The journey to Blackthorn took two days, yet for Kaelan, it felt like a passage into another world.
At first, the roads were well-maintained, the villages orderly—signs of the duchy's reach. But the closer they drew to Blackthorn, the more the landscape withered into bleakness. The once-paved roads fractured into uneven dirt paths, overrun with weeds and creeping roots. Trees, once lush, now stood gnarled and twisted, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky.
By the second afternoon, the ruin of Blackthorn emerged on the horizon.
A once-proud city, now a carcass picked clean by time and neglect.
Kaelan sat atop his steed, eyes scanning the scene before him. He had expected ruin—but this? This was far worse.
The walls, which once stood tall as a sign of Blackthorn's former glory, were cracked and pockmarked, their stones blackened with age and abandonment. The gates, rusted and bent, sagged under their own weight.
Beyond them, the city stretched out like a corpse left to rot.
The stench of filth, stagnant water, and decay clung to the air. Children, barefoot and covered in grime, darted between alleys, their gaunt faces betraying days—perhaps weeks—without proper food. Women sat by the roadside, hollow-eyed and resigned, their clothes reduced to tattered rags. The few merchants still in operation slumped behind their stalls, their wares covered in dust, their expressions filled with quiet desperation.
A group of men huddled together near a crumbling fountain, their hands hovering over a makeshift fire. Their eyes flicked toward Kaelan and his group—not with hope, nor curiosity, but wariness.
"By the gods…" Milo muttered under his breath.
"This isn't a city," Arlenna added, her tone unreadable. "It's a graveyard with people still walking in it."
Kaelan remained silent.
He had expected ruin, but this was systemic collapse.
As they moved further in, the lack of any governing authority became clear. No city guards patrolled the streets. No banners flew from the keep. It was as if Blackthorn had been abandoned by both law and nobility alike.
The only signs of power came from the few groups of men stationed at street corners—hardened, scarred individuals, armed yet wearing no official colors. Bandits? Mercenaries? Local gangs?
Whoever they were, they were in control.
Kaelan gritted his teeth. He had been handed a ruined domain—not a city, but a decayed husk where authority had long since withered.
Yet, even as he took in the devastation, his mind did not sink into despair. This is what they wanted, isn't it? They expected me to fail before I even began.
They would be proven wrong.
-----
The keep, once Blackthorn's seat of power, loomed in the distance, its silhouette jagged against the dying light.
Up close, it was worse than Kaelan imagined.
The outer walls had chunks of stone missing, some sections patched with crude wooden reinforcements. The portcullis was warped and rusted, barely hanging onto its hinges.
Most striking of all—there was no one to receive them.
No guards. No servants standing at attention.
Just a single man.
He stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching them with a tired yet sharp gaze. He was in his late forties, his dark hair streaked with silver, his lean frame suggesting a man who had known both struggle and discipline.
Kaelan dismounted, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached.
"You must be Lord Kaelan Drakemont," the man said, voice level but devoid of warmth. "I am Gerald Hargreave, the steward of Blackthorn." He offered no bow—only a curt nod. "Welcome to your new home—what little remains of it."
Kaelan studied him. Gerald's clothing, though plain, was well-kept—a stark contrast to the ruin surrounding them. This was a man who, despite everything, held onto discipline and duty.
Milo glanced around at the empty courtyard. "No formal reception?"
Gerald scoffed. "My lord, you'll find that Blackthorn has little use for formalities. The last lord abandoned this place, and those who remain have long since stopped caring for noble customs."
Kaelan met his gaze. "Then let's get to business."
------
The interior of Blackthorn Keep was as lifeless as the city outside.
The halls, once lined with banners and torches, were cold and empty. Dust lay thick on the floors. The few servants who remained moved like wraiths—silent, fearful, reluctant to meet his gaze.
Kaelan's footsteps echoed as Gerald led them to the main hall.
A long wooden table sat at its center, its surface scarred by time and neglect. The air stank of mildew, and the torches, flickering weakly, barely held back the encroaching darkness.
Kaelan took his seat, fingers tapping against the table.
"Let's see the financial records."
Gerald hesitated, then placed a leather-bound ledger before him.
"I'll spare you the details," the steward said grimly, "and give you the truth—Blackthorn is broke."
Kaelan opened the ledger.
The numbers were dire.
The treasury held barely enough coin to sustain the keep for a few weeks. Taxes hadn't been collected in months. The mines—once the city's backbone—were either depleted or abandoned due to bandits. The city guard? Nonexistent. The few who remained were drunkards and deserters. The only armed forces in the region were mercenaries and criminals.
Milo's expression darkened. "This is worse than we thought."
Gerald crossed his arms. "There is no army to enforce order. No stable economy. Even the criminals have stopped fearing the law. They rule the streets now."
Kaelan closed the ledger, inhaling slowly.
Then, he smirked.
Gerald frowned. "You find this amusing?"
Kaelan leaned back, eyes calculating. "Not amusing. Opportune."
Milo blinked. "An opportunity? My lord, you fine?"
Kaelan set the ledger aside and looked up. "A clean slate."
Gerald watched him carefully. He had expected frustration, anger—not this.
Kaelan leaned forward. "First, we establish control. Call for every able-bodied man in Blackthorn. They will report to the keep tomorrow."
Gerald narrowed his eyes. "And if they don't?"
Kaelan's smirk sharpened. "They will. or they will regret."
For the first time, Gerald looked at him differently.
This wasn't a weak noble sent to fail.
This was a man preparing for war.
Kaelan walked to the balcony, looking down at the dying city.
"You don't seem troubled," Arlenna observed.
Kaelan exhaled. "Because I'm not." His gaze fixed on the ruined streets below. "Blackthorn has fallen to its lowest point."
He turned, eyes cold and resolute.
"That means there is nowhere to go but up."
The torches flickered behind him as the night deepened.
Tomorrow, his rule would truly begin.