Reyn descended from the dim corridors of the upper floors into the main lobby of the castle’s first level, boots echoing heavily against ancient stone. He could still feel the tension in the old stones, as if the very walls feared what lay next.

  He had summoned two of his key retainers: Sir Murkoc, one of the knights he met the day before, and Thorris, a new figure emerging from his inherited memories—Captain of the Guard, or its closest equivalent in this impoverished domain. Together, they formed the backbone of what could charitably be called his leadership team. They awaited him now with anxious faces.

  Reyn stepped into view and found them standing near a battered wooden table. Murkoc was tall and thin, a middle-aged knight who also served as something like a councillor or steward for the territory. His face was sallow in the torchlight, worry lines etched deeply around his eyes. He wore a faded surcoat over a dented breastplate, and the sword at his hip looked more ceremonial than dangerous. Despite his knightly title, Murkoc’s strength lay in administration and local governance—he was Reyn’s best source of practical knowledge, a manager of people and resources, if those words could apply to a land so devoid of either.

  Thorris, on the other hand, appeared every inch a warrior. Broad-shouldered and solid, he wore a patchwork of chainmail and boiled leather. A full knight he was not—Reyn’s memories told him that Thorris was a top trainee nearing the threshold of professional knightly status. The bronze brooch pinned to Thorris’s tunic displayed three crossed swords beneath three stars: a symbol of skill in martial arts, though not yet elevated to the ranks of a proper, professional knight. Still, he was reputed to be the territory’s strongest fighter and served as its head of security. In these desperate lands, that made him something like a captain of a guard that hardly existed.

  Beside them stood Sir Morris, a stocky man with a heavy brow and thick arms, quietly at attention. Morris’s knightly rank had always been tenuous—he was a trainee of sorts, far from the polished chivalry of richer realms. Yet he radiated a certain stubborn resilience. He spoke little, but every line of his body suggested readiness.

  As Reyn approached, Murkoc and Thorris bowed stiffly, and Morris inclined his head. “My lord,” Murkoc began, voice subdued.

  Reyn waved a hand, an unspoken order for them to sit or at least relax. The last day had worn on him. He’d visited storerooms and stables, seen the poverty and fear among the servants, and learned of raiders on the horizon. Now, he expected more grim news. “At ease,” he said quietly. “What matter is so urgent that you sought me before midday?”

  Thorris cleared his throat and stepped forward, the lamplight catching the worry in his eyes. “My lord, we have found signs that the Red Claw Bandits are scouting our borders again. Fresh horseshoe prints near the northern fringe of the Black Forest. Not ours, I assure you. Their track is too distinctive by the marks they left. We’ve seen this pattern in last winter.”

  Murkoc nodded grimly. “We have reason to believe they’ll attack us soon, my lord. The Red Claw Bandits are not an idle threat. In previous years, they’ve tested our defenses and bled us dry. Your predecessors tried to resist, but…” He trailed off, letting the unspoken failures weigh in the silence.

  Reyn crossed his arms. He recalled scraps of memory—the Red Claw Bandits were notorious marauders lurking in the borderlands. Savage opportunists who struck the weak and desperate. Their leader, known simply as Claw, was rumored to be of professional knightly skill, a deadly fighter who commanded loyalty through fear. This was not some ragged group of amateurs; these were experienced predators circling wounded prey.

  Thorris ground his jaw before speaking again. “With our current fighting force, we cannot defeat them head-on. We have perhaps ten junior guardsmen and a handful of half-trained militia scraped together from the village. We lack proper arms and armor. Even I, who’ve trained my whole life, cannot stand alone against Claw’s band. We’d be overwhelmed.”

  Reyn felt a heaviness settle in his chest. His new life—a baron of a cursed territory—now threatened by raiders he had no means to repel. “You’re certain it’s them?” he asked, clinging to the faint hope that this might be a false alarm.

  Thorris nodded, gaze firm. “Yes, my lord. They return each winter to pick off what they can. Their tracks match old reports exactly.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The silence stretched. Outside, Reyn could almost imagine he heard the distant forest sighing, branches scraping together in a chilly breeze. There were no easy solutions. He tried to think like a strategist: If he sent for help, would it arrive in time? Would anyone even care about Black Water Territory’s plight?

  Murkoc cleared his throat softly. “We could attempt to appeal to NorthSeet City for aid, again” he offered, voice wavering with uncertainty. “Count Grandrich has garrisons there, though they’re stretched thin defending against other threats. Or we might hire mercenaries—if we had coin enough to pay them.”

  Thorris snorted, frustration leaking into his tone. “We have neither wealth nor influence. The Count’s men have more pressing concerns along the frontier. Even if they sent a small detachment, the Red Claws would just fade back into the forest. They’d wait until the reinforcements left and then descend on us again—more ruthless than before. As for mercenaries—paying them through the winter is impossible. Our coffers are nearly empty, my lord. Food is scarce. Hiring sellswords would only drain what little remains, leaving us no better off when they depart.”

