When Kyle returned to the stone manor, the first thing he saw wasn't Alice, but a long row of empty stables.
Yesterday, dozens of horses had been tethered there. Today, only seven or eight remained.
He stood at the entrance, staring at the empty stalls in silence. Behind him, Renard's face looked as though he had been struck.
"How many left?" Kyle asked.
Renard remained silent for a few seconds. "Three hundred... maybe four hundred. I haven't done a full count yet."
"Don't bother," Kyle said. "Where are the ones who stayed?"
"In the square."
Kyle turned and headed toward the open ground. He walked briskly, but without the frantic energy of a man in a panic. It was the pace of someone who had accepted the situation and was ready to inventory what was left.
Just over two hundred people stood in the square.
Not the eight hundred from yesterday. Two hundred. They were scattered across the clearing like shells left on a beach after a receding tide.
Kyle stood at the edge of the square, his gaze sweeping over their faces. He recognized a few—or rather, the original Kyle's memories did.
In the front stood the veterans. Seven of them, eight including Renard. They wore battered leather armor, swords slung at their hips. Their posture was disciplined, but their expressions were grim—the look of men who had expected this betrayal but found it no less bitter.
Beside them stood the tradesmen: a blacksmith, a carpenter, a tanner, and a seamstress. The skilled labor had stayed.
Behind them were the cooks, grooms, and servants. These made up the bulk of the group, not necessarily out of loyalty, but because they had nowhere else to go. When the nobles in the capital had dumped them on Kyle, they had burned their bridges for them.
Then there were the stragglers—the "waste" the capital had sent along. They likely hadn't stayed by choice; they were simply too slow to catch up with the deserters.
On the other side of the clearing, the townspeople of Riverbend had gathered. They kept their distance, watching with a "let's see what this boy tries next" skepticism. Olde stood at their head, hands tucked in his sleeves, his face a mask of indifference.
Kyle looked back at his two hundred.
"How many deserted?" he asked.
No one answered.
"I asked, how many left?" Kyle's voice rose, though he didn't shout.
A veteran stepped forward. He was in his forties, square-jawed with a short beard and a notched left ear. Kyle searched his memory for a name: **Cole**, Renard's old subordinate and a veteran of the Southern Front.
"Your Highness," Cole said. "Five hundred and sixty-three are gone. They took the horses, the pack animals, and the bulk of the supplies. They left when Sir Edward's men pulled out."
Five hundred and sixty-three.
Including the men Edward had brought yesterday, that meant over four hundred had vanished overnight. Kyle glanced toward the empty stables.
"And the food?"
"Most of the rations we brought from the capital were taken," Cole reported. "But the local stores in Riverbend remain untouched."
Kyle nodded. He didn't ask *why* they had left. The answer was obvious.
An exiled prince, a death trap beyond the defensive lines, a crumbling town of twelve hundred souls, a crippled knight, and a mage who hadn't even reached the First Circle. The Earl's envoy had laid out the rules clearly: double-priced grain, no military support.
Anyone with a brain would run. Running was the rational choice. Staying was the anomaly.
Kyle looked at the two hundred who remained. "Why didn't you go?"
The question took them by surprise. Cole opened his mouth, then closed it.
"Highness, I have nowhere else to go," a voice called out from the back.
A teenager stepped forward. He was as thin as a bamboo pole, his face mottled with acne. He wore a coat three sizes too large, the sleeves rolled up to reveal spindly wrists.
"My name is **Peter**," the boy said. "I was snatched off the streets of the capital. I don't even have a surname. When they sent me with you, the officials said that if you died, we weren't expected back. I have no home, Highness."
*Peter.* Kyle memorized the name.
"And you?" Kyle looked at a middle-aged man in an oil-stained leather apron, clutching a hammer.
"Your Highness, I'm thirty-five. I've been a smith for twenty years," the man said. "The shops in the capital won't take an apprentice my age. Here, at least I have a forge. If I leave, I starve."
"You?" Kyle turned to the seamstress. She was a petite woman, her fingertips calloused and scarred by needles.
"My brother is in your guard, Highness," she said softly. "If he stays, I stay." Beside her, a young soldier turned bright red.
Kyle went through the line, one by one. The answers were much the same: no prospects, old debts, loyalty to Renard, or simply a lack of better options. Out of the two hundred, barely twenty stayed out of genuine "loyalty." The rest were simply trapped.
But that didn't matter. What mattered was that they were here.
Kyle stood before them as the northern wind whipped his coat. The Ashwood remained a dark, jagged line on the horizon—a wound that refused to heal.
"You stayed," Kyle said. "And so did I."
His voice wasn't loud, but the square was silent enough for every word to carry.
"You know the situation. You've seen the town. Sixty miles north is the Ashwood, filled with Aberrants. Beyond that is the Isenpore ruin and its Lord. And beyond that is the source of the Calamity itself."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"You know all this. And yet, you are still here. Whether it's because you have no choice or because you're holding onto something else—you stayed. For that, I thank you."
A few heads lifted at those words. It was likely the first time they had ever heard "thank you" from a royal.
"But," Kyle continued, "staying isn't enough. You stayed because you have no retreat. But if a group of people with no retreat just sits around waiting to die, what's the difference between them and a corpse?"
He let that sink in.
"There are over thirteen hundred of us now. We need to eat, we need to drink, and we need to survive. Winter is coming. The Aberrants are coming. We cannot defend this place with a fence a pig could knock over, twelve rifles, and three hundred bullets."
