The war ended not with fanfare, but with a ledger.
Kael stood at attention in the grand hall of Vesperia, his armor polished to a dull sheen that couldn't quite hide the dents and scratches earned across fifteen years of service. Around him, fellow knights and captains shifted with barely contained anticipation, their eyes fixed on the royal scribe who methodically unfurled a scroll of parchment. The man's thin fingers traced down a list of names and territories, each announcement met with either relieved sighs or stifled curses.
"Sir Kael Tanner," the scribe finally called, his voice carrying a note of amusement that made Kael's jaw tighten. "For valor in the Battle of Blackridge, Her Majesty Queen Lysandra grants you lordship over the Southern March, with all its lands and holdings."
A ripple of whispers spread through the hall. Kael maintained his rigid posture even as he felt the weight of pitying glances. The Southern March, the barren strip of frontier that bordered the Desolate Wastes, was a death sentence dressed as a reward.
"Step forward and receive your charter," the scribe continued, holding out a sealed document.
Kael approached with measured steps, his face betraying nothing of the calculations already forming in his mind. He'd survived worse than a patch of dry earth. He took the charter with a formal bow, noting how the royal seal seemed to mock him with its golden gleam.
"Her Majesty expects the usual levies," the scribe added in a lower voice, meant for Kael alone. "Two hundred bushels of grain by harvest's end."
Kael's eyes met the scribe's. "From sand and stone, I presume."
The scribe's smile thinned. "The Crown's generosity extends only so far, Sir Kael. Perhaps you should have died more gloriously at Blackridge."
"I'll keep that in mind for the next war," Kael replied, tucking the charter into his belt before turning away.
The remaining ceremonies passed in a blur. By nightfall, Kael had gathered his meager possessions: a sword that had seen better days, a small chest of personal items, and a purse of silver that wouldn't last a month. The royal quartermaster had grudgingly provided a sack of grain seed and basic supplies "befitting a new lord," though Kael suspected the man had skimmed liberally from what should have been allocated.
As he prepared his horse in the castle stables, a familiar voice called from the shadows.
"The Southern March. You must have truly angered someone important."
Captain Merrick emerged, his own newly granted charter visible in his belt. The northern territories for him, then. Rich soil and established towns.
"Inconvenient heroes make for inconvenient lords," Kael replied, tightening his saddle straps with more force than necessary.
Merrick leaned against a post. "They're sending you to die, you know. That land hasn't yielded a proper harvest in decades. The last three lords assigned there returned in coffins if they returned at all."
"Your concern is touching."
"Not concern. Curiosity." Merrick studied him. "You could refuse. Take your sword and head east. The mercenary guilds would pay well for a knight with your experience."
For a moment, Kael considered it. A life of hired combat, selling his blade to whichever merchant or noble offered the highest coin. Freedom of a sort. But something in him recoiled at the thought.
"And spend another fifteen years fighting other men's battles?" Kael shook his head. "I've had my fill of that."
"So instead you'll fight the sun and soil until they claim you." Merrick shrugged. "Your choice. But when the bandits come and they will come, don't expect the Crown to send aid."
Kael mounted his horse, looking down at his former comrade. "I never have."
The journey south took twelve days. With each passing mile, the landscape transformed, lush forests giving way to scrubland, then to increasingly parched plains where even weeds struggled to find purchase. The few travelers Kael encountered gave him a wide berth, their eyes lingering on his knight's insignia with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.
On the eleventh day, he passed a small caravan heading north. The merchant, a weathered man with skin like tanned leather, laughed outright when Kael mentioned his destination.
"The Southern March? May God have mercy on you, Sir Knight. We abandoned our trading post there last season. Nothing worth buying, nothing worth selling. Just dust and desperate folk."
"And yet people remain," Kael observed.
"Those with nowhere else to go." The merchant spat. "Or those too stubborn to leave their ancestral dirt. You'll find no welcome there, especially wearing that." He nodded toward Kael's armor.
"I don't need a welcome," Kael replied. "Just cooperation."
The merchant's laughter followed him down the road.
By midday on the twelfth day, Kael crested a hill and saw Fort Marrow for the first time. The name proved grimly appropriate. The structure resembled nothing so much as a skeleton picked clean walls crumbling, gates hanging askew, the central keep missing entire sections of its roof. Around it, a handful of crude dwellings clustered like supplicants, their thatched roofs bleached nearly white by the relentless sun.
Fields stretched beyond, or what should have been fields. Instead, Kael saw only cracked earth divided by the ghosts of irrigation trenches long since dried up. A few skeletal trees dotted the landscape, their branches reaching skyward like desperate prayers.
As Kael approached the fort's gates, a small group gathered to meet him. Three aging soldiers in mismatched armor stood at attention, their backs straight despite the years evident in their faces. Behind them, a dozen or so civilians watched with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.
"Sir Kael," the eldest soldier greeted him with a salute that spoke of decades in service. "Sergeant Garek. These are Corporals Tomas and Wyll. We're what remains of the garrison."
