Faywyn, 13th Moon, 30th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The wooden shutters rattled with each icy gust, the mournful wail of the wind threading through the cracks in the manor's walls. Morning in the depths of winter was an unkind affair, and Levi groaned low as he stirred beneath the patchwork cover of deerskin draped over him. The warmth of the bed was a fleeting luxury, and he hesitated before rising, careful not to disturb the slumbering figure beside him.

  Miss Jin, Javi’s governess, lay curled against him, her dark hair spilling across the pillow like ink on fresh parchment. With a shiver, Levi slid out of the bed, the cold embracing his bare skin with merciless fervour. He reached for a woollen blanket, draping it over his shoulders before padding silently across the chamber to the adjoining room. There, he relieved himself in the lidded chamber pot, his breath misting in the frigid air, and returned to the bed with measured steps.

  Levi sat on the edge of the mattress, the chill gnawing at his thoughts as much as his skin. His gaze drifted toward the frost-painted window, his mind wandering to matters yet unspoken.

  “What ails you, my lord?” Miss Jin’s voice broke the silence, soft and still laced with sleep. She stirred, propping herself up on one elbow. Her hand slid across his back, warm against the cool of his skin, her touch familiar and unhurried.

  “Tis nought,” Levi replied, turning to meet her gaze. He leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from her face before pressing a kiss to her lips. “I am just impatient, my dear. No more.”

  “Impatient?” she echoed, her brow knitting in faint concern. “What troubles you so?”

  Levi offered her a faint smile, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Paltry issues,” he said, brushing the question aside. “But pray, you appear radiant, m'lady. Hadst you a pleasant night?”

  Miss Jin giggled softly, her arm curling around his waist. “I did not expect his lordship to be boastful,” she teased. “I did not reckon His Lordship to be boastful. But, aye. I did have a wonderful night.”

  “Verily, I trust you did,” Levi said, his tone mock-imperious. “For it was I—Levi the Lance, god of rod and foreplay—who did sard you.”

  She laughed, swatting playfully at his chest. “Oh, stop! That’s the fifth line you’ve pilfered from Lady Leslie’s tales already.”

  Levi smirked, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her waist. “And yet,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, “dost thou not crave my sinful touch once more?”

  Miss Jin feigned a gasp, though her hands lingered on his. “Oh, how beastly thou art, my lord,” she whispered, leaning closer. But then her tone shifted, a reluctant sigh escaping her lips. “Alas, we mustn’t. The young miss’s lessons begin anon, and I must make myself presentable.”

  "And what of the means?" she added with a sultry giggle. "It is not customary to possess a spare sheath(1), dost my beastly lord seek to defy yet another expectation of mine?"

  "Nay. But you present a solid argument, m'lady," Levi mused Levi, stroking his chin. "I know not if the butcher hath more in store. Perchance I shall order him to fashion some before the week's end, for convenience's sake. But go, prepare for Javi's lesson. Though I wonder, might I once more be graced with your presence this eve?"

  "Of course, My Liege," giggled the governess. "Now, where do I get washed?"

  "The chamber to the left, there’s a wash basin there," replied Levi. “Hot water and scented soap shall arrive soon, and a fresh gown shall be brought if it pleases you.”

  “It does, my lord,” Miss Jin replied with a small smile. She slipped from the bed, her movements graceful as she made her way to the washroom.

  Levi watched her depart, a quiet satisfaction lingering in his chest. Servants arrived shortly thereafter, bearing steaming water and fresh garments, bowing low before retreating. Miss Jin dressed swiftly, her hair swept into a tidy braid before she bid him farewell with a curtsy and a kiss.

  Levi bathed in solitude, the hot water soothing the aches left by morning’s chill. As he dressed, he paused to study his reflection in the copper mirror—a faint image of his face, sharper than it had been in weeks past, his body leaner and stronger from days of training. Levi exhaled, wringing what moisture he could from his unruly mass of black curls before laying his damp towel upon the table. The dishevelled mop was bound neatly with a length of red yarn, and his slender frame was adorned with dark tunics and a fur cloak.