He squared his shoulders. "So, starting today, things change."
The square remained deathly silent.
"First: The Militia," Kyle barked, looking at Renard. "Renard, from this moment, you are the Chief Instructor of the Riverbend Militia. Every man with combat experience is drafted. Any local hunter or able-bodied youth who wants to join, sign them up."
"Second: Defense." He looked at the smith. "Your name?"
"Gary, Highness."
"Gary, collect every scrap of usable iron in this town. Repair the weapons and tools first, then we start reinforcing the perimeter. If you need something, make a list. I'll find a way to get it."
Gary looked like he wanted to ask *how*, but he caught Kyle's gaze and nodded instead.
"Third: Logistics." Kyle turned to Olde. "Mayor, from today, the town's grain is under centralized management. I am not seizing it; I am rationing it. Every household's stores will be inventoried. We save what we can, we trade what we must. Come spring, everything will be repaid."
Olde's gray eyes flickered. "Repaid, Lord?"
"Repaid," Kyle repeated.
The old man went quiet for a moment, then gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Kyle then addressed a hunter in his forties, a man whose leather gear was patched with fur and whose hands were a mass of scars. "Your name?"
"Harold, Highness."
"Harold, do you know the perimeter of the Ashwood?"
"I do," Harold said. "My father traded in Isenpore before the Fall. I've hunted those borders for thirty years."
"Have you encountered the Aberrants?"
Harold hesitated. "I have. Killed a few, too."
"How?"
"Arrows to the eyes. Their hides are thick, but the eyes are soft," Harold said. "I've taken down three blighted wolves and a boar. But the bigger ones... I stay clear of those."
"From now on," Kyle said, "you and your hunters will coordinate with Alice for patrols. I don't want you fighting them. I want you watching. Watch their patterns, their numbers, their routes. Can you do that?"
Harold looked at Kyle with a newfound intensity. "I can, Highness."
"Good."
Kyle didn't give a grand speech about restoring glory. He simply gave them tasks. Small, manageable, vital tasks.
"That's all for today," Kyle concluded. "Get to work."
The crowd began to disperse. Cole led the veterans toward Renard; Gary headed for his forge; Harold huddled with his hunters. Olde remained, as if waiting for a private word.
"Lord," Olde said as Kyle approached. "You mentioned everything but the one thing we lack."
"Money."
"Riverbend hasn't paid taxes in twenty-three years," Olde said. "Not because we wouldn't, but because no one came for them. Everything you want—the iron, the wood, the grain—requires capital. Do you have any?"
Kyle looked him in the eye. "No."
Olde didn't seem surprised. "Then how do you intend to pay for this 'survival'?"
Kyle allowed a thin smile. "Tell me, what does Riverbend actually produce?"
Olde thought for a moment. "Timber. The woods along the river are untainted. Furs. Harold gets things you can't find elsewhere—Frost-fox pelts, Ash-grouse feathers. And..." he hesitated. "Magi-crystal dust. We find small amounts in the river silt. Low purity, but it's there."
*Magi-crystals.* Kyle's pulse quickened. "How much?"
"Not much. A pouch a year, perhaps. That's usually what the tax collectors were really after."
Kyle did a quick mental calculation. Even low-purity dust was a strategic resource. In the south, it was worth a fortune. But the road south went through Earl Washburn, and the Earl had already made his position clear.
"We'll worry about the money later," Kyle said. "For now, focus on the work."
Later that afternoon, Alice appeared in the manor hall. She looked exhausted, her chestnut hair windswept and her mage robes stained with fresh mud. She clutched a map to her chest.
"You're back," Kyle said. "Renard said you found something."
Alice spread the map on the table. It was far more detailed than the one from the night before, marked with red crosses and blue circles.
"I found activity at the abandoned logging camp fifty miles north," she said, her voice strained. "Three days ago, it was empty. Today, it's crawling with Aberrants."
"What kind of activity?"
"Tracks, droppings, and... leftovers," Alice said, pausing. "Fresh kills from outside the woods. They aren't just hunting each other anymore."
Kyle's brow furrowed. "Are they pushing south?"
"Not yet. They're lingering on the edge. But their range has doubled since last month. And..." she pointed to the red zone near Isenpore. "I felt a surge. Faint, but there. Something in the ruins has... shifted."
Kyle stared at the map. The encroaching winter, the shifting beasts, and the surge in the ruins—it was a grim puzzle.
"Can you keep scouting?"
"I can," Alice said, "but my mana is low. Every trip requires magi-crystals to recharge, and my supply is..."
"Nearly gone," Kyle finished for her.
He rolled up the map and handed it back. "Rest for now. Don't go back into the forest for at least two days."
"But the threat—"
"I know," Kyle interrupted. "But you're no use to me dead or magically exhausted. Recover your strength. I have a feeling I'm going to need you soon."
Alice hesitated, then nodded and withdrew.
Kyle stood alone in the hall, watching the dying light of the afternoon fade into gray. He looked toward the northern horizon. The Ashwood seemed closer today—a black, silent promise of the violence to come.
He sat at the table and took a sip of cold, watery soup. He felt the weight of thirteen hundred lives on his shoulders.
*One thing at a time,* he told himself.
Outside, the wind began to howl, a mournful sound that echoed through the stone rafters. The snow hadn't fallen yet, but Kyle could feel it in the air.
The winter was coming. And so were the things in the dark.