The Lord of Binvelt
Five riders mounted on horseback galloped across the wasteland, scattering ashes behind them.
“…….”
The soldiers lined up at the camp entrance watched the scene in silence. The remains of their fallen comrades drifted away on the wind. Each man longed to give his dead proper funerals according to the traditions of his homeland, but the situation made it impossible. Tending to dozens of bodies one by one would have taken more than a month. They'd settled on cremation as a compromise.
Some closed their eyes in silent prayer. Others kept watching, unwilling to miss the final sight. Buuuu— One blew a horn pipe. It was said to drive away evil spirits and guide the souls of the dead to the heavens.
Before long, the riders scattering the ashes had dispersed, vanishing beyond the hills.
“May you find freedom.”
Gunther muttered under his breath. Faces of comrades he'd never see again flickered through his mind—some he liked, some he hated. All gone now.
The funeral was over.
“Move out! Training time!”
Carlson barked like a ghost at their backs.
“Mourn while you work!”
“…….”
Gunther and the other soldiers shot Carlson glares but soon dropped their eyes.
“What? Got a problem? Step up and prove it with your skills. I’d love to ditch this damn company commander gig myself.”
The soldiers averted their eyes from Carlson’s glare. It wasn’t just fear of his brute strength. These were men who’d thrown their lives at hell wolves and lived. Deep down, they knew Carlson was right. There was grief aplenty, and work aplenty. Grief solved nothing. They knew that. But it still stung.
“No one? Then move! Don’t snivel like bitches!”
“Aw, shit.”
The soldier beside Gunther grumbled but fell in line. The others followed one by one, faces twisted like they’d eaten dung.
The roughly fifty soldiers split in two. Half repaired the camp; the other half trained. Bessimer oversaw the repairs, Carlson the training.
As he had for the past few weeks, Carlson drove them mercilessly—bellowing orders, not shying from violence. They started with dawn runs and drilled footwork until lunch. After an afternoon break, it was sparring practice. He worked them relentlessly. By evening, shortly after dinner, they were dropping off one by one.
With tents incomplete, most lay on blankets spread over the bare ground, the starry sky as their ceiling.
Snore—Snore—
“Captain’s sleeping sound. In this mess?”
A soldier lying next to Gunther griped at Bessimer’s snoring.
“Guy’s been out like a rock lately.”
Bodies exhausted but minds wide awake, the soldiers murmured among themselves. When the tents had been intact, they’d at least woven straw into mattresses. Now it was just hard, cold dirt—uncomfortable as hell.
“He finally got his lifelong wish.”
Someone else chimed in. Bessimer had been in this camp long enough that every soldier knew his story. The mad giant who’d defied orders to scour the Black Forest for the wolf king. The scrapper who risked his life in every brawl. The freak who volunteered for night patrols because he couldn’t sleep. The lone survivor who’d outlasted every superior through decades of bloodbaths with hell wolves and beasts. Not yet twenty-five, but with the face of a grizzled vet. Nightmares kept him from deep sleep, aging him far beyond his years—deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, black shadows under them, bald head, unkempt beard. He looked like he could crush any monster, but the soldiers knew the truth: what he feared most was the night. Gripping his axe, staring into the dark to endure it.
And now, he was sleeping like the dead, oblivious to the world.
“Fuck, life throws everything at you.”
One soldier let out a wry chuckle. For the camp’s veterans, battles with hell wolves were routine. Bessimer’s snoring? That was something new.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Gunther muttered, tossing restlessly. Sleep wouldn’t come tonight either. The sky brimmed with stars. He blinked—and there was the moon, as always. That night’s moon. Comrades turning to wolves. Shouts and screams. Clash of steel. The fierce blaze devouring the tents. It all flashed through his mind. He’d have to drag himself up in the dead of night again, pointlessly.
He wasn’t the only one. Scattered around camp were men rummaging through empty barrels, swinging swords, or jogging the perimeter even at this hour. Carlson didn’t stop them. After all, he and Isaac were the last to sleep besides the night watch.
“Gunther, have a drink?”
“Pass. Don’t wanna review tomorrow’s training from inside out.”
Gunther waved off the offer from a soldier born on a Goethe farmstead. A guy who’d lost his parents to tribal raids once, hated tribesmen with a passion—wouldn’t share booze, lucky not to draw steel. But after the wolf king fight, he was chummy. Even with the other tribal-born soldiers. They’d bled together. Lost brothers together. Risked their necks in the same place, same moment.
“Boring prick. Your ancestors’d tell you to cut your dick off.”
“That’s your tribal prejudice talking, kingdom hick.”
