Fifteen percent. A number. He’d always known the rats were bad, but now he knew how bad.
And far to the east, the Wolf read the translation of that message on his own cracked, silent screen—and for the first time, understood exactly how he had lost.
Over the next week, Aldric became a terror. He issued orders with terrifying clarity. “Build a chapel within the castle walls, not outside them. Route the ox tether past the armory, not the woodcutter. And for the love of God, rename the ‘pointy-stick man’ to ‘spearman.’”
In the courtyard, the crate sat under a grey sky. It wasn’t wood, but polished black slate, humming with a low, warm thrum. A single brass plate read:
“Your Granary is empty,” the crystal whispered in his ear, not in a ghostly tone, but in the calm voice of a quartermaster. “Consider building a dairy farm. The Crusader trail to the east demands a higher Lord’s Favor.”
He looked at his keep’s HUD—a term the crystal taught him instantly—and saw percentages, morale scores, and a tiny blinking warning: “Rat infestation in the apple orchard. -15% popularity.”
He smiled. “Tell him,” Aldric said to Elara, “that it wasn’t the stone, the wood, or the fire that won. It was the words.”
The messenger found Lord Aldric not in his great hall, but hunched over a scarred oak table in the siege workshop. The air smelled of linseed oil, sweat, and the faint, acrid tang of pitch.
