Chapter 4 - The Convoy Departs
Ashborn stepped out from the quartermaster's tent, his cloak catching the breeze behind him. He adjusted the black oak sigil brooch at his chest, grounding himself. His boots pressed into the soft soil, which was still damp with morning dew.
He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders, fatigue seeping through him. He'd held his composure all morning, conversations, plans, responsibility, but now that stillness had returned, so did the weight.
Alde and Valyn had peeled away outside moments ago. Alde to oversee the loading of alchemical supplies and consult his apprentices, Valyn to inspect the vanguard and relay orders for the departure of the convoy. Both men had offered brief nods before departing.
Before Alde left, he pressed something into Ashborn's hand, a small black-glass vial no longer than his thumb.
"For your aura training," the old mage had said. "Infused with the marrow of a flame drake, mixed under the eclipse moon last summer. Don't waste it, I have only one. You'll feel it when it takes hold. Take it before you start, it will increase the efficiency by double for a week." Ashborn had nodded, silently remembering the potion and the creature flame drake, noting it to be useful for his future.
Now, left alone in the cool dimness, he rode back to his tent, settling down on the cot and examining the vial. The liquid inside shimmered a deep crimson-gold, like molten rubies. It pulsed faintly, warmth spreading even through the mystic glass. He uncorked it without hesitation and downed it in a single breath.
It scorched his tongue. For a heartbeat, he thought he had made a mistake, heat flared through his chest like he'd swallowed fire. His body started oozing sweat and grime, turning to a shade of red, his vessels expanded, threatening to burst. Just when he thought he was about to die, the heat receded, like sunlight blooming in his veins. His heart slowed down, and clarity emerged.
Ashborn quickly stood and moved to the centre of the tent. He unfastened his cloak and let it fall quietly to the cot behind him. He sank into a stance, his feet, shoulder-width apart, knees bent slightly, arms relaxed at his sides. The same pose is depicted in the Book of Knightly Aura and flames: Crimson Flames.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, slow and deliberate. Holding and exhaling, repeatedly. Each breath being deeper than the last. With every cycle, he imagined the energy flowing through him like light warming from within. His focus narrowed, on breath, on posture, on stillness. The potion worked quickly.
He felt the warmth pooling near his heart—first like the flicker of a candle, then growing stronger, licking at the edges of his lungs and limbs. Not painful—controlled, precise. The crimson aura was waking.
Nothing can stop the advance of fire.
He repeated the mantra in his head. His breath deepened, and his pulse synced to the rhythm. Sweat formed at his brow and back, but he didn't break focus. He could almost see it now, on the inside of his heart, the faint red glow, curling around his vessels like smoke made sentient.
Gradually, minutes passed. Maybe hours. Then it happened. A flicker of heat sparked on his palm. Not just empty warmth, but an actual presence. When he opened his eyes, a faint red shimmer coated his palm. Crimson, like liquid flame. Not yet a complete fire—but close. He bent his palm, and the aura responded, tightening slightly, then loosening when he released, like a stretched cloth.
A slow smile touched his lips. "I can feel it," he murmured. The foundation left behind by his predecessor, the old Ashborn, was solid. This body remembered discipline. Muscle memory took over where Desmond's knowledge fell short. And with the potion pulsing through him, the training had become…alive. He sank deeper into his stance, shifting to the second breathing pattern.
The aura moved. Outside, somewhere beyond the flaps of his tent, a bugle sounded—signal for the roll call. Voices called out and hooves stamped into the earth. The whole camp stirred with people.
But Ashborn didn't move.
Let it burn… let it grow.
He wouldn't be an Intermediate Knight overnight. But at this moment, this control was proof that the flame within him hadn't died with his predecessor. And soon… he would walk a road much further down.
Ashborn's breath slowed as the last tendrils of crimson aura faded gently from his limbs, seeping back into the depths of his heart. His skin glistened with sweat, and his muscles pulsed with the afterglow of exertion, but beneath the exhaustion was something deeper. Satisfaction of progress.
He rose slowly from his stance, his joints cracking softly as he stretched his arms above his head. The vial Alde had given him lay discarded on the table's edge, the glass still faintly warm. Whatever potent alchemy was brewed within, it had boosted the aura inside his heart, more pure and thick. A step closer to Intermediate Knight.
He tossed his clothes and washed himself clean with a cloth submerged in water. Feeling clean and refreshed, he pulled on a fresh tunic, black with deep red trim, embroidered with the sigil of the Blackwood house—a flaming oak tree with a dragon perched. A crimson belt was tied around his waist. His fingers lingered on the fabric a moment, grounding himself in the identity it represented.
