The dawn following the Summit of Lords broke over Valemont Keep in brilliant streaks of gold. Cedric stood at the balcony of his assigned chamber, his cloak fluttering in the morning breeze. Below, servants bustled through the inner courtyard, and in the distance, the banners of the various southern houses rippled proudly. It was a new day—not just in the sky, but in the hearts of those who had pledged themselves to his vision.
A knock on the heavy wooden door behind him stirred Cedric from his thoughts.
"Enter," he said, turning slightly.
Victoria stepped in, fully armored but with her helm under one arm. "The nobles are gathering for the banner raising. Your standard is ready."
Cedric gave a nod. "Then let us give the South something to rally behind."
-----
Later that day, Cedric stood at the highest balcony of Valemont Keep, overlooking the gathered nobility, merchant envoys, military captains, and heralds assembled in the grand courtyard below. Victoria stood at his right, flanked by Hans and Marlowe. The stone parapet was draped in rich navy and gold silk, and behind Cedric, an embroidered banner of House Thorne stood proudly—now surrounded by a ring of new crests, each representing an allied House.
The murmuring of the crowd stilled as Cedric raised his hand. He stepped forward, his voice carrying across the keep, empowered not just by projection magic, but by quiet confidence earned through effort.
"Lords and Ladies of the South," Cedric began, "we have gathered in times of uncertainty. We have suffered isolation, negligence, and division—but today, we make that suffering mean something."
Heads turned toward him; the gathered assembly held its breath.
"For too long, the Marches have been treated as the Crown's afterthought. Our roads crumble while northern trade thrives. Our youth seek work in cities that don't remember their names. But no more."
He gestured toward the southern map etched into the stone platform below. "We do not wait for salvation from distant thrones. We build it ourselves. With shared labor. With joined strength."
A breeze stirred the banners behind him.
"Yesterday, we met as lords of disparate baronetcies and freeholds. Today, I propose something greater—a Concord of the South. Voluntary, equal, cooperative. A league not of submission, but of partnership."
Murmurs rose—skeptical, hopeful, curious.
"In this Concord, knowledge will be shared. Blacksmiths from Grellmere will teach apprentices in Veleyn. Bakers from Thorne will trade with herbalists from Briarcrest. Our militias will train together; our roads will connect villages long left isolated. And in doing so—we become unignorable."
Cedric paused, letting the words settle. Then he reached down to the velvet-draped pedestal beside him, unveiling a new banner.
Navy cloth with a golden tree—its roots intertwined with swords, its canopy cradling a phoenix in flight.
"The Banner of the South," Cedric declared. "Not a symbol of dominion, but of unity."
Lady Alenia of Briarcrest stepped forward first. "It's bold, Thorne. But perhaps boldness is what we need. I lend my banner."
Ferox of Grellmere came next, clapping a hand to Cedric's shoulder. "Forge it well, lad. The South has long needed a spine."
One by one, others followed. Emrik. Callum. Even some who had remained quiet the day before. Crests were embroidered onto the rising banner, names recorded in the book of accord.
The crowd stirred again as emissaries from merchant guilds approached, offering ledgers and trade contracts. A delegation of freeholders pledged coin and grain. Militia captains knelt and swore joint defense.
By the time Cedric stepped down from the dais, the courtyard had transformed. What was once a meeting of individual holdings was now a budding nation-in-the-making.
The South would rise, not with fire and blood, but with unity and strength.
-----
That evening, as the fires burned low in the great hall, Cedric walked the outer battlements alone. The stars stretched above him in a curtain of ancient light.
He wasn't alone for long. Victoria joined him, her silhouette outlined by the moon.
"You always walk when you're thinking," she said.
"It helps me see the path more clearly."
"You realize what this means, don't you? This is no longer just about Thorne. The South is yours."
Cedric looked out at the darkened lands stretching beyond the keep. "Then I must rise to be worthy of it."
She smiled. "You already are."
They stood in silence as the night wrapped its cloak around Valemont Keep, and the phoenix banner fluttered high above them—a promise to a region long forgotten, now ready to rise anew.
-----
Cedric stood atop the stone ramparts of Valemont Keep, the cold morning air sharpening his senses. The meeting of southern lords the night before had ended with an unexpected accord, and as the banners of new allies fluttered in the courtyard below, Cedric allowed himself a moment of calm satisfaction.
He turned slightly as Hans approached, dressed in his formal smith's garb, polished but still practical.
"Most of them agreed," Hans said, coming to stand beside him. "A few need convincing, but the seeds are sown."
Cedric nodded. "It was more than I expected."
"And yet, not more than what we need."
Below, nobles and their entourages were preparing to depart, some on horseback, others in elegant carriages. Among them was a flamboyant, somewhat peculiar man wearing a feathered cap, his cloak a shade too pink for local fashion. He waved enthusiastically at everyone and no one in particular.
Cedric raised a brow. "Who is that?"
Hans chuckled. "Monsieur Phoenie. A minor landholder from the northeast marches. Bit of an eccentric. Shows up at every gathering, brings exotic cheese and unwanted advice."
"Sounds harmless."
"Entirely. Though I think he believes he's secretly the true heir of an ancient phoenix bloodline."
