「Status Update」
Location: Castle York (House Norwen)
Threat Level: Low
Active Hellschisms: 0
Order Presence: Limited
Available Resources: Low
Current Mission: Secure Internal Alliances
Orien Majere stepped through a darkened corridor where torchlight flickered over chipped carvings. He stopped at a narrow archway and glanced back. The echo of distant hammering reached him from the yard. He listened closely, waiting for a shift in voices, a hint that his efforts had changed the mood within these halls. No distant cheer rose. Nor did any new alarm sound. After yesterday's skirmish, the castle felt caught in a tired hush.
He passed under the arch, entering a small antechamber lined with old benches. A tired retainer dozed against one wall. As Orien's footstep scraped the floor, the retainer jolted upright, blinking.
"Who…? You shouldn't be here unless summoned," the retainer said, voice rough.
"I mean no harm," Orien said, raising his hand calmly. "I'm Orien Majere, an initiate of the Vigil. I want to speak to someone in authority—perhaps a House official."
The retainer squinted at Orien's cloak. "I've heard talk about you," he said. "Sealed a rift outside the east walls, didn't you?"
Orien inclined his head without pride. "I helped, yes."
The retainer stood and brushed dust off his tunic. "The Herald's Hall is just beyond these doors. House Norwen's lesser officers gather there for morning reports. You might find Sir Alden or one of the scribes who can arrange a meeting." He paused, eyeing Orien warily. "They're cautious. Don't expect an open welcome."
Orien stepped forward, pushing through the heavy doors into a broad hall lit by weak lanterns. A line of wooden tables stretched along one side. Several scribes bent over parchments, quills scratching in uneven rhythm. A herald in faded robes sorted scrolls. At the far end, two figures stood by a pillar: Sir Alden and a woman in worn armor, her face serious beneath cropped hair.
They spoke quietly, their words too low to catch until Orien advanced, boots announcing his arrival. They looked up. Sir Alden lifted his chin slightly in recognition. The woman beside him folded her arms, measuring Orien with a sidelong glance.
"Orien," Sir Alden said, voice neutral. "You come early. Did you sleep at all?"
Orien allowed a small curve at the corner of his mouth. "A brief rest. There's work to do."
The woman arched an eyebrow. "He's the new spell-flinger you mentioned?" she asked Alden. "I expected someone taller."
Alden shrugged. "We can't be picky. He sealed that rift." He stepped closer to Orien. "This is Dame Corene, a captain of House Norwen's guard. She oversees defense drills."
Orien dipped his head. "Pleased to meet you, Dame Corene. I'd like to speak to someone with the authority to improve the castle's internal readiness. Yesterday's incursion was small, but we might not be so fortunate next time."
Dame Corene tapped a finger against her vambrace. "You've been here less than a day and already want an audience with superiors?"
"I'm not asking to waste anyone's time," Orien said. "I've seen how these threats escalate. If we can tighten patrol patterns, reassign guards, or reinforce certain wards, we might prevent a worse situation."
The scribes nearby lifted their heads. The herald glanced over, curious. Orien watched subtle reactions: no immediate scorn, just weary suspicion. Good. That meant there was room to negotiate.
Alden crossed his arms. "Our patrols are stretched thin. We have few resources to spare."
Orien raised a hand. "I understand. But consider this: yesterday's spawn nearly breached the barn line because no one guarded the approach. A single sentry could have warned us sooner. Even a half-trained watchman with a horn would help."
Corene nodded slowly. "We lack horns to spare. Most of our signaling gear was either lost or broken months ago."
A scribe near the tables cleared his throat, shy. "The armory clerk might have something—old horns or bells. He keeps them stored away, unused." He dipped his head as if apologizing for speaking. "I can note this suggestion. Perhaps the steward will approve a release of supplies."
Orien offered a grateful nod. "Any step helps. Also, I noticed that the gate chains are partially rusted. If they fail at the wrong moment, we risk an open breach."