“Hah, need booze later, holler. Supplies burned up—hard to find besides my stash.”
“Yeah.”
Gunther met the man’s eyes. Something thick and binding passed between them. Camaraderie. Brotherhood. Like they’d been reborn here in Binvelt.
It wasn’t just the life-and-death battle. They’d defended something together. Won something together.
What had sparked it all? Any soldier in Binvelt could answer that easy.
“Still out there.”
Wandering the camp, Gunther spotted the flames still raging outside. Fifth day now, the blue fire burned unquenched—from the pit incinerating the hell wolves’ corpses. And before it stood the boy, guarding like a ghost.
No telling what thoughts churned in his head. But just seeing him put Gunther at ease.
First time he’d laid eyes on the kid, he’d seemed like just some brat—bound to fizzle out. Gunther had half-hoped to see Bessimer chew him out till he bawled. When he froze the entire Baitur village solid, fear hit. First time a human scared him more than hell wolves.
Then, in the thick of that hell wolf slaughter, Gunther witnessed something unreal. Despair and terror had gripped the whole camp. But the boy—he shone. Whether there was a literal halo, Gunther couldn’t swear. But in his eyes, the boy blazed brighter than the wolf king’s yellow glare, brighter than the bloated moonlight, illuminating every soldier.
Drawn to that light, Gunther gripped his sword tighter. His comrades found their courage. They didn’t go down helpless. Even in death, they died fighting. In survival, not by fleeing—but by fierce resistance.
That pride was seared into every soldier’s heart, Gunther’s included. Binvelt was no longer a dead end for the homeless. It was a place won with comrades’ sacrifices and their own spilled blood.
What made it possible? The soldiers knew. Gunther knew. He gazed at the boy’s back. The night felt peaceful. A rarity. Distant wolf howls drifted in like echoes from another world.
Gunther knew. The boy rose before anyone, slept after everyone. Stayed awake longest. Bessimer could sleep soundly because of him.
Gunther knew. Binvelt’s lord was Isaac—that boy. The one he’d pledge his sword to.
Gunther knew. The soldiers knew.
The next day, twelve wagons rolled into camp. The lead one bore a shield crest.
“We hurried as much as we could, but we’re still much delayed.”
Schrader looked years older after just one month. No need for words—you could see how frantically he’d been running himself ragged.
“No. You’re right on time.”
“What in the world happened this past month? The soldiers look cut in half.”
“Something did.”
Isaac explained everything that had gone down since Schrader left.
“……What possessed you to do that? Why no report to His Excellency? Why no call for reinforcements? We wouldn’t have lost so many.”
Schrader’s voice rose, anger flushing his face. He was head butler now, but in his youth he’d shadowed the count across battlefields—a battle-hardened vet. To him, Isaac’s choice was reckless stupidity.
“That’s not how you earn His Excellency’s approval.”
Goethe already struggled to expand forces for historical and political reasons. And Isaac’s call had wiped out nearly seventy able-bodied men overnight. He’d even endangered his own life.
“It was necessary.”
Isaac’s voice held no emotion, a stark contrast to the butler on the verge of roaring. Just calm certainty, as if stating the obvious.
“What necessity?”
Deep furrows creased Schrader’s brow.
“Independence.”
For Isaac now, reviving Binvelt to generate shield-tax revenue was faster than begging the count’s trust for business ventures. Results spoke louder than a hundred words of persuasion.
“Binvelt has to stand on its own first.”
“It’s land granted by His Excellency. Independence...”
“I need men who’ve bled for their own land—who will bleed again. My people.”
Isaac cut off Schrader’s doubts.
“Schrader, sure—leaning on Father’s army would’ve been easy. But those soldiers wouldn’t have felt any attachment to this wasteland. Nothing would’ve changed.”
Goethe natives and tribal-born alike. To them, this wasn’t home or paradise. Just a temporary stopgap with nowhere else to go. They needed a reason. To stay. To defend it. To make it prosper.
And that started with comrades’ blood—their own blood.
“…….”
Schrader’s mouth worked several times as Isaac spoke. But no rebuttal came from the old butler.
It was ice-cold logic, but Isaac was right.
“Spoken like a true Goethe.”
He had no choice but to nod.
“I’ll become Binvelt’s lord. And Binvelt will be Goethe’s richest city. It has to be.”
“You think that’s possible?”
Schrader was dumbfounded.
“No reason it won’t.”
But seeing this cocky little Goethe heir, the butler couldn’t help but smirk. The frail young master who could barely stand on his own now... somehow seemed like he just might pull it off.