Clip. Clop.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed like a steady heartbeat through the open road, blending with the lazy creak of oiled carriage wheels. Each sound was a lullaby to Asher’s senses, a slow cadence that accompanied his thoughts as he reclined into the velvet-lined couch.
The interior of the carriage whispered wealth and war-earned authority. Dark mahogany panels shimmered with faint runes—wards of protection and silence—while gold filigree curled along the trim like ivy. Embroidered across the ceiling in silver thread was the sigil of House Ashbourne: a white wolf howling against the skies.
It was not just decoration. It was a tale.
This carriage had seen castles, manors and diplomatic halls alike. It had once ferried a highlords he couldn’t even gaze at from a distance. Yet like a dream, it carried him… a duke!
‘From forgotten baron to the White Wolf of the north,’ Asher mused.
And yet…
He stared at his gloved hands. The weight of titles, of lands and men, sat heavier than any armor. And today, the weight came from his own vassals—men he had raised, trusted, empowered—yet whose decisions gnawed at his sense of order.
Why now?
He turned his head toward the window, letting his mind drift from suspicion to simplicity.
Outside, Nero rode astride Bezerk, the massive destrier armored in polished steel and black leather. The beast’s breath curled into the air like smoke, each step heavy yet agile. Around them marched his elite guard—shields glinting, spears steady, eyes sharp.
Beyond them were the people.
Peasants and farmers lined the road like pilgrims to a sacred procession. They paused from harvesting, from mending carts or herding goats, just to watch him pass. Their eyes held awe, not fear; respect, not desperation. Some smiled. A few bowed. Children clutched their mothers’ skirts and whispered, “Is that him?”
And suddenly, a rare warmth stirred in Asher’s chest.
They’re alive. Fed. Strong.
He saw rounded cheeks, calloused hands, laughter where once there had been sobbing.
These were once barbarians in the mountains—once a den of broken souls, now part of his growing domain.
Back on Earth, he had walked through crowds and seen only obstacles. Here, every face was a story he had changed.
‘And when she is gone, who will carry it forward? Aquila? Or Adam?’
Sapphira’s inevitable departure would leave a hollow paradise had not fully prepared for. Leadership could not afford gaps.
But his thoughts were swept away as the carriage came to a halt.
The door swung open with a click, and Nero offered his hand out of habit. Asher stepped down, his boots finding solid ground softened by grass and soot. The scent of molten metal and charcoal greeted him like an old friend—raw, honest, and grounded.
They had arrived.
Silverleaf Forge.
A wide compound unfolded before him. The field was carpeted in short green grass, crushed in places by the tread of wagons and the boots of apprentices. Forges glowed across the land like a constellation of orange stars, each flame tended by soot-smeared men and women. Smoke curled into the sky, chasing the shadow of the nearby mountains.
And what mountains they were.
The Ash Mountains loomed in the distance—towering gray giants blanketed in mist, lying across the northern horizon like a titanic beast curled in eternal slumber. Their presence made the forge feel sacred, as though every blade hammered here echoed in the bones of the land itself.
Two figures stepped forward—one broad and rugged, the other, a little lean and sharp-eyed.
Blacksmith Dan, his beard streaked with soot and silver, gave a deep, respectful bow. Beside him, Ark White followed suit, arms clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease.
“Your Lordship,” Dan rumbled. “Welcome to Silverleaf.”
Asher gave a slow nod, his eyes sharp as they scanned the surroundings. “Mn…”
He took another step, the wind catching his cloak—white with a silver trim, stitched with wolf emblems that danced in the light.
“I received your letter,” he said, eyes settling on the blacksmiths. “Tell me—have you finally completed the armor set for the Emberframed?”
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the distant hiss of steam and the clanging of steel. And then, as if summoned by the gravity of that single question, the doors of the central forge creaked open—revealing something that glinted like dawn fire beneath shadow.
From the mouth of the forge, they brought it forth—towering, silent, and exuding menace.
The armor stood like a dark relic carved from obsidian and shadow, every jagged edge and sharpened plate whispering violence. Midnight black dominated the ensemble, with razor-fins and flared pauldrons that jutted outward like the spines of some infernal beast. Charred bronze lines etched through the chest and limbs, veins of power that shimmered faintly like embers beneath dying coals—giving the armor its name.
