"Go on," Evan said.
Franklin continued. His cousin Friedrich was a seventh-tier knight — a real one, not a title inherited from a father — and a younger son who had attached himself to the Baroness and spent years quietly consolidating control over the estate's fighting men. While Franklin had been away in the capital of the Duchy of Liya, everything had shifted around him, and he had come back to find himself nominally the heir and practically powerless.
Evan sat with it for a moment. "Earlier you said you couldn't bring yourself to hate Robin. Now I can tell you why. Because this house doesn't feel like yours. Your father didn't pay the ransom, and some part of you noticed that. And then Robin kept you for three days without mistreating you, so there was nothing to feed the anger. That's all it was." He paused. "As for the assassin — that came from somewhere close. Don't expect it to be the last one."
Franklin's expression went flat. Then he produced a thin smile. "I see."
"You have two paths. The first is to keep your head down, make no mistakes, give no one a reason to act against you, and wait for your father to die peacefully. If you hold out long enough, the title comes to you."
"And the second?"
"Fight for it. But if you go that route, start with your behavior. You're the eldest son of this house — act like it. Call the Baroness your mother. Not as a performance, as a habit, in private and in public alike. Be the courteous, well-bred young nobleman that anyone would want to back. Give your stepmother no cause to feel threatened by you, and give the world a reason to prefer you." Evan paused. "That alone isn't enough. The title comes from military contribution in this world, and right now the fighting men in this house answer to Friedrich, not to you. You can't take that from him directly. So you build from somewhere else."
"Call her mother — I can do that." Franklin's jaw was set. "But if Friedrich controls the knights, how do I build anything?"
"You're still not hearing me on the first point. She's not
that woman
, she's your
mother
. In front of anyone, in any room, without exception, with no hesitation. Not a mask — a posture you maintain until it becomes true. Same with your sister and brother. Let people see a family that functions. Only then will your father feel confident enough to hand you what you're owed." Evan moved on before Franklin could respond. "As for the military question — the answer is to start fresh. You won't take Friedrich's knights. Even if you could, you'd have no loyalty behind the men. So you build a different kind of force."
"From what?"
"Infantry. Your father has almost certainly received a muster call — the war between Edward and Laine isn't finished. Ask to take responsibility for raising your own company, foot soldiers, and ask to lead them personally. Your father will likely say yes. Friedrich will go as well — he's a proper knight, and so nominally are you, though we both know you're only Low-rank. The point is that you won't be competing with him on his own ground. You'll be building something separate."
Franklin's face had gone from tense to intent. "But I'm fifth-tier at most. He's seventh. If we're both in the field, how am I supposed to distinguish myself?"
"You're not trying to outshine him. You're commanding a company of farmhands, and the standard is lower — don't get routed, and you've already done better than nothing. You're the firstborn son of this house, and he isn't. The squire knights answer to whoever earns their respect; they're not sworn to Friedrich. Build a record and they'll come to you."
Franklin was already moving toward the door. "I'll go speak to my father."
"Not yet. Move too fast and the Baroness reads it as ambition. You want her to see someone who's content to earn his position in the field — not trying to inherit what he hasn't yet deserved."
Franklin stopped. He thought about it. And nodded slowly.
Half a month passed. Franklin followed the advice carefully. The household's reaction was wariness at first, then a gradual softening. He assembled a company of twenty infantry drawn from Edmund's own men — they were rough and not particularly inclined to listen to a young lord they'd decided wasn't serious, but they were a start.
Raymond took charge of the training. He began with knight's drills, which Evan stopped. These were farmers. The method had to fit the men. Evan thought about what infantry could actually do against cavalry, sketched a weapon he'd read about in some previous life's history, and had it produced at the estate's iron mine: a glaive with a pronounced hook on the back of the blade, designed to catch a rider. The design had never been seen in this world before. He also arranged two crossbows — the Church discouraged them, but they appeared in noble armies often enough that no one would remark on them.
He taught two movements and nothing else. Thrust, and hook. Four-man groups, every movement made together, drilled until it required no thought. They ran. They drilled. The other soldiers laughed at them. Franklin was uncertain. Evan said nothing and let Raymond keep going.
The force set out in stages. Friedrich's knights went first — mostly squire-knights with a few Low-ranks, individually formidable, tactically individual. They looked impressive and rode in no particular formation. After them came Franklin's company, marching in a column that was at least consistent, carrying their strange hooked weapons. Baron Edmund himself would follow two days later.
Twenty-four people in total. Four on horseback — Franklin, Becky, Raymond, Evan. One supply wagon. Twenty days to the front, at infantry pace.
Evan told Franklin to treat the march as training. Everything on campaign footing, nothing relaxed. Raymond executed this without complaint — camp made properly each evening, palisade staked, guard rotation established, scouts sent ahead. Evan watched and thought that for someone whose only experience was a castle siege and a forest ambush, Raymond had sound instincts.
Six days from the front, Franklin sat in the tent with the other three and said, "Can we actually do anything useful when we get there?"
"Yes," Evan said, and meant it. He had no formal military education, but he had seen enough film and read enough to know that the basic principle held: match strength against weakness, avoid the reverse, and keep units coherent. Two counts fighting each other meant the battlefield was fluid and the professional soldiers were knights — meaning the bulk of both armies were farmers. A unit with two trained movements and the habit of acting together had a genuine edge over men who'd never been told to stand still.
Raymond started to add something. A scout came in.
Enemy contact. Small party, moving toward them.
Franklin went rigid. Evan looked at him and kept his voice even. "How many? What are they?"
The steadiness in the question settled the tent. Franklin's shoulders came down slightly.
The details came quickly. The front was already fragmented — Earl Edward had pushed faster than Count Laine had expected, and the lines were tangled. This group was a detachment under a baron loyal to Edward: twelve men, two squire-knights and ten infantry. They had been raiding deep into Laine's territory and had lost track of where exactly they were. Several days of uncontested looting had made them careless.
Franklin assembled the company and moved to meet them. The soldiers were nervous — first real engagement, no one had been bloodied yet — and it showed. Breathing was audible. Hands were damp. The two crossbowmen could barely hold their weapons level.
Becky raised her staff to cast. Evan stopped her. This was exactly the right kind of fight for new soldiers: numbers in their favor, confused enemy, manageable threat. If they were going to hold together in harder fights, they needed to discover they could hold together now.
Raymond called the distance steadily, and when it was right: "Crossbows — loose!"
The order gave the soldiers something to attach their nerves to. Both bolts fired. One went wide. The other raked past a squire-knight's face and made him flinch badly.
"Crossbows back — first rank, lower glaives — thrust!"
The hooked glaives came down and drove forward. Two infantry on the enemy side were killed immediately, two more wounded. The squire-knights were met by Evan and Franklin.
The enemy unit shattered on the first real contact. Their weeks of raiding undefended villages had taught them that resistance collapsed — and it didn't. They turned and ran.
Evan put his heels to his horse, drew the sword-cane with a single clean motion, and drove the blade toward the nearest squire-knight's throat. The man was armored in chainmail, riding hard, and never saw it — he had his own sword half-raised when the enchanted blade slid through the links as though they were cloth and found the gap above the gorget. He was dead before he could bring the stroke down.
Franklin went for the second knight. A sword-exchange, a test of strength — Franklin was Low-rank against a squire-knight and physically overmatched. The blow knocked him sideways, and he went off his horse.
He came up off the ground with a sword already at his throat.
The squire-knight held still. From the corner of his eye he could see the other knight down, blood at his neck. Across the field, the routing enemy soldiers were running and not stopping.
The engagement was over.