Just as he reached for his sword, the flap of the tent was pulled aside.
Valyn entered after announcing. The tall knight's armour gleamed with a muted polish, practical but dignified, his crimson cape swaying gently behind him. A few strands of hair had slipped free from his half-tied ponytail, damp with morning heat. His expression was stern as always, but Ashborn saw the flicker of ease in his eyes.
"All preparations are complete, my lord," Valyn said, offering a firm nod. "The carriages have been packed, the provisions stored, and the guard rotations established for the journey." Ashborn slung the sword across his hip and turned to face him. "Good. Any issues?"
"None. Quartermaster Charles reports we're ahead of schedule. Sir Alde is already inspecting the lead wagons, and the route scouts have returned with no signs of danger." "Then we start the journey." Valyn hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, lowering his voice just slightly.
"There is one more thing, my lord. The men are assembled at the central grounds: soldiers, serfs, and apprentices. All of us are waiting to march with you." His gaze met Ashborn's, firm but earnest. "A few words from their lord would mean a lot to them. I think it would bolster morale and remind them who they follow." Ashborn paused.
He glanced at his white gloves, flexing his fingers against the leather.
He wasn't a born lord. He wasn't even sure who he was a morning ago. But they were following him regardless, men who bled for him, workers who walked behind him, farmers seeking to farm food for him.
They don't need a perfect lord, he thought. Just one who stands with them.
He sighed, a slow nod escaping. "Let's not keep them waiting." Valyn's mouth lifted in the faintest curve as he stepped aside to let Ashborn pass. "They'll be ready, my lord." Ashborn exited the tent, stepping into the full light of forenoon.
The atmosphere of the camp had shifted. There once was the hum of preparation, now there was stillness and order. Rows of soldiers stood at attention in formation. Wagons and carriages circled, packed and guarded. Serfs gathered in loose clusters with tools and bundles strapped to their backs, their eyes a bit lost beneath broad hoods.
The path had been cleared to the centre of the camp, where a raised platform stood—rough-hewn from oak planks and banners hanging from the sides, fluttering in the breeze. The crest of Blackwood burned crimson against black. Ashborn breathed deeply, feeling a bit nervous.
The horse stepped forward, trodding toward the centre with Valyn and Alde at his side, the horse's thudding firmly against the packed earth.
Today, they would march for the fief. But first, they would march with purpose.
He soon arrived at the heart of the camp, a sprawling expanse of clear ground where the Blackwood flag fluttered proudly, its crimson and black colours catching the breeze alongside Alde and Valyn. The air buzzed with anticipation as rows of soldiers, clad in iron armour, and knights on noble steeds stood at the ready, their eyes fixed on him with a mix of respect and eagerness. As he strode past them, he took a moment to absorb the scene, noting the determination etched on their faces and the subtle clink of armour in the stillness. He climbed onto a makeshift platform that rose above the gathering.
All eyes turned to him. Soldiers stood at attention in tight formations, their armour polished and spears aligned like a forest of steel. Serfs gathered loosely beyond them, farmers, herdsmen, craftsmen, and their families—some clutching their few belongings, others cradling wide-eyed children. There were neaerly thousand of them, the backbone of Blackwood's future...
Valyn stepped to his side, his bronze-plated gauntlet resting on the hilt of his sword. Alde stood just behind them, his long robe swaying slightly with the wind, his wrinkled hands clasped behind. Both men offered him a subtle nod.
He raised his hand, and the murmurs died like embers doused in snow.
"My people," he began, his voice firm, carrying over the field. "Today, we set out not simply to reclaim what is ours, but to build something greater, a home."
A quiet ripple of tension ran through the crowd—expectation, perhaps, or hope. "I know you all carry burdens of war, of loss, of leaving behind the only homes you've known. But I promise you, Blackwood Vale is not the end. It is a beginning."
He swept his gaze across them all—at the lined faces of the veterans, the nervous eyes of the young militia, the weathered face of the serfs. "We ride into hardship, yes. But also into opportunity. Into land that will be ours to plant, to defend, to live upon with pride. Every stone we raise, every land we plough, every tower we build—it will bear our name, our effort, our blood and strength."
He let that hang for a moment before his voice rose again, imbued with boldness.
"It is the first stride of a legacy! We are not merely survivors of chaos—we are founders of peace. Every sword here is a promise. Every hand that tills soil is a declaration of our future."
A murmur of agreement spread through the crowd, the momentum slowly swelling like the first wave of a tide.