  Thus attired, the young lord made his way to the grand hall, where Ser Lancelot's voice echoed faintly through the otherwise silent corridor. The viscount stood conversing with the steward, his booming laughter echoing through the stone corridors.

  “Good morrow, Robert,” Levi greeted as he entered. “And to you, Ser Lancelot. I trust the night passed uneventfully?”

  “Good morrow, my lord,” Robert replied with a small bow.

  “Indeed, a fair morrow,” Lancelot added with a grin. “Though who could have guessed my daughter’s governess would emerge so sprightly this day? I trust your night was… eventful?”

  Levi arched a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Do you not fear for your household, dear viscount?”

  “Fear? Whatever do you mean, my lord?” Lancelot asked, his grin fading slightly to make way for confusion.

  “Should your Lady learn of this,” Levi said, his tone light but edged with mischief, “she may well divorce you and seek solace in my arm. A tragedy, truly, if such an accident were to occur. The bards would surely sing of my villainy, however undeserved.”

  Lancelot laughed, clapping Levi on the shoulder. “Your concern is noted, my lord, but unnecessary. My wife is well satisfied, I assure you.”

  Levi smirked. “Keep telling yourself so, my friend. Yet warnings oft go unheeded.” He gestured toward the doors. “Shall we depart?”

  “Of course, my liege,” Lancelot replied, still chuckling as they strode into the cold light of morning.

  Levi inhaled deeply, his breath misting in the icy air as he steadied the crude iron sights of his musket. The wintry gust bit at his face, and the chill seeped through his gloves, but his grip remained firm. Fifty paces away, the straw dummy stood waiting, a poor substitute for a living target. Levi’s right arm held steady, his left braced beneath the musket’s weight. His eyes narrowed as he exhaled, then he closed them and squeezed the trigger.

  The weapon thundered, its roar echoing across the barren training field. The recoil slammed into his shoulder, jolting him backward as a bluish cloud of smoke curled into the frigid air. Opening his eyes, Levi watched as the smoke cleared, carried away by a sharp gust. The target remained untouched, unscathed by his effort.

  “By how much did I miss?” Levi asked, his tone more curious than frustrated. He tugged his coat tighter against the cold.

  “About a hand’s breadth to the left, my lord,” Lancelot replied, inspecting the dummy with the faintest of smirks. He rubbed his gloved hands together, warding off the chill.

  Levi nodded, already reaching for powder and shot. His fingers worked methodically, pouring the powder, ramming the ball down the barrel, and priming the pan. He took aim once more, his breath forming a frosty veil before him, and fired. The musket kicked again, another roar filling the air, followed by a fresh cloud of smoke.

  When the wind swept the haze away, the dummy lay in tatters, reduced to straw and splinters beside a dozen others.

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  “Sixteen shots to down ten targets at fifty paces,” Levi remarked, lowering the musket with a note of satisfaction. “An improvement from yesterday.”

  “Aye, my lord, it is,” Lancelot replied, nodding. “Perhaps one day, you’ll manage ten for ten.”

  “Doubtful,” Levi said, shaking his head. “These muskets are too imprecise. If only we had the resources to rifle the barrels, perhaps then we’d see real accuracy.”

  “You wield a weapon that can fell a man from farther than any bow,” Lancelot said, bemused. “And yet you want more?”

  Levi shrugged, gesturing toward the figure approaching them. “What can I say? I’m not easily satisfied.”

  Javi bounded toward them, her steps light despite the uneven ground. “Wow!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. “That was amazing!”

  “Done with your lessons already?” Levi asked, ruffling her hair.

  “Aye!” she chirped, eyeing the musket in his hands. “May I hold it, please?”

  Lancelot’s brow furrowed, his disapproval evident, but Levi ignored him, smiling indulgently at the girl. “Of course,” he said. “Anything for my little princess.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise―” Lancelot began.

  “Relax, old man,” Levi interjected, passing the musket to Javi. “She won’t be firing it. She only wants to see it up close, isn’t that right, Javi?”

  “I won’t?” she started, then quickly amended herself under her father’s stern gaze. “Ah, I mean, aye, I won’t!”

