The meeting hall within Emberhold's central keep stood as a testament to the settlement's rapid evolution. Once a stark, utilitarian chamber carved from necessity, it had grown into a space that whispered of permanence and ambition. The heavy stone walls, quarried from the rugged cliffs of the Ashen Expanse, were now draped with banners of crimson and black, each emblazoned with the Dominion's sigil—a phoenix rising from a bed of embers, its wings spread in defiance. The flickering glow of an iron chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, its dozen candles casting a warm, amber light that danced across the room, softening the harsh edges of the stone. At the chamber's heart stood a long oak table, its surface weathered but sturdy, etched with the same phoenix sigil in intricate, flowing lines—a mark of pride for a dominion still finding its footing. High above, narrow windows pierced the walls, their thick, uneven glass admitting slivers of the pale frontier daylight, while a persistent draft slipped through, stirring the phoenix banner behind Alexander Maxwell with a faint, rustling sigh.
Outside, the wind howled across the Ashen Expanse, a vast and desolate stretch of scorched earth and jagged stone that unfurled beyond Emberhold's growing borders. The gusts carried the faint scent of ash and dry soil, whistling down the newly laid stone roads that snaked deeper into the frontier, connecting the keep to the quarry, the forges, and the scattered settlements beyond. The Expanse was a land of muted colors—grays and browns streaked with the occasional glint of exposed ore—its horizon broken only by the silhouettes of distant ridges and the skeletal remains of long-dead trees, twisted by years of unrelenting wind.
Alexander Maxwell sat at the head of the table, a figure of quiet authority. His cloak, a deep charcoal grey edged with subtle red stitching, draped neatly across his broad shoulders, the fabric pooling slightly where it met the chair's high back. His posture was disciplined, shoulders squared, hands resting lightly on the table's edge—an old habit from his days as a soldier, though his calloused fingers now wielded power rather than a blade. His dark hair, streaked with the first hints of silver, framed a face hardened by years of struggle, his sharp green eyes fixed on the papers before him. Around him sat his advisors, a council of men who had transformed Emberhold from a desperate refuge into a rising dominion, each bearing the marks of their labor and loyalty.
Elias stood near the map wall, his lean frame taut with restless energy, arms crossed over a leather tunic stained with the dust of the trails he so often scouted. His sharp features were shadowed by a short, unkempt beard, and his hazel eyes flicked between the councilors, ever watchful. Gareth occupied a seat to Alexander's right, his massive hands splayed across a collection of stoneworking reports, the parchment curling at the edges from constant handling. A bear of a man, his weathered face bore the deep lines of a stonemason who had spent decades wrestling the earth into submission, his voice a low rumble when he spoke. Silas sat nearer the table's center, poring over settlement and scouting records, his thin spectacles perched precariously on his nose. His wiry frame and greying hair belied a mind as keen as a blade, honed by years of strategy and survival.
Tyrell lingered by the window, as was his custom, one hand resting on the stone sill while his dark eyes tracked the shifting wind outside. A wiry scout with skin tanned by the frontier sun, he carried the quiet intensity of a man who preferred the wilds to the confines of walls. Marcus leaned casually near the door, his lanky frame propped against the stone, a dagger spinning idly between his fingers—a habit that betrayed his restless nature. Owen sat at the table's far end, surrounded by construction documents, his broad shoulders hunched as he scribbled notes with a quill. His calloused hands and dust-streaked tunic spoke of days spent overseeing the settlement's relentless growth. And beside Silas sat the newest core council member—Lord Harland Voss, Emberhold's Minister of Trade and Economy.
Voss had arrived during the winter, a defector from a bustling southern trade city where he'd once been a guild official. Lean and sharp-featured, he cut a striking figure in his tailored coat of deep blue wool, its silver buttons glinting faintly in the candlelight. His dark hair was swept back, and his calculating grey eyes missed little, honed by years of navigating the cutthroat markets of the south. He carried himself with the air of a man who knew the value of every coin and every word, his gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against the table as he spoke.
