Chapter 10 – Arthur's Command
The courtyard behind Broken Stone's garrison was uneven and cluttered—half-used training dummies leaned crooked against frostbitten walls, and old practice swords lay scattered where snow had only half-covered them. One of the horses tethered near the barracks was limping.
Arthur stood at the center, arms crossed, eyes moving from man to man.
Eleven knights stood before him. Some looked wary. Others looked like they barely understood who they were standing in front of.
The silence stretched.
Arga had given him the space, stepping back and letting Arthur take the lead. The captain stood just behind him now, arms folded, his face hard to read.
Arthur turned to the nearest knight—a man not much older than him, with a split lip and a dented breastplate.
"You're Third Realm?" Arthur asked.
The man nodded stiffly. "Stone-Bound Oath, my lord."
Arthur glanced down at his grip. Too loose. Shoulders slouched.
"Your stance says otherwise."
A few of the other knights shifted. No one spoke.
Arthur didn't raise his voice. "I'm not here to parade titles. You've all been left out here to rot with dull blades and poor drills. That ends now."
He let that sink in, then stepped aside.
"You'll spar in pairs. Three-minute rounds. One on one. Then again. With me."
The wind bit through the cracked tiles above them, but none of the knights complained.
They began.
The first match was clumsy. The next, only slightly better.
Arthur watched each movement with the same unblinking focus he'd used to read family-led war manuals as a child. He didn't speak unless there was something worth correcting. But when he did, his voice was sharp and direct.
"Too wide. You overextend."
"Your stance collapses under pressure. You'd lose your footing on slick ground."
"Don't hold the blade like a woodsman."
When it came time to face them, he didn't go easy.
He struck fast, clean, and with purpose—forcing them to react, to tighten their form, to remember why knights trained with intent, not repetition. His blade never left bruises, but it always left a lesson.
By the end of the session, sweat clung to armor, and breath came ragged from more than one chest. But no one broke.
They weren't undisciplined, he realized. Just unled.
Later that evening, Arthur and Arga sat across a narrow stone table. The war room was dim, lit only by a pair of lanterns.
"You've earned their attention," Arga said, pouring water into a steel cup. "Not many would push the men that hard after a night like last."
Arthur said nothing at first. He stared at the cracked map on the wall—Broken Stone at the edge, far from any major roads. Just three garrison points in a fifty-mile range.
"Why has this post been left so undermanned?" Arthur asked. "This is still Imperial land. It borders three old battle routes. The shrine's ruins are ancient."
Arga leaned back. "I've sent letters. Reports. Months ago. Some acknowledged. Most ignored."
"By whom?"
"Commanders in Norhall. The local magistrate. Maybe higher. Nobody seems eager to spend coin on a post this deep into nowhere."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
"Stormgrave wasn't even informed."
"You think someone wanted it this way?"
"I think someone benefited from it."
He stood, walking to the narrow window slit that overlooked the road leading into the hills. Snow was falling again—soft, soundless.
"What do you know about the creature?" Arthur asked.
Arga frowned. "Only that I've never seen its like. It wasn't natural. It moved like it had memory."
Arthur's hand brushed against the shard he kept inside his coat pocket. The sigil on it still pulsed faintly. The Codex hadn't spoken—but it hadn't stopped listening either.
"I want scouts sent out tonight," he said quietly. "Quietly. If that thing wasn't alone, I want to know before it decides to show us its siblings."
By morning, Arthur had taken stock of the garrison's supplies. What he found wasn't promising.
Armor sets were mismatched, some rusted. The stable's grain stores were low. The watchmen's shifts hadn't been rotated properly in weeks.
Even worse—the records showed knights had been rotated out, but not replaced. On paper, Broken Stone had forty men. Arthur had seen just twelve. The rest were names with no bodies attached.
He didn't say a word of it to the men, but he made a quiet mark next to every false name.
At midday, one of the locals came with a cart of dried herbs and bitter root—a trade deal. Arthur paid him twice the usual rate and asked him a few questions while Arga inspected the goods.
The man had no useful information about the creature, but he did mention something else.
> "Been seeing riders near the southern ridge. Not our knights. Didn't wear crests I know."
Arthur's expression didn't change.
"Bandits?"
"Maybe. Maybe worse. They don't come close."
Not yet.
That night, as Arthur reviewed the old patrol routes, his Codex stirred again—once, sharply.
The shard on the table began to emit a faint glow, pulsing in rhythm with his breath. When Arthur touched it, he felt something new.
Not knowledge. Not words.
**A question.**
And behind it, **something watching**. Not hostile, not familiar. Just aware.
The nights at Broken Stone were no longer quiet. The wind carried too many echoes. And the men stood straighter when Arthur passed—not just because of who he was, but because they saw what he did.
This wasn't a battlefield yet. But something was coming.
And Arthur would meet it standing.