  Levi handed her the weapon, its weight surprising her. “It’s… heavy,” she grunted, her small arms straining as she struggled to hold it steady.

  “Aye,” Levi agreed, nodding solemnly. “Indeed it is.”

  “You didn’t mention it was heavy.”

  “No, I did not.”

  Lancelot sighed, exasperated. “If it’s too much, you can hand it back,” he told his daughter.

  “Nay,” Javi insisted, her pride keeping her rooted. “Nay, I’ll manage.”

  “We’re heading back to the Keep,” Lancelot said mildly. “And his lordship plans to stop by the barracks. Still fine with that weight, Javi?”

  The girl froze, her eyes darting between the musket and Levi. Realization dawned, and she swallowed hard. “Er… here, father, take it back. I’ve seen enough.”

  “Are you sure?” Levi teased, his amusement barely concealed. “You could hold onto it a bit longer.”

  “No!” Javi declared, shaking her head as she thrust the musket into her father’s hands. “I’m fine!”

  As she stomped off, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, the two men chuckled. “Bullies,” she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying just enough to be heard.

  “Hear that?” Lancelot said, laughing. “Stop bullying my daughter.”

  “Would you prefer I bully you instead?” Levi retorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I still have plenty of paperwork that could use your attention."

  “More?” Lancelot groaned.

  “Aye,” Levi said, nodding. “Drafted a few days past. Plans for the construction of waterworks and drainage systems for Faywyn and Mallowston before next winter.”

  “Is it truly necessary?” Lancelot asked, his tone sceptical.

  “Not immediately,” Levi admitted. “But it's worth considering. The towns get muddy in spring and unbearable in summer; I'd prefer not to deal with the smell again.”

  "I see," Lancelot nodded. "Well then, enjoy, My Liege. She's all yours."

  Levi clicked his tongue. "Father of the year, indeed."

  "Some things are inevitable," Lancelot chuckled. "She's your betrothed; I can't protect her from you forever. Might as well let her get used to it now. On another note, about that paperwork you sent..."

  "...Ah, yes, the army hierarchical systems?" Levi interrupted, keeping an eye on Javi as she disappeared down the path. Lancelot nodded. "We can discuss it later; it's quite complex."

  "I imagine so," Lancelot agreed. "Though I'm more concerned about funding an army of that size."

  "It'll sort itself out as the army grows," Levi dismissed. "Taxation, levied towns, and conflict settlements will fund it. Ironically, only a large enough army can enforce such measures."

  "I see," Lancelot murmured, a sombre realization dawning. "Towleigh?"

  "The first of many."

  "To fund an army like that would require a chain of ransoms beyond measure," Lancelot remarked.

  "Don't call it ransom money," Levi chuckled. "It's taxes. You make it sound like I am some brutal, warmongering, Luscan chieftain. No, it would require an unending chain of taxes beyond measure, not ransoms."

  "Why?" Lancelot asked, puzzled.

  Levi shrugged. "Why not?"

  The barracks were alive with movement, yet the air carried a sombre weight. The ground, once blanketed with a pristine layer of snow, was now churned into a slushy morass, a battlefield of boots and hooves. The training yard stretched wide, its boundaries marked by makeshift targets, straw dummies, and weapon racks laden with pikes, swords, and shields dulled from practice. The sounds of commands and exertion filled the crisp winter air—grunts of effort, the whistle of arrows, and the resonant thud of artillery practice echoing in the distance.

  Levi and Lancelot approached in silence, the young lord’s measured steps contrasting with the viscount’s contemplative gait. Ahead, the field bustled with disciplined chaos. Crossbowmen fired in coordinated volleys, musketeers practised their reloads, and cavalry units wheeled their mounts in tight, precise circles. At the far end, Ser Turiel, the recently reinstated Master Gunner, barked orders to his artillery crews, the boom of cannon fire punctuating the air like thunderclaps.