Corene frowned. "You saw that?" She exchanged a glance with Alden. "We've requested fresh chains from the salvage crew at least twice. No answer."
One of the herald's assistants ventured a timid suggestion: "We recovered a load of scrap a few days ago. Could a blacksmith patch the old chain links? Even a rough fix would be better than nothing."
Orien listened to the quiet back-and-forth. This was progress. By showing genuine concern and practical knowledge, he'd drawn them into active problem-solving. He pressed on. "If we can organize a small work detail—perhaps one or two of my fellow initiates, plus a retainer with smithing skill—we can repair the chains before dusk."
Alden half-smiled. "You're direct. I appreciate that. Most who come asking for audiences just want to climb ranks or demand favoritism."
"I'm not here for favors," Orien said, meeting his eyes. "I've seen what happens when we wait for disasters to strike. My aim is to prevent them."
Corene unfolded her arms. "I'll arrange a short meeting with the steward. He's no lord, but he handles requests and might grant you enough leeway to make improvements. Wait here."
She strode off, armor joints clicking softly. Orien watched her go, then turned to Alden. "The squire from yesterday—he fought bravely despite obvious nerves. How is he?"
Alden lifted a shoulder. "Shaken, but proud. I told him to rest. He's likely cleaning gear behind the main barracks. Too nervous to sit idle."
Orien nodded. "He showed potential. Men like him need guidance, or they'll burn out." He paused, searching Alden's face. "We can't afford that."
Alden lowered his voice. "You speak as if you know these patterns well."
"Let's say I've studied failures," Orien said quietly. He avoided elaboration. He wouldn't confess that he'd stood here in another life, watched everything collapse, and died screaming at the feet of horrors. Let them think him a well-read initiate who cared more than most.
A door on the far side of the hall swung open. A narrow-faced man stepped through, smoothing his tunic. Corene followed behind him, looking pleased.
The man approached, eyeing Orien. "I'm Steward Biren. Dame Corene says you've sensible proposals. Speak them plainly."
Orien inclined his head. "We need a few immediate changes. First, allocate a horn or bell to at least one sentry along the east approach. Second, release some scrap to repair the gate chains today. Third, consider rotating two more guards at dusk toward the outer perimeter, just in case a second rift tries to open where yesterday's was sealed."
Biren pursed his lips. "Horns we have. Scrap, too. But adding guards? We're already light on manpower."
Corene stepped forward. "I can pull one guard from the north watch—nothing's happened there in weeks—and another from the stables at night. The stablehands can manage the horses without a full-time guard after dark."
Biren tapped his fingers against his thigh, weighing it. "Two guards… that might be possible. I'll concede that if your changes avert another crisis, we'll lose less in the long run."
Orien nodded. "And if we had a spare mage or a scribe who understands warding runes, I could strengthen existing protections at certain choke points. I know a few spells that pair well with standard glyphs. Nothing dramatic, just subtle layers that slow intruders."
A scribe raised his hand, ink staining two fingertips. "I can assist. I've copied runic scripts. If you provide the pattern, I can paint wards onto suitable surfaces."
"Then it's settled," said Biren. "I'll sign off on releasing supplies and see that you have a scribe's help."
A muted cheer would have been too much to expect. Instead, heads bobbed, shoulders relaxed slightly, and a flicker of resolve passed between them. Orien noticed it, and knew this was how real progress began.
Corene offered a handshake. Orien clasped her forearm. "Let's see if we can hold these walls steadier than before," she said.
A herald drifted closer, hesitant. "If you intend to add wards, Master Majere, where will you start?"
Orien turned, thinking it through. "The inner courtyard gate. If demons breach the outer perimeter, that gate is a last line. Strengthen it now, and even if we're surprised, we buy time." He paused, considering another detail. "Also, the storeroom near the old chapel. I saw signs that it once held weapons. If we can restore even a fraction, having wards there might protect a fallback stash."