  Reyn could feel his heartbeat in his ears. The walls seemed to shrink, pressing the stale air closer. “And what of seeking refuge with neighboring lords? Blackstone Castle is not far, though I know relations have been… strained.” He had seen references in his memories: The lord of Blackstone Castle—Baron Philo—was a cunning and ambitious noble who profited from Black Water’s misery. He might offer a safe haven to fleeing serfs, hoping to poach what labor he could.

  At this, Murkoc pursed his lips and Thorris’s face darkened. “My lord,” said Thorris, voice edged with bitterness, “to seek refuge with Blackstone Castle would be to lose all dignity. Your predecessors never stooped so low, and I suspect Philo would use our plight to humiliate and extort us further. Even if we swallow our pride, what would stop him from absorbing our territory outright?”

  Murkoc, more practical, ventured another angle. “But dignity won’t feed us or keep us alive. If the choice is dying at the hands of raiders or bowing before Philo, is pride worth the cost? We must think of survival.”

  This sparked immediate tension. Thorris’s face twisted in disgust. “Survival at any price?” he spat. “If we kneel to Philo, we might as well abandon this land altogether. A lord who cannot protect his people is no lord at all.”

  Murkoc glared at him, frustration crackling in the silence. “Dignity won’t save our people, Thorris. I’d rather be alive and scorned than dead and honorable. Or would you prefer piles of corpses to an uncomfortable alliance?”

  “Enough!” Reyn snapped, voice echoing more forcefully than he intended. Both men fell silent, bowing their heads. Morris remained silent in the background, shifting uneasily. Reyn took a moment to regain composure. The dread weighed heavily on him. He had awoken in this cursed land hoping to survive, maybe even improve things. Now fate pushed him toward a crisis he was ill-prepared to meet.

  “I need quiet to think,” Reyn said, voice more controlled now. “You’ve both given me the facts. Leave me for now. I will consider our options.”

  Thorris opened his mouth as if to protest, but a sharp look from Reyn stilled him. Murkoc inclined his head stiffly. “As you wish, my lord.” Without another word, the two men departed, their footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards.

  Morris, the trainee knight, lingered a heartbeat, his large form seeming to want to speak. But in the end, he followed the others, leaving Reyn alone in the shadowy lobby, the torches spitting quietly as if mocking his indecision.

  Dohnal, the old butler, appeared a moment later, moving quietly as ever. He stood at a respectful distance, hands folded. “My lord,” he said softly, “it’s nearly midday. The kitchen can provide a meal. Perhaps nourishment would help you think.”

  Reyn shook his head. “I have no appetite.” He could still taste the stale bread and thin porridge from breakfast. Fear curdled in his belly. “Dohnal, has there been more desertion among the serfs?”

  Dohnal’s eyes flickered with sadness. “Yes, my lord. Last night more than a dozen fled to Blackstone Castle. The week before, over fifty. They fear the coming raids and believe Philo might shelter them. Rumor spreads quickly.”

  “Damn him,” Reyn muttered. “And damn the Red Claw Bandits.”

  Dohnal nodded, understanding too well the frustation.

  Reyn took a long breath. “Leave me, Dohnal. I need to think alone.”

  The butler bowed and withdrew, steps soft as a cat. Reyn remained, but after a few moments, the lobby felt suffocating. He retreated up the stairs to his own chamber, where at least he could feel some semblance of privacy. The small window shutters rattled in a cold draft, and beyond them lay the dreary fields. He bolted the heavy wooden door behind him and sank onto the bed, mind whirling.

  Run away? He could try, but he had nowhere to go. As the baron, abandoning his territory would mark him a coward, a traitor to duty. In this feudal world, that likely meant execution if caught. Seeking asylum at Blackstone meant trading one cage for another. Hiring mercenaries without money was impossible. Appealing to Count Grandrich was a faint hope at best—.

  His head ached. He pressed his palms against his temples, trying to force himself to think of something clever. He had modern knowledge, didn’t he? Ideas about basic engineering, maybe ways to fortify the castle. But such efforts would take time and resources he didn’t have. The bandits could strike soon, leaving him no chance to implement anything.

  Now, frustration gnawed at him. He needed something—anything—that might give him an edge.

  ----

  As his anxiety and anger mounted, a sudden heat flared in that mark on his arm, as if responding to the turmoil in his mind. Reyn hissed, tugging back his sleeve. The black mark writhed and expanded, its ink-like edges shifting color: green, gray, and a faint, pale red, twisting like a living sigil. He gritted his teeth against a flare of pain that shot up his arm and into his skull.

  His vision swam. He tried to cry out but his voice caught in his throat. A strange sensation, like an electric current, crackled through his nerves. He blinked and the small room wavered, the rough-hewn walls melting into something else—an impression of shelves, tiny windows, and items glimmering in phantom lantern light. Memories of his old life, of games and digital menus, rushed through him.