  Closer by, a forest of pikes swayed in unison, their gleaming heads catching what little sunlight pierced the overcast sky. Pikemen stood rigid, their weapons held high, clad in a patchwork of armour—simple cuirasses, mail shirts, and mismatched greaves and vambraces. Despite their haphazard equipment, their faces were stern, resolute, as Ser Liam strode among them.

  "Shoulder arms!" Ser Liam commanded, his voice sharp as steel. The pikemen obeyed instantly, lowering their weapons to rest on their shoulders. The tall knight, a former bannerman of House Hera, moved with the confidence of a veteran, though his step faltered when his gaze fell upon Levi. For a fleeting moment, his stern demeanour cracked, and an unmistakable flash of nervousness passed over his features.

  "At attention!" Ser Liam barked, his voice betraying the faintest tremor as he approached the lord. The pikemen snapped into formation, their movements crisp and precise.

  “My lord,” the knight greeted Levi with a strained smile, his rigid posture almost comical in its severity. “You’re here?”

  “Hm,” Levi snorted, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Liam’s forced smile wavered as he cast a quick glance at Lancelot, seeking reassurance but finding none. With a visible effort, the knight fell into step behind Levi.

  “How fare the pikemen?” Levi inquired, his tone as casual.

  “Progressing well, my lord,” Liam replied, clipped. “They’ve mastered the basics of the pike drill and can execute it as a company. However, the more complex formations you’ve outlined—those involving coordination across multiple companies—remain a challenge. There are also stamina concerns, though the men can maintain cohesion in basic formations.”

  “Good,” Levi said simply, his gaze sweeping over the rows of soldiers. His eyes caught on a mounted rider circling the field. “You,” he called, gesturing to the horseman. The rider, another former Hera bannerman, reined in his steed and approached, his expression mirroring Liam’s unease.

  “Yes, my lord?” the rider asked.

  “Your horse,” Levi said, gesturing toward the reins. “I’ll borrow it.”

  “…Of course, my lord,” the rider replied, dismounting with a hesitant bow.

  “Careful, my lord,” Lancelot said, his tone wary, as Levi mounted the horse with practised ease.

  The young lord nudged the steed forward, guiding it along the edges of the pike formation. He rode in silence at first, his gaze sharp as he studied the men before him. Then, abruptly, he spoke to the arrayed crowd, his voice cutting through the winter air.

  “The mounted knight,” Levi began, “is a formidable foe. From horseback, a warrior wields height, speed, and power, his view of the battlefield unmatched. Cavalry excels at running down routed foes, raiding undefended lands, and scouting the movements of armies. But even the mightiest men have weaknesses. Level arms!”

  At his words, the pike formation seemed to come alive, the men leaning forward as their polearms lowered into combat-ready positions. Levi circled his horse around the formation, the bristling hedge of spearheads just metres from his waist. The young lord’s smile deepened as he continued.

  “That weakness,” Levi said, circling his horse, “is discipline. A wall of spears, held firm and fearless, can bring down even the most vaunted cavalry charge. No knight, no matter how skilled, would dare charge a formation as disciplined as yours.”

  He reined in his horse, halting at the centre of the field. His gaze swept over the men, their breaths clouding in the frosty air. “Some may argue that archers could pick you apart from afar,” Levi said, his tone rising, “but I remind you of the shields upon your arms. Ashwood, light yet strong enough to stop a longbow’s arrow at point-blank range. Used wisely, you are nearly invulnerable.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “But shields and pikes alone will not save you. Trust in your comrades, obedience to your commanders, and personal unwavering discipline are your greatest weapons. With them, you will survive. Without them, you are nothing but kindling for the enemy’s fire.”

  The earl dismounted, his boots crunching in the snow and mud as he stepped forward. “Bards may sing of noble deaths,” he said, his voice low but carrying, “but I care not for such tales. I have invested too much in you to see your lives squandered. Hence, I exhort you to ensure it is the enemy who meets their end in service of their lord. Do not fail me.”

  The field fell silent as Levi handed the reins back to the rider. With a nod to Lancelot, he turned and strode from the barracks, the viscount trailing in his wake. Behind them, the pikemen stood frozen, their weapons still poised, their expressions grim.