While Darin was busy absorbing cursed wendigo cores, terrifying northern armies with his increasingly unstable charisma, and being accidentally engaged via cat proxy, life in Fort Blackthorn was… intense.
Not quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not "holding down the fort" like some cozy country keep.
No.
It was war.
Training war.
Duchess Mary, once the blade of the North, now semi-retired only because someone had to make sure her joints still moved with violence, had taken her role very seriously.
Darin's army of four thousand?
The once-mismatched mess of mercenaries, cultists, ex-soldiers, aura knights, swamp mages, and mildly traumatized cooks?
They were her project now.
And Duchess Mary did not believe in "rest."
Day 1: The Screaming Begins
"UP!"
"DOWN!"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T BREATHE? BREATHING IS OPTIONAL!"