"I ask for trust. In me." Ashborn said, more quietly now, "In the path ahead. We walk not alone—we walk together. And we will build Blackwood Vale into a bastion for us and our future!"
There was silence for a moment. Then someone clapped—a knight. Then another. Then a cheer. And then the camp erupted. It was a roar. Genuine Loyal. A sound of people choosing to believe.
Ashborn nodded once, stepping down from the platform, his expression calm. Valyn was the first to speak as they turned toward the carriage, his eyes slightly red. "That was well said, my lord. You speak like a man who's led for years." Ashborn gave a wry half-smile. "The knowledge within books knows no bounds."
Alde chuckled behind them. "The boy has finally grown into the weight of his name." The three made their way toward the gilded carriage—a robust, oak-framed construct adorned with polished iron reinforcements and the black oak crest carved into its doors. A team of six horses, thick-limbed and well-fed, stood ready under the reins of an experienced coachman.
Valyn's squad of knights, six of them, mounted and ready, circled the carriage in a protective half-ring. Banners fluttered atop spears. Shields reflected the sun like polished mirrors.
Ashborn paused before climbing in, taking one last glance at the crowd. Serfs had begun boarding the ox-drawn wagons. Soldiers marched into formation. The long road ahead spiralled through the forested hills of western Greenwood trail, toward the river valley that cradled Blackwood Vale.
Valyn opened the carriage door. "Shall we, my lord?"
Ashborn stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him. With a crack of the reins and the thundering clop of hooves, the convoy began to move, slowly at first, a long snake of wagons and wheels, rumbling through the morning light.
The march to reclaim Blackwood Vale had begun.
The convoy began its long journey with the creaking groan of wheels, the steady thrum of hooves, and the rhythmic shuffle of boots against grass. Hundreds moved in orderly columns, soldiers flanking the serfs, knights scouting ahead and guarding the rear, carriages in the centre. From a distance, it looked like a winding serpent of steel and wood, slithering its way into the embrace of the Greenwood Trail.
Ashborn rode near the middle, atop a black steed with a proud, arched neck and a calm temperament. Valyn rode to his left, silent as ever, his eyes constantly scanning for threats. Alde rode behind in a padded carriage, too old to stay in the saddle for long stretches but refusing to be absent from the conversation. The air held a refreshness that made breathing feel sharper, cleaner. The morning sun had risen high enough to bathe the world in golden warmth, neither too cold nor too hot.
Thump...Thump...
The Greenwood Trail lived up to its name, a lush corridor of towering spruce and moss-laced path, the kind that whispered when the wind passed through them. Beams of sunlight gleamed through the canopy occasionally, scattering golden bits onto the trail like blessings from above. Ferns and shrubs grew in thick, unruly knots along the edges, while colourful birds flickered from branch to branch, chirping a music far older than men.
Ashborn's gaze lingered on the scenery. This place... It's breathtaking. Peaceful. Almost untouched by the ugliness of humans. For a moment, he let himself breathe it in, the quiet serenity, the fresh scent of spruce and earth, the distant buzz of a stream. It reminded him of the memories filled with green trails he'd visited as Desmond, though those had always been tainted by signal towers and asphalt paths. This—this was pure.
It's strange, he thought. Even with all the bloodshed and hard work... There are places here worth living in. Suddenly, a rough voice cut through the beauty.
"Lord Ashborn!" called a soldier, galloping forward from the left flank. Ashborn recognised him, Cilian, a prominent knight attendant, and Valyn had plans of choosing him as his successor. His armour was slightly oversized, and his horse nervously tugged under him. "The third wagon—its axle's cracked!"
Ashborn reined his horse and gave a curt nod. "Have the driver stop. Bring the carpenter forward from the fifth and get it fixed as soon as possible. Take this opportunity to have people relieve themselves."
Valyn was already giving hand signals, and the message rippled through the convoy with practised efficiency. One of the carts slowed to a halt, its wheel groaning pitifully, and a pair of serfs jumped down to examine the damage. Minutes later, a short, burly man with a tool pack slung over his back came jogging from the rear.
"The advantage of repeated drills, my lord," Valyn said, guiding his steed closer beside Ashborn's. "An axle broken from travel strain. It will only delay us for ten minutes." Ashborn turned in the saddle, cloak shifting with the breeze as his eyes swept over the convoy behind them. Columns of men adjusted their stride in smooth waves. No panic, no complaints—just movement and murmuring, men adjusting their pace. A small hiccup, easily smoothed.
