Three days had passed since the neighboring lords and elders knelt before Cedric in the courtyard of Thornehold. In that time, the estate had hummed with new life. Builders had been dispatched to Melbridge and Greywell. Scribes rode from dawn to dusk to register the populations of the new vassal lands. And word of Cedric's expanding influence began to ripple outward through the noble circles of Leontheir like a stone cast into still water.
It was early morning when Cedric, standing on the balcony of the newly-renovated great hall, received the sealed parchment.
"A royal seal," Benwick announced, offering the scroll with two hands.
Cedric broke the crimson wax and scanned the script. His brows furrowed, then lifted slightly.
"What is it?" Victoria asked, sipping tea beside the open windows.
"The Duke of Valemont is hosting a regional summit," Cedric said, folding the letter slowly. "And I've been summoned."
Benwick leaned forward, concern flickering in his expression. "A summit so soon after your appointment as Warden?"
"Exactly," Cedric murmured. "This isn't just a gathering. It's an examination."
------
Two days later, Cedric set off with a small entourage: Victoria, Benwick, Marlowe, and a pair of trusted guards. The roads curved gently through the southern plains, now green and freshly tilled. They passed wagons from the new vassal villages, carrying grain and tools. The prosperity was becoming visible.
Along the way, they stopped at a rest-station where a courier had posted the names of all attending lords: Counts, Barons, and select Wardens.
"Lord Faelwyn of Eastvale... Count Marthen... Baroness Elira of Norwatch..." Benwick read aloud. "These aren't minor players."
Victoria examined the list. "They're gathering strength. The Crown's watching who rises... and who might fall."
Cedric gave a slow nod. "Then we give them something to remember."
-----
Valemont Keep was a structure of ancient prestige—its high walls carved with the heraldry of a dozen generations. Its central tower, known as the Silver Crown, gleamed under the twilight sun, the polished stone reflecting a golden hue that lent it an air of holy authority. As Cedric approached the keep on horseback, accompanied by Victoria, Hans, and Marlowe, the courtyard was already bustling with the banners of assembled nobility.
Flags of neighboring baronetcies fluttered in the wind: House Briarcrest's crimson rose, the sapphire hammer of House Veleyn, the twin lions of Grellmere, and more. The cobbled square before the hall was filled with lords in vibrant tunics, their retainers and knights in neat formation behind them.
A chamberlain bowed low as Cedric dismounted.
"Warden Thorne. You are among the last to arrive. The others await in the Silver Crown."
Cedric nodded, adjusting his gloves. "Then let's not keep the lions caged."
Inside the central hall, torchlight danced across stone columns and vaulted ceilings. A massive round table lay at the center, polished and etched with a map of the Southern Marches. Around it, the baronets and landed knights of the region were already seated, nursing wine and bread, while talking in small groups.
The conversation hushed for a moment as Cedric entered, then resumed again, louder and more animated.
"Warden Thorne," called out a deep voice. "So the phoenix truly does rise from ash."
Cedric turned to see Lord Ferox of Grellmere—tall, barrel-chested, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard. He raised a goblet in salute.
"I was beginning to think the tales of Thorne's revival were wine-born fantasy," said Lady Alenia of House Briarcrest. She was lean, sharp-eyed, dressed in thistle purple with silver lace. "But I stand corrected."
"I assure you, Lady Alenia," Cedric said as he took a seat, "the only fantasy I indulge in is watching nobles sweat over honest labor."
That drew a round of laughter.
"Then you and I may get along yet," said Baron Emrik of Veleyn, a grizzled man with soot-stained fingers and the look of a warrior-smith. "Tell me, Warden, how do you get a blacksmith to break through to B-Class without promising him your daughter's hand or a chest of gold?"
"You let him build what he wants," Cedric replied smoothly. "And you listen when he tells you what the village needs."
"Revolutionary!" Emrik grinned. "Next you'll be telling us peasants should vote."
Another wave of chuckles.
"I hear you taught your baker to read," Lady Alenia added. "And now she's writing recipes and starting workshops?"
Cedric gave a modest smile. "Better flour rises when knowledge is mixed in."
"Oh, you're a poet now?" Ferox rumbled.
"No," Cedric answered dryly, "but if bread keeps my soldiers happy and my coffers full, I'll quote sonnets all day."
A few of the younger barons nodded thoughtfully.
"Tell us, Warden," said a younger man with auburn hair and a silk vest—Lord Callum of Orwyn, barely older than Cedric. "What's your plan now that you've caught the King's eye? I suspect you didn't accept the Warden's mantle just to be an errand boy."