Cedric smirked. "Well, every court needs its characters."
Hans nodded. "Better a harmless loon than a scheming baron."
As the sun crested the peaks and bathed Valemont in light, Cedric turned to descend into the halls again. Letters had to be sent, scribes summoned, banners forged—and now, the work of building the Southern Concord would begin in earnest.
The South would rise, not with fire and blood, but with unity and strength. And somewhere, perhaps offering someone a slice of dragon-milk cheese, Monsieur Phoenie would be waving at clouds, utterly content in his mysterious grandeur.
-----
The sun had dipped behind the spires of Valemont Keep, casting a golden halo over the newly unfurled banner of House Thorne. Within the soft glow of twilight, wine flowed freely in the grand hall, nobles whispered, and alliances began to bloom—some of words, others of intentions yet to be spoken.
Countess Aurelia Vallentis leaned against the edge of her silk-draped chaise in her private guest chamber, a glass of mulled wine turning lazily in her slender fingers. Her eyes, green and sharp like polished jade, lingered on the door Cedric had exited through hours earlier. A smirk danced on her lips.
"So young, so... impossible," she murmured to herself, swirling the wine.
A knock at the door.
"Enter," she called without looking.
Her attendant, a maid named Lenira, stepped in and closed the door behind her. "You summoned me, my Lady?"
Aurelia set down her glass, uncrossing her long legs with the grace of a serpent preparing to strike. "Yes. I want everything you can gather on Baronet Cedric Alwyn Thorne. Allies, enemies, lovers, habits. And do so without the usual obviousness."
Lenira blinked. "Lovers?"
Aurelia's smirk widened. "Oh come now, Lenira. You saw him. That poise. That speech. That aura. He walks like a man touched by something beyond mortal means, and the court could feel it. The Blacksmith, the Knight, even that baker girl... they all looked at him as if he were the sun."
"But he's barely out of adolescence," Lenira offered weakly.
"Even more reason to secure influence early. He may be of low title now, but there is blood in the wind. Kingdoms can rise overnight in times like these. And I plan to be on the right side of history—preferably on his arm, or at least in his bed."
She rose from her chair and stepped to the window, the light of the moon casting silver down her silk robe. Her reflection in the glass showed not just a woman of beauty, but one of ruthless intention.
"He is building something. All those chiefs who pledged fealty? That didn't happen overnight. The Duke doesn't lend his name to fools. And the envoy from the Crown? Too quick. Too orchestrated. There's power behind his growth—some force backing him, or guiding him."
"You think he's a chosen one?" Lenira asked hesitantly.
"I think he's interesting," Aurelia purred, turning. "And interesting men are very often dangerous. Dangerous men tend to rise... and I'd rather lie beside a rising star than be crushed beneath one."
She moved to her vanity, sitting before the mirror and examining herself. "Prepare the midnight balm. And the sapphire corset."
Lenira blinked. "You're going to him tonight?"
Aurelia laughed, a soft, velvety sound. "Not tonight, dear. One does not just storm the keep. He is still cautious, still sharpening his blades and counting his friends. I must make myself one of them first."
"But you intend to seduce him?"
"Oh, certainly. But this seduction will be one of elegance. I will not play the simpering noblewoman. I will be a confidante. A rival in wit. A voice of calculated challenge. He may have knightesses and merchant girls fawning over him, but I will be the one he remembers."
She leaned forward and traced her lip with a tinted balm. "Men in power crave not softness, but stimulation. A spark. A mirror of ambition. And I'll be that mirror."
Lenira hesitated, then asked, "What if he refuses?"
"Then I will become the Queen's closest friend and suggest she betroth him to my niece."
"Which one?"
"The useless one with the delicate ankles."
Aurelia's laughter filled the chamber once more as she rose and walked toward a scroll on her desk—parchment detailing the Thorne estate's logistics, trade routes, and crop surpluses. She had been studying it ever since the assembly ended.
"He's already begun reshaping his villages into a township. Did you see the training yard? The glass forge? The export schedules?" she said, tapping the scroll. "That's no baronet. That's a king with poor branding."
"And yet, all the other nobles scoff at him behind closed doors," Lenira said.
"And that," Aurelia whispered with glee, "is why they will all be blindsided when he leaves them choking in his dust."
She walked to her wardrobe, fingers dancing along the silks and velvets. "From now on, we integrate. Attend every feast he hosts. Offer aid, insight, support. Send gifts—meaningless trinkets masked as tokens of goodwill. Have my nephew draft a letter volunteering our smiths to train with his Hans fellow. Oh, and send a few choice vintage bottles from the Vallentis vineyards as a congratulatory gift."
"What message should accompany the wine?" Lenira asked, taking notes.
Aurelia's lips curled. "Tell him it pairs best with victory... and company."
"Yes, my Lady."
As Lenira left the room, Aurelia remained still, her silhouette framed by moonlight and ambition. Her expression softened—just for a moment—as her thoughts lingered on the boy behind the storm. The way he looked at people, read situations, balanced charm and control. There was no doubt in her mind now.
"Cedric Thorne," she whispered. "You are a storm... and I will not let it pass me by."
Then she turned away from the window and returned to her desk—ready to begin the most delicate war of her career.