Biren nodded. "You have a keen eye. Well, I have duties. I'll notify the salvage crew to gather the scrap and horns." He stepped away, muttering instructions to a clerk.
Corene lingered, studying Orien. "Where did you learn these things?"
"I learned from those who survived hard times," Orien said evenly. "Let's leave it at that."
She accepted the answer for now. "When you're ready, I'll lead you to the storeroom. I know which crates might still contain fittings for that gate chain."
Orien glanced at Alden. "We'll handle this quickly. Are you coming?"
Alden shook his head. "I'll coordinate the new sentry assignments. Meet me in the courtyard later."
As Corene guided Orien toward a side passage, the scribe with ink-stained fingers followed, parchment tucked under one arm. Lantern light revealed beams that needed bracing and cracks in stone that required patching. Nothing here shone like it might have in a better era. Yet Orien saw potential in these scars. He listened to Corene give a low commentary on the condition of various storerooms: which had moldy grain, which had salvageable hinges. The scribe jotted notes.
They stopped at a heavy door reinforced with metal bands. Corene tugged it open, revealing a cramped storeroom with dusty shelves. She coughed quietly, waving a hand at cobwebs. "Somewhere here," she said, rifling through a crate, "there should be metal scraps we can shape into makeshift chain links."
Orien assisted, moving aside old planks to reveal a pile of dented brackets and bent nails. He lifted a handful, testing their strength. The scribe peeked over his shoulder, recording details. Orien handed a piece to Corene. "We might need a small furnace or at least a portable forge nearby," he said.
She set the scrap down. "We have a traveling anvil and enough coal for a few hours of work. We'll station it under the east wall where smoke won't drift into guard posts."
Orien nodded. "That will do. Once we form the links, we attach them and add a runic mark. The scribe and I can handle the runes. With a bit of stable paint, the glyphs will last a week or more."
Corene's lips twitched—almost a grin. "You think ahead. Good. We can't afford half-measures."
The scribe hovered close. "What symbol will you use for the runes?"
Orien scratched at the dust on a shelf. "A simple mark that dampens abrupt force. I'll show you. It's an old pattern, reliable in a pinch." He took a piece of charcoal from a basket and drew a shape on a plank. The scribe nodded, copying it onto parchment.
Corene stepped back from the crate, arms crossed. "I expected arguing and delays, not swift cooperation. We hardly know you, Majere, but you seem intent on making this place stand." Her voice was quieter now. "Few new arrivals care about anything but their own advancement."
Orien paused, meeting her gaze. "I have my reasons. Let's just say I won't stand by while this castle crumbles." He turned to the scribe. "We'll need brushes and that stable paint you mentioned."
"I'll fetch them," said the scribe, hurrying off.
Corene and Orien were alone for a moment. Dust drifted in lamplight. She tested a bent bracket with her hand, wiggling it. "If we live through the next month, maybe I'll ask for those reasons."
Orien allowed himself a quiet look at the floor, remembering a world of screams. He lifted his head. "When we stand firm and no horrors claw at these walls, I'll tell you everything."
She nodded and led him back toward the Herald's Hall. As they walked, distant voices carried small scraps of conversation about horns, chain links, and soon-to-be-painted wards. Orien knew these small shifts mattered. A few words, a bit of scrap, one or two extra guards—nothing grand, yet each step placed them on firmer ground.
At the threshold to the hall, Orien caught sight of Alden returning. The knight had a faint line of soot on his cheek, likely from passing near a smith's station. The scribes organized their parchments with a purpose he hadn't seen before. The herald examined a horn recently delivered, testing its note softly.
Orien stepped forward into that quiet flurry of action. He listened, ready to help where needed. If this was how House Norwen responded to a few suggestions, there was hope. He could guide them, piece by piece, until the shadows that once claimed this world would find no foothold.