"I'll take ten minutes in peace over ten hours in chaos," Ashborn said with a slight nod, his tone calm but satisfied. You've done well, Commander Valyn." Valyn gave a modest tilt of his head in acknowledgement, but the tightness at the corner of his eyes betrayed the constant vigilance of control.
"Cilian," he called, his voice firm yet clear. "What's the situation at the rear? How are the wagons holding up, and what of the militia?"
Knight Attendant Cilian, dust settled on his armour, reined in his horse with practised ease and responded, "All is steady, my lord. A few of the younger militia members are lagging, but the veterans are ensuring they stay in line. The wagons are holding well, except for the one mentioned. There are no signs of stragglers or unusual movements in the woods. The pace may be slow, but we should make it through the Greenwood Trail by tomorrow's sundown."
Ashborn nodded thoughtfully, eyes scanning the dense treeline to either side. The trail wound like a serpent through a forest of towering spruce and firs, their branches casting long shadows that flickered across the road like a lost maze. Beams of sunlight speared through the canopy, reflecting off armour and wagon canvas alike.
"Good," he said. "Keep a close eye on the flanks. These woods are too quiet for my liking."
"Aye, my lord," Cilian replied, tapping a fist to his chest. "If anything stirs, we'll gut it before it breathes twice."
Ashborn allowed himself a faint smile. They pressed on. Further ahead, a serf tripped on a gnarled root poking out from the trail and dropped a crate, scattering onions and apples across the road.
A nearby soldier chuckled and helped him repack, while a second nudged the root aside with his boot and muttered a curse. Ashborn watched it all with a kind of quiet appreciation.
After an hour, the trail began to curve gently along the edge of a hill, offering a glimpse beyond the treeline. Ashborn slowed his horse and gaped—his breath catching slightly.
Below lay a stretch of rolling hills carpeted in green, with little clearings here and there, filled with wildflowers blooming in clusters of red, yellow, and violet. A stream flowed through the land like a blue ribbon, catching the sunlight in flashes. Birds of prey soared far above, casting fleeting shadows across the ground like watchful sentinels.
Ashborn whispered, "How can a world that knows so much death still hold this much beauty?" Valyn looked over at him but said nothing.
The convoy moved on, undeterred, and the Greenwood Trail welcomed them deeper into its ancient heart. Sunlight dappled armour and cloth alike, and in those quiet hours of journeying, the line between lord and soldier, serf and knight, blurred into something simpler: A people moving together toward a future not yet written.
The sun hung low over the hills, painting the sky in molten gold and deepening red. The convoy had slowed to a steady crawl, wagons creaking as they rolled over the uneven trail. Ahead, the Greenwood opened into a wide clearing—a natural hollow cradled between two slopes, where the grass grew thick and soft underfoot. A shallow stream glimmered at its edge, cutting silver through the earth.
Ashborn reined in his horse at the divide, letting the breeze cool his face. The air smelled of damp soil and wild flowers. Below, the land stretched out like a quilt, stitched together with stands of spruce and the occasional outcrop of weathered stone.
Valyn drew up beside him, his posture unbent despite the long travel. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sounds were the distant calls of birds settling for the night and the rhythmic sigh of the wind through the grass.
"It's quite rare," Valyn said at last, his voice quieter than usual, "to see land untouched by war, the beauty overwhelms me."
Ashborn glanced at him. The knight's gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the last light overlaid the tips of the distant mountains. There was something almost wistful in his mind. "You've seen much of it?" Ashborn asked, "Both the beauty and war?"
Valyn exhaled through his nose. "Enough to know this peace is fleeting, a rare find nowadays. Don't be fooled by the beauty, the Greenwood hides its scars well, but they're there, if you know where to look." He pointed to a patch of younger trees near the stream, their trunks slender beside the wrinkled elders. "Wildfire, a decade back. The soil remembers."
Ashborn studied the grove. The Earth did remember. He could see it now, the way the new growth crowded eagerly into the open spaces, the way the older trees bore faint, darkened seams along their bark. Life and death, woven together.
"We'll make camp here," he decided after consideration. "The stream will serve for water, and the slope will give us a vantage." Valyn nodded, already scanning the terrain with a soldier's eye.
"A wise decision. I'll post sentries on the high ground. And we'll keep the fires small, for there is no need to announce ourselves to whatever prowls these woods after dark."
A shout rose from the convoy below as the lead wagons rolled into the clearing. Serfs hopped down, stretching stiff limbs before turning to the work of setting up tents. A pair of boys darted toward the stream, their laughter carried on the wind.