The war was shifting. What had begun as calculated strikes against Vale's supply lines had forced him into a defensive stance, but Alexander knew it wouldn't last. Vale was adapting. His forces had changed patrol patterns, abandoning predictable routes in favor of mobile garrisons that could respond quickly to any attack. He had even started using decoy supply wagons—empty carts laden with useless cargo, baiting Alexander's raiders into ambushes. It was a clear response to their earlier strikes, proving that Vale was not a fool and would not allow himself to be bled dry so easily.
At the war tent, Alexander and his inner leadership gathered to discuss their next steps. A large map stretched across the table, marked with the latest scouting reports from Tyrell's men. The candlelight flickered over the parchment, illuminating the shifting battle lines.
Silas tapped one of the markers, a growing frown on his face. "He's reacting faster than expected. We still have the advantage in mobility, but if this keeps up, he'll stabilize his supply lines before we can do any real damage."
Elias leaned over the map, his brows drawn together in frustration. "Then we push harder before he's fully prepared. Hit his storage depots instead of his caravans. If we burn his supplies at the source, he'll have nothing left to protect."
Alexander considered the risks. If they took out too much at once, Vale might be forced to attack earlier than planned. However, if they let him stabilize, he would regain the advantage in the long run. The key was balance—they needed to cripple Vale's economy without backing him into a desperate attack.
"We maintain pressure," Alexander decided. "But we take only enough to make him bleed, not enough to force a reckless march. We want him to hesitate, not panic. If we make him unsure, he delays. The longer he delays, the stronger we get."
Silas nodded, already seeing the logic. "You want to make him suffer, but not enough that he panics and retaliates in full force."
"Exactly," Alexander said. "We cripple his reserves so that marching becomes a costly decision. He'll have to weigh the risk—attack now and fight with dwindling supplies, or hold back and risk losing even more control over his lands."
Tyrell, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. "If that's the plan, we need to know exactly where his largest supply depots are. My scouts can find them, but we'll need time."
Alexander nodded. "Take only the most experienced men. No unnecessary risks. Once we have solid targets, we plan a deeper strike."
The decision was made. That night, Tyrell and his best scouts disappeared into the wilderness, slipping past Vale's expanding patrols.
Meanwhile, back in Emberhold, expansion efforts had not slowed.
The newly established iron mine in the western dead zone had begun full excavation. Gareth had confirmed that the deposit was larger than expected, enough to sustain large-scale iron production for years to come. This changed everything—Emberhold no longer needed to rely on external trade for weapons and armor. Soon, Alexander's forces would be equipped with weapons forged in their own land.
The first shipment of raw iron arrived in Emberhold just as dawn broke. Blacksmiths gathered as Gareth inspected the metal, nodding with approval. "This is quality ore," he declared, lifting a piece of unrefined iron. "Once we refine it, our weapons and armor production will double. No more dependence on outside sources."
The implications were clear. With their own iron supply, Emberhold could not only sustain itself but also expand its influence over trade. If Vale thought he could choke Emberhold through economic pressure, he would soon realize that was no longer an option.
Owen's construction teams were also making significant progress. The first stone reinforcements had been added to critical areas, replacing the last of the original wooden palisades that once defined Emberhold's early defenses. More structures were being built, but housing remained a challenge.
With every passing week, new settlers arrived—some from villages abandoned due to war, others from trade routes that had heard of Emberhold's growing wealth. Alexander's lands were becoming a beacon of opportunity, but its resources were still stretched thin.
It was during one of these late-night meetings between Alexander, Silas, and Gareth that the conversation turned toward territorial identity.
"Emberhold is growing," Silas began, pacing slightly as he spoke. "It's no longer just a single settlement. We have outposts, an iron mine, and soon enough, industry that will outpace any other frontier territory. We need to start thinking beyond just a town."
Gareth folded his arms. "You're talking about a territory, aren't you?"
Silas smirked. "Something like that. We've already outgrown what most frontier lords could ever dream of. If we keep expanding, we need something that unifies all of it under one name. Something that carries weight." He glanced at Alexander. "And it should be tied to its leader."
Alexander sat back, thoughtful. "You have a name in mind."
Silas didn't hesitate. "The Maxwell Dominion."
The room fell silent for a moment. Elias, who had been half-listening from the side, grinned. "That's got a nice ring to it."
Owen nodded, rubbing his chin. "Makes sense. We're not just Emberhold anymore."
Alexander turned the name over in his mind. It carried weight. This wasn't just about one town—it was a growing power, something that could continue expanding. While it was still small compared to the great noble houses, it was no longer just a single settlement.
"Then we make it official," he said.
Silas smirked. "A dominion needs a banner, doesn't it?"
Alexander nodded. "Then we'll make one."
Beyond the war with Vale, beyond the struggle for survival, something greater was being built. A dominion, a future, a force that no longer had to justify its existence. Emberhold had been born from hardship, but the Maxwell Dominion would rise from its strength.