"We're at approximately eighty-five hundred, give or take," Voss said, his voice smooth and precise as he tapped a sheet of data with a leather-clad finger. The parchment was a meticulous grid of numbers—population counts, trade tallies, resource estimates—scribed in his neat, angular hand. "Could reach ten thousand before autumn if the current migration pace holds. That puts us firmly in the range of a mid-tier barony by population standards—small compared to Valefort's millions, but significant for a frontier settlement."
"And economy?" Alexander asked, his tone clipped, eyes still fixed on the table.
"Respectable, considering the location," Voss replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Our main exports are refined tools—hammers, picks, chisels—small-scale weapon shipments like short swords and spearheads, and raw ore from the Tenebrium mines. Imports are primarily grain from the western plains, salt from the coastal traders, cloth for the settlers, and a trickle of finished luxury goods—wine, silks—for those who can afford them. We're not turning a surplus on everything, but with trade routes stabilized through Stonehaven, we're holding steady."
Silas adjusted his spectacles, peering up from his records. "We've begun attracting merchants—not just the desperate peddlers with half-rotted wares, but guild-affiliated traders from Westmere and beyond, looking to test the waters. That's a good sign. They're bringing proper caravans now—ox-drawn wagons laden with barrels and bolts of fabric."
"But also a warning," Elias interjected, his voice sharp as he uncrossed his arms. "If the guilds see potential here, it won't be long before the Kingdom's lords do too. Varenia's distracted by the war, but their spies have long shadows."
"They already do," Silas countered, his tone calm but firm, "but the war with Eldoria keeps their eyes eastward. For now."
Gareth leaned forward, his chair creaking under his bulk, voice low and gravelly like stones grinding together. "The quarry's running at full pace—day and night, the hammers ring out. If you want another expansion, we'll need more laborers and better pulley systems. The cliffs are stubborn, and the men are tired. And the new forge at the ridge is still half-built—timbers up, but no roof, no bellows. Too much, too fast."
"That applies to housing too," Owen chimed in, his quill pausing as he glanced up. "We've taken in more settlers than we can house comfortably. Makeshift homes are springing up fast—tents of patched canvas, shacks of scavenged wood—but not well. The foundations are shallow, the walls thin. A few more heavy storms like last month's, and we'll see real damage—roofs caving, families left in the mud."
"Long-term strain," Voss agreed, his gloved hand resting on his data sheet. "Which makes this meeting necessary. The expansion into the Ashen Expanse is our chance to relieve that pressure—more land, more resources—but it's also the greatest risk we've faced since the mines opened."
Alexander finally looked up, his green eyes narrowing as they swept across the room. "Update me on the scouting paths."
Tyrell stepped away from the window, his boots scuffing softly against the stone floor. The wind outside gusted harder, rattling the glass, and he tossed a folded parchment onto the table with a flick of his wrist. It landed with a faint thud, its edges worn from travel. "Five expeditions launched since winter's end. Two returned with full maps—detailed sketches of ravines, dry riverbeds, and a few springs worth noting. One is still en route, pushing deeper west. One was forced back by severe terrain—loose shale and a rockslide that nearly took the team. And the fifth…" He paused, his jaw tightening. "The fifth is why we're having this conversation now."
Alexander unfolded the parchment, his movements deliberate. The paper crackled as it opened, revealing a scout's hasty scrawl—lines marking a trail, a ravine, and a cluster of cryptic symbols. His eyes narrowed as he traced the ink with a finger.
"They found something?" he asked, his voice low but edged with curiosity.
"Or someone," Tyrell corrected, crossing his arms. "Tracks first—deep prints, wider than a man's, with claw marks at the toes. Then tools—crude hammers, picks chipped from flint. Even a shelter near a shallow ravine, built from stacked stones and lashed branches. And yesterday, confirmation—our scouts encountered a group of orcs. Small tribe, maybe a dozen. Feral, disorganized. Likely exiles or outcasts from something bigger. They didn't attack, but there was tension—hands on weapons, eyes locked."
"Language?" Silas asked, leaning forward, his spectacles glinting in the candlelight.
