded grimly. "My fields can wait. This is bigger than crops."
The others murmured assent, faces set in determination. Picks swung anew, the blue glow illuminating determined faces. The vein yielded, chunks carted to hidden chambers beneath the earth. Byrt swung with them, vow etched in every strike.
Protection, forged in secret depths.