Cedric took a sip of the dark southern wine that had been poured for him. "My plan, Lord Callum, is to unite the South—not by blood or conquest, but by prosperity. To make our lands so strong, even the capital must look to us with respect rather than neglect."
"That sounds almost… utopian," Alenia remarked. "The Crown plays favorites. Cities get their coin, we get their taxes."
"And Veloria forgets the Marches," Ferox added, nodding.
"They remember now," Cedric said. "Let's not waste that."
Baron Emrik leaned forward. "So what do you propose?"
"A council," Cedric said clearly. "Each of us contributes—resources, training, knowledge. We don't need to bow to each other, but we coordinate. We create trade routes, standardize militia training, share agricultural techniques. Like a guild—but of nobles."
The table went quiet.
"Have you considered," Alenia said slowly, "what would happen if the Dukes see this as a threat?"
"It won't be a threat," Cedric answered. "Not unless they plan to keep the South poor forever. This alliance would make the South self-sufficient. Loyal. Productive. Useful."
"Useful means taxable," Callum muttered.
"Let them tax," Ferox barked. "If we're earning three times what we used to, they can take their tithe."
"I'd rather pay gold for freedom than blood for crumbs," Emrik added.
Lady Alenia's lips curled in a slow smile. "Maybe this phoenix of yours has feathers after all."
Cedric leaned back slightly. "All I ask is your cooperation. You don't owe me fealty. But if we share our strengths, we all rise."
Lord Callum raised his goblet. "Then let the Southern Concord begin, Warden Thorne. You have my coin."
"Mine as well," Ferox said, slamming his fist on the table. "Trade routes, militia drills, smithing guilds—you'll have my smiths teaching half the Marches in a year."
Lady Alenia twirled her goblet thoughtfully. "I'll send my herbalists to Thorne. See if your bakers and my alchemists can find middle ground."
Murmurs of agreement followed. Heads nodded. The firelight reflected in their eyes, not with rivalry—but with resolve.
Cedric smiled.
The South would rise, one accord at a time.
------
After the lords departed the round table to rest or feast, Cedric was summoned to a private chamber within Valemont Keep where Duke Harland of the Southern Reach waited. The Duke, a tall man with iron-grey eyes and a nobleman's bearing, stood beside a wide hearth with a goblet of brandy in hand.
"So, Warden Thorne," Harland said without turning, "you have set the Marches aflame with inspiration."
Cedric bowed as he entered, Victoria shadowing him at the door. "Only lit the torch, Your Grace. The kindling was already dry."
The Duke turned and gave a tight smile. "Modesty from an ambitious man. Rare. Sit."
Cedric obeyed, and the Duke poured him a glass. "You speak like a courtier, but you think like a merchant... or a general. That frightens the complacent. Especially when both peasants and nobles begin to speak your name in the same breath."
"I'm not seeking to unseat anyone," Cedric said carefully. "Only to give our region a spine."
"And a voice?"
"If it means we're heard in Veloria, yes."
Harland studied him. "You remind me of myself, thirty years ago. Full of plans. But remember this—unity is fragile. You build alliances now, but the first poor harvest, the first dispute over borders, and your council may fracture."
Cedric sipped the brandy. "That's why I'm choosing allies with vision, not just titles."
The Duke nodded slowly. "You'll make enemies, Cedric. Your rise threatens old blood. Some already mutter in the capital."
"Then let them mutter. I have fields to till, roads to pave, and people to feed."
Harland laughed, a low, rough sound. "Spoken like a king of clay and sweat. You'll go far if you survive the knives."
He stood and paced. "I've watched this realm stagnate for decades. If you truly intend to stir it awake, I will support you... cautiously. But remember, my reach is long. If your flames consume more than you can handle, I'll be there to douse them."
Cedric stood and bowed again. "Then I shall make sure they warm the South, not burn it."
Harland stepped close, his voice low. "Just be careful who you let bask in your fire."
He turned back to the hearth as Cedric exited, the embers casting dancing shadows across the old stone.
The game of lords had truly begun.
-----
That night, Cedric stood on the battlements of Valemont Keep. Victoria joined him, quiet in her armor.
"How long do you think before they move?" she asked.
"Not long. The nobles want to see whether I bend or break. The King wants to see what I protect when pressed."
Victoria gave a small nod. "And what do you protect?"
Cedric looked out over the starlit lands. "The South. And everyone in it."
She smiled. "Then we'll be ready."
In the distance, thunder echoed faintly.
It was the sound of change.