Kael dismounted, taking in the full extent of his "reward" with a careful sweep of his eyes. "And the rest of the population?"
"Scattered across the March. Perhaps two hundred souls in total, mostly farmers trying to coax life from dead soil." Garek's single arm gestured toward the dwellings. "Those here serve the fort or seek its protection."
A woman pushed forward from the crowd, her face lined with sun and hardship. "Protection? The fort hasn't protected anyone since the spring raids. Your predecessor hid behind these walls while bandits took our stores and our children."
Murmurs of agreement rose from the gathered people. Kael noted the thin frames, the hollow cheeks, the eyes that held more resignation than hope.
"And where is my predecessor now?" Kael asked, though he suspected the answer.
Garek's expression darkened. "Lord Harren took an arrow during a bandit attack two months past. The wound festered. We buried him behind the keep."
"After he'd drunk the last of the wine cellar," someone muttered.
Kael nodded, absorbing this information with the same tactical assessment he'd used on battlefields. Resources critically low. Morale non-existent. Defenses compromised. Enemy forces active in the region.
"I'll need a full accounting of our supplies," he said to Garek. "And a map of the March with all water sources marked."
"Water sources?" A bitter laugh came from the woman who had spoken earlier. "There's the well in the fort courtyard, which gives barely enough for drinking. Everything else dried up years ago."
Kael met her gaze steadily. "Your name?"
"Sera. I speak for the farmers when the council meets."
"There's a council?"
"Lord Harren called it that," Garek explained. "In truth, it was just whoever was brave enough to voice complaints."
Kael considered this as he led his horse through the gates. The courtyard beyond was swept clean but barren, the stones bleached by sun and time. A few chickens scratched listlessly in a corner. Near the well, a bucket sat with water so cloudy that Kael could see the sediment from where he stood.
A peasant woman crossed his path, a bundle of sticks balanced on her shoulder. She paused, taking in his armor and the charter visible at his belt. With deliberate contempt, she spat at his horse's hooves.
"Another lord come to tax stones," she hissed before continuing on her way.
Garek winced. "Forgive them, Sir Kael. They've seen three lords come and go in as many years. Each promised change. Each failed."
Kael watched the woman disappear into one of the dwellings. "I don't need their forgiveness, Sergeant. Nor their faith." He turned to face the small crowd that had followed him into the courtyard. "I need their hands and their knowledge."
He raised his voice to address them all. "I am not here to tax you or to hide behind these walls. I am here because this land, however barren it may seem, is now my responsibility. As are all of you."
Skeptical glances were exchanged. Kael continued, removing his gauntlets and tucking them into his belt.
"Tomorrow, I will inspect every inch of this fort and the surrounding lands. I will need guides who know the territory. I will need to understand what crops have been attempted, what wells have run dry, and where the bandits strike from."
"And why should we help you?" Sera challenged. "So you can write pretty reports to the Queen before you abandon us like the others?"
Kael met her eyes. "Because I have nowhere else to go either." He gestured to the fort around them. "This is not a reward for valor. This is exile dressed in a lord's title. The Crown has sent me here to fail and die quietly. I intend to disappoint them."
A silence fell over the courtyard. Even the chickens seemed to pause in their scratching.
"You'll need more than intentions to make this land yield," Sera finally said, though her tone had softened slightly. "You'll need a miracle."
Kael nodded. "Then we'll start with what's possible and work our way up to miracles."
As the crowd slowly dispersed, Garek led Kael to what would be his quarters in the keep. The room was spartan, a bed with a straw mattress, a table with a single chair, and a chest for belongings. Through a gap in the stone wall, Kael could see the vast expanse of the Southern March stretching toward the horizon, the hazy outline of the Desolate Wastes visible as a darker smudge against the sky.
"It's not much," Garek apologized, "but it's the most secure room left in the keep."
"It will serve," Kael replied, setting down his meager possessions.
When Garek had gone, Kael moved to the gap in the wall. The dying light of day painted the barren landscape in hues of gold and amber, a cruel beauty that belied its hostility to life. In the distance, dust devils danced across the plains, spectral reminders of the challenges that awaited.
Kael closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his new title settle across his shoulders. In his first life, he had been nobody a teacher who died saving a student. In this second chance, he had fought his way up from common soldier to knight through sheer determination. Now, fate or politics had delivered him to this forsaken corner of the kingdom.
"From dust and dreams," he murmured to himself, an old soldier's saying when faced with impossible odds.
As night fell over Fort Marrow, Kael unpacked his few belongings and laid out his plans for the coming days. He would need to assess the fort's defenses, catalog their meager resources, understand the land and its people. The challenges were immense, but for the first time in fifteen years, he was fighting for something that belonged to him however worthless others might consider it.
He slept that night on the hard mattress, dreaming of green shoots pushing through cracked earth, of clear water flowing where dust had reigned. And beneath those dreams, the faint memory of hospital sheets and the whispered words that had followed him into this second life: "At least she's alive."
In the morning, he would begin the work of making those dreams a reality. One handful of soil at a time.