The first sign came from the refugees.

  A woman with a child clutched to her chest stumbled through the fortress gates, her eyes darting too quickly, her story too polished. "Bandits burned our village," she gasped. "Only we escaped." Martin watched as she accepted bread with hands that bore no calluses—hands that had never tilled soil or gripped a spindle.

  That night, he stood over Irineus’s map, marking charcoal X’s where patrols had found trampled grass, snapped branches, the remnants of cold fires. "They’re not fleeing," he growled. "They’re scouting. At least a hundred, maybe more, circling like vultures."

  Sebastian tossed a dented helm onto the table—recovered from a skirmish near the river. "Hornbreaker make. But the wearer was no scout. His armor was too fine. A chieftain’s son, perhaps."

  The barbarians were cunning.

  Some posed as refugees, slipping into the fortress with hollow eyes and sharper knives. They counted guards, noted storehouse locations, lingered near the smithies. Others mapped the land—marking gullies where armies could hide, fords where supply carts might bog down.

  But Martin and Sebastian were no green horns.

  Not all Barbarian scouts came to the gates. Others slipped through the forests like wolves, surveying the land, counting supply wagons, noting the placement of sentries.They studied the Fort’s walls. The newly built granaries. The blacksmith yards. They mapped every trail, every weak bridge, every undefended stretch of road.It was not a mindless horde that moved against them, but a thinking, ruthless force—three to four hundred of them, hardened by years of unending war. Even the youngest among them bore the scars of countless battles.

  In total, three hundred to four hundred of them roamed the hills and riverbanks, creeping closer day by day. These were no mindless savages.

  Years of endless wars had honed the Barbarians into a people where even children knew how to wield a knife or how to move silently through enemy territory.In this broken world, where the Imperial banners no longer flew, there were no laws to protect the weak.There were no courts to hear pleas.Power alone ruled.You either seized what you needed—or you were crushed beneath the boots of those who did.

  And yet, despite the careful probes, Martin and Sebastian both came to a hard conclusion:The enemy did not have enough strength to strike yet.

  "Double the watch," Irineus ordered. "Every ‘refugee’ works under guard. Any caught lingering near the armory goes to the cells."

  Alexios, indefatigable as ever, had transformed chaos into order.Over a hundred workshops now pulsed with life—carpenters, leatherworkers, potters, weavers, millers, and more.Goods were produced faster than anyone could have imagined: leather boots, linen cloth, clay jars, polished iron tools, fragrant oils, salted meats.

  Under Alexios's tireless management, over a hundred workshops had sprung to life inside the walls. Tanneries, looms, mills, perfumeries, and forges—all working day and night, turning raw materials into goods, goods into wealth. The collective morale grew.What had been a scattering of hovels and broken stones only months before now buzzed like a living heart.

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  Where once the Fort had been a dying ruin, now it thrived like a living thing, pulsing with the breath of hundreds working together.

  And at the heart of it stood Gunnar.

  The Barbarian turned Master blacksmith oversaw an army of six hundred smiths.Their forges burned day and night, pouring out weapons, shields, nails, hinges, plowshares.Gunnar’s apprentices, many of them have been children of farmers worked with tireless devotion under his heavy hand.

  Not all were tasked with forging swords and spears.A full hundred and twenty smiths focused on agriculture: maintaining the new plows, the carts, the iron tools that allowed the Fort’s fields to stretch farther into the wild earth. In the time of endless wars, scrap metal is not dificult to find.

  Throughout the month, the Fort's patrols clashed sporadically with Barbarian scouts. Small, vicious skirmishes—quick ambushes, midnight attacks, bloody exchanges in the misty woods.Each fight taught them more about the enemy: their tactics, their numbers, their desperation.

  Finally, the pattern became clear.

  A woman with a child clutched to her chest stumbled through the fortress gates, her eyes darting too quickly, her story too polished. "Bandits burned our village," she gasped. "Only we escaped." Martin watched as she accepted bread with hands that bore no calluses—hands that had never tilled soil or gripped a spindle.

  That night, Martin leaned over Irineus’s map, his hand steady as he marked charcoal X’s at points where patrols had found trampled grass, broken branches, and the smoldering remains of old campfires.“They’re masquerading as refugees,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But make no mistake—they’re scouts, studying our defenses in detail. These aren’t the usual Barbarian raiders. They move in small groups, two or three at a time, and they’re careful—clever. Our patrols have skirmished with them again and again over the past month, but they prefer to slip away rather than fight.”He looked up, meeting Irineus’s gaze grimly. “It’s possible, my lord… they’re preparing for an attack.“

  Sebastian, who had been placed in charge of the patrol teams, stepped forward and spoke with quiet confidence.“We’ve gathered intelligence on the Barbarians, sir, based on reports from our patrols and testimonies from the refugees. I believe the report we’ve compiled will be of great use to you.”Irineus accepted the report—it was only a few pages thick, but dense with information.Sebastian continued, his tone serious.“From what we’ve learned, the Barbarian factions have fractured into three separate groups. They’re locked in a brutal civil war. The death of their preferred heir seems to have sparked open conflict, with the other sons now battling for control.”He paused briefly before adding, “We estimate their total strength at somewhere between sixty and eighty thousand warriors. Beneath their rule, there are still around forty thousand imperial citizens, scattered and subdued.”

  A grim satisfaction crept into Sebastian's voice as he delivered the final piece. " “For the past two days, our scouts report their scouts have been withdrawing."

  Irineus leaned over the table, tapping the map thoughtfully. "We might find temporary allies among the barbarians," he said. "If only to secure our flanks for now. Through trade and diplomacy, we could buy ourselves time—time to strengthen our forces until we can stand against them, even after their civil war ends. No matter how many warriors they gather, a fortress of this size would be difficult to siege without advanced engines. Even if they possess the knowledge to build trebuchets or battering rams, moving such heavy siege eqipment across rough country would be nearly impossible. They would have to construct them here, under our very noses."

  Lucius folded his arms and frowned. "We play a dangerous game," he warned. "Make deals with barbarians today, and tomorrow they may demand your crown."

  Martin nodded grimly. "Still, it may be worth the risk. Send envoys. Offer them trade—luxury goods, alcohol, anything that will tempt them. But when they come to parley, place archers on the ridges. Trust nothing but the strength of our own wepons."