"No known dialect," Tyrell replied. "The scouts described guttural speech—harsh grunts and growls, nothing like the trade tongues we hear from merchants. Body markings too—red ochre smeared in jagged lines across their faces and chests. Weapons were bone and scrap metal—shivs, clubs, a spear with a rusted tip."
Alexander was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the parchment. "Do they know about us?"
Tyrell shook his head, the motion slight. "Hard to say. They were wary, not hostile—crouched low, watching from a distance. But they showed no signs of knowing our language or customs. The scouts suspect they were just as surprised to see us as we were to see them."
"Could it be an isolated group?" Elias asked, his brow furrowing as he stepped closer to the table.
"Possibly," Tyrell said. "That part of the Expanse is still barely explored—miles of cracked earth and wind-carved gullies we've never crossed. The orcs may be exiles from larger tribes, driven out by rivals, or just scattered pockets surviving on their own. We don't know what's beyond their territory—what rivers, what mountains, what else might be waiting."
Silas leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his voice measured. "So we've stumbled across a people who don't know we exist. And we don't know how many of them there are—or how far their lands stretch."
"Exactly," Tyrell said, his tone clipped.
The table fell quiet, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth at the room's far end. Logs shifted, sending a flurry of sparks up the chimney, and the air grew thick with the scent of burning pine.
"And our expansion?" Alexander asked finally, breaking the silence. "How close are we to that region?"
"Within a month's travel," Owen said, shuffling his construction documents. "Two weeks if we build proper roads—stone-packed, wide enough for wagons. The new road teams are already clearing routes west of the quarry, cutting through the scrub and leveling the ground."
"So we're approaching a potential border," Voss concluded, his voice smooth but edged with caution. "One we didn't know existed until now."
Gareth grunted, his massive hands curling into fists on the table. "And if they're more organized than we think? A dozen today could mean a hundred tomorrow."
"Then we may be building roads into someone else's territory," Elias said grimly, his gaze flicking to the map wall, where the Ashen Expanse sprawled in a patchwork of known trails and uncharted voids.
Alexander rose from his chair, the oak creaking faintly as he stood. He walked toward the window, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow, and stopped where the light filtered through the glass, casting faint patterns across the map behind him. The Ashen Expanse stretched far beyond their current holdings—wider than any of them had truly grasped until this moment. They had always known it was vast, a wilderness of ash and stone that dwarfed their ambitions, but its scale was only now becoming tangible, a living thing that breathed and shifted beyond their control.
He stared out toward the barren horizon, where the wind whipped dust into swirling eddies against a sky the color of tarnished steel. "We built Emberhold on stone," he said, his voice steady but resonant, carrying the weight of memory. "We expanded with Tenebrium, forged it into tools and weapons, but it's not our only strength. The Expanse is large enough to swallow armies—ours or anyone else's. And we still know so little about what lies beyond these walls."
"The scouts can be recalled," Tyrell offered, stepping closer. "Pull them back, let the trails go cold for now."
"No," Alexander said, his tone firm as he turned from the window. "We continue mapping. But quietly. No new settlements beyond the ridge until we have more data—no flags, no banners. We move like shadows, unseen until we choose to be."
"Understood," Silas said, nodding as he scribbled a note on his records.
"But the Tenebrium?" Elias asked carefully, his voice softer now, probing. "Do we continue production at full scale? The mines are straining—men and tools both."
Alexander didn't answer immediately. He turned back toward the fire, its flickering light reflecting in his eyes like embers caught in a storm. The room watched him, the air thick with anticipation—Elias's steady gaze, Gareth's furrowed brow, Voss's calculating stillness. The silence dragged, heavy and unbroken, until at last, he spoke, his voice quiet but resolute.
"Bring me the full mining reports," he said, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "I'll decide by dawn."
The fire crackled again, its glow illuminating the phoenix banner overhead. Outside, the wind continued its relentless song across the Ashen Expanse, a reminder of the vast, uncharted world that waited beyond Emberhold's walls—a world of promise, peril, and the choices yet to come.