The helmet was a thing of dread. Horns curled upward in jagged arcs, framing a visor that resembled a maw sealed by darkness.
A tattered black half-cloak hung from one side of the waist, its edge adorned with a crescent sigil. The gauntlets were clawed, and the greaves seemed ready to crack stone beneath each step. Every inch of the armor was made to intimidate, to announce the arrival of a warrior.
This was no armor for a knight.
This was war made manifest.
“We call it the Black Tide Armor,” Ark began, his voice proud yet measured.
Though its silhouette suggested medium-weight gear, the armor’s composition defied expectation. Smooth, overlapping plates of matte-black steel interlocked in jagged symmetry, its form reminiscent of a predator caught mid-prowl. The armor looked alive—sleek, lethal, unyielding.
“It weighs a little over two hundred kilograms,” Ark continued, gesturing to the obsidian figure standing upright under the morning sun. “But for gold-ranked knights, it’s nothing more than an extension of their own limbs. And yet… its defensive capabilities are twice that of the Grand Aegis line, and it’s even lighter than our Frontline design—despite offering significantly more protection.”
Asher tilted his head slightly, impressed, but silent.
Ark motioned forward, leading them out of the forgeyard onto a wide, flattened field. The grass was trampled in places, the earth stamped down from trials and tests. There, displayed like trophies of war, stood the Black Tide, the bulky Grand Aegis, and the slender, curved form of the Frontline armor.
Three archers, each armed with longbows strung with high-tension gut and notched with armor-piercing arrows, stood exactly one hundred meters away.
At Ark’s sharp hand signal, they loosed their shafts—one after another, in rapid succession. The field filled with the sound of twanging strings, the whistle of wind-splitting arrows, and the dull thuds of metal struck.
When the volley ended, Asher stepped forward.
The results were telling.
The Frontline armor was pocked with six gaping holes, its elegant plates torn like paper in the path of raw force.
The Grand Aegis fared better—only three arrows had punched through, though white scoring marked the rest.
But the Black Tide… it stood untouched. Not a single scratch. Not even a scuff.
Brows raised, Asher stepped closer, fingers gliding along the cool metal. “Isn’t this better than raw dwarven steel?” he asked, suspicion edged with admiration.
“Indeed,” Ark replied, a small smile creeping into his beard. “The Black Tide is layered. Multiple interlocked strata of dwarven-forged alloy, reinforced with impact-dampening beast-fur lining to absorb the kinetic force from blunt strikes. And that’s not all—”
He was cut off by Dan, who grunted as he stepped forward, lifting a massive two-handed war hammer. With a roar, he swung the weapon in a brutal arc, slamming it into the armor’s chest with a deafening clang that echoed across the plain.
The armor toppled over from the force, landing in a cloud of dust.
Asher narrowed his eyes and stepped forward as it was hoisted back up. No dent. Not even a crack.
“Impressive,” he murmured.
Ark nodded. “We’ve prepared shields to accompany the armor. It’s durable, yes—but force is still force. Enough of it will kill, even if it doesn’t pierce. That’s why we don’t encourage soldiers to charge in blind.”
Asher nodded thoughtfully. “Force empowers. Turns even a dull blade into a killer.”
“Exactly,” Ark said. “But this armor—it’s the best you’ll find. No one else has the dwarven ore that we do. No one else has our craftsmen.”
Asher’s gaze lingered on the armor. “You said it can be worn by all knights? From fresh-blooded squires to Grand Knights?”
“It can,” both Ark and Dan confirmed in unison.
“How many sets do you have?”
“Ten thousand, ready for deployment. Within a month, we’ll have fifty thousand more.”
That made Asher smile. A rare, dangerous kind of smile—the kind that preceded conquest. “Good. You have one month.”
He turned sharply, cloak trailing behind him, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
But as he strode away, Dan’s gravel-thick voice rumbled behind him.
“My Lord… where are you going? Don’t you want to see the armor for the paladins—and your own set?”
Asher halted.
Frozen, mid-step.
_____
Apologies, I can’t write more than one for today. My eyes.