The wind that cut across the ridgeline tasted like rust and pine. Cold. Brutal. Honest.
Renard Valtierre stood atop the old parapet of North Reach, cloak flaring around him in the mountain air. Behind him, the newly raised banner bearing his sigil—a shadowed wolf's fang over a cracked crown—snapped in the gale. It was not the standard of a noble house.
It was a warning.
He had arrived at dawn, the old cart track winding like a scar through the frostbitten hills. No trumpets. No escort. Just the long silence of forgotten land. The fortress was a skeleton of stone and ash, hugging the jagged cliffs like a scar. Cracked towers. Rusted gates. A keep with a roof patched in iron plates and old canvas. Not much, but it stood.
Strategically, North Reach was the final bulwark before the Shatterpass—a natural chokepoint buried in mist and myth. The kind of place war stories were born, or buried.
But he wasn't alone.
Below, in the courtyard of what barely passed for a fortress, stood the army he had been given.
Not polished soldiers.
Not ranked battalions.
They were young. War-marked. Lean with survival and scarred by failure. Some bore fresh inked brands on their necks—deserters once. Others wore mismatched gear, pieces looted from the dead or stolen from old wrecks of campaigns.
He counted at least a dozen boys who looked barely out of adolescence. Another score bore the walk of killers.
And then there were the bastards.
Half-bloods. Line-breaks. Sons of disgrace, daughters of outlaws. Every kingdom had them.
Most were sent here to vanish.
Now they were his.
[New Territory Acquired: North Reach Bastion]
[Forces Assigned: 147]
41 Battle-Ready (Condition: High)
62 Semi-Trained (Condition: Mid)
32 Unranked / Civilian Grade
12 Injured / Recovery
Morale: Cautious Respect
Commander Authority: Full
Renard closed the window.
He turned to the man waiting behind him—Lieutenant Verrin, dark-haired and scar-browed, a former blade instructor turned exile after punching a captain mid-campaign.
Verrin didn't salute. Just nodded.
"They've been waiting," Verrin said. "Long enough to forget what a commander looks like."
Renard nodded.
"Then it's time they remembered."
The Yard – One Hour Later
The entire garrison stood gathered before the steps.
No formal uniforms. No perfect rows.
Just bodies. Arms crossed. Weapons sheathed. Watching.
Renard stepped forward. His coat was plain. His boots worn.
But his voice cut clean.
"I know what they say about this place."
Silence.
"I know you weren't chosen. You were sent. Dumped here like broken tools. Some of you are waiting for a pardon. Others are waiting to die."
He paced slowly in front of them.
"I wasn't sent here to save you."
Some faces twitched.
"I was sent here because I survived where I wasn't supposed to. Because the people who run the capital don't understand what kind of war is coming. But they gave me this place."
He pointed behind him at the keep.
"They gave me you."
He raised his hand.
"And I don't want soldiers."
Now the eyes narrowed. Silent confusion.
"I want bastards. I want the ones who lived through fires and came out harder. I want the ones who never had a name, because they'll carve one into history with a blade if I give them the chance."
His tone dropped. Not volume. Just weight.
"You give me one week. One week of obedience. Of training. Of blood on your hands and ice in your lungs. And I will make this place feared again."
He drew the old sword from his hip.
"I will make North Reach a name that the Caerenhold flinches at."
A long pause.
Then a voice, sharp and amused, cut through the crowd.
"Elric said you were dramatic."
Tarn stepped forward from the shadow of the gate. Maera beside him, hood low. Elric leaned on the inner wall, grinning.
Renard gave no visible reaction.
The Phantom Squad had returned. Not dead. Not scattered.
He looked at them, then the rest.
"Drills start in two hours. If you can't lift steel, lift stone. If you can't run, crawl. If you can't fight…"
He stepped down into the dirt.
"Learn."
And then he walked through them.
Later That Night – Barracks Walkthrough
Verrin walked beside Renard as they passed the sleeping quarters. No rank marks. No partitions. Just cots and scattered weapons. But now… order.
Sort of.
"These aren't men who need discipline," Verrin muttered. "They need belief."
"They'll get it," Renard said, gaze locked on the far end, where a silver ring of torches surrounded the training yard.
Verrin paused.
"You're building something, aren't you?"
Renard didn't answer.
His HUD flared to life.
[Skill Activated: S-Class Commander – Drill Architect]
Unit Potential: 61% (Hidden Bonus: +18% - Phantom Proximity)
Next Optimization:
Group Formations: Alpha + Bastard Unit: Synchronicity Tests
Fog Adaptation Drills: Integration Training Scheduled
Formation Reclass: Potential "Ghost Blade" Variant
Projected Increase in Effectiveness: +33% (7 Days)
Renard closed the screen.
Not all of them would survive the next war.
But the ones who did?
They would haunt Caerenhold's bloodline for generations.
And maybe then, the capital would understand:
This wasn't punishment.
It was providence.
He stood alone at the edge of the keep, overlooking the wide northern ridge where the wind screamed through the pines like a dirge.
The bastards of North Reach were his now.
And soon…
they'd be no one's ghosts but his.
Capital Citadel — Royal War Council, One Week After Ysera
Sealed beneath three layers of enchanted obsidian and runic glass, the inner chamber of the royal war council flickered with candlelight and storm glyphs. The scent of old parchment and ash lingered in the air.
High Minister Belgrave placed a crimson-sealed scroll onto the ironwood table. "He's arrived. Report from Northreach. Settled the outpost, pacified remaining threats. Civil stability restored."
Lady Marienne of the Sapphire Circle nodded. "Confirmed. Aerron Vale still alive. Held in the Northreach dungeon. Not killed—captured."
"And the one who turned the tide at Ysera?" asked another voice, sharp as honed steel.
"A baron, now. Of Northreach. Renard Valtierre. Former cadet. Strategic Command elevation. Phantom Doctrine revival confirmed."
The Warlord-King, Albrecht Varion IV, said nothing at first. Fingers steepled, he stared at the northern quadrant of the war map—at the flame-scarred terrain where a ghost army once stood.
He finally spoke.
"Send the official summons."
"War council?" Belgrave asked.
Albrecht nodded. "Yes. He's already a baron. This isn't elevation. It's integration."
"A reward?"
"A reckoning," the King said. "He's disrupted doctrine, exposed noble corruption, and humiliated a battlefield legend. The court demands clarity. And so do I."
Marienne's fingers traced a pattern through the air. Illusion glyphs flickered to life—images of the fog-shrouded slaughter at Ysera, the arrest of Aerron Vale, and the kneeling of troops.
"Public sentiment calls him a ghost reborn," she said quietly. "Old veterans are whispering… the Phantom has returned."
"If he refuses the council's call?" someone asked.
Albrecht turned toward the hovering storm glyph.
"Then we'll know exactly which ghost we're dealing with."
He rose.
"Summon Baron Renard Valtierre. One week. Capital citadel. War council."
He paused. Then added, "And extend formal thanks—for the exposure of House Faelin. They'll answer for their treason. But he'll answer for his rise."