Justinian road at the head of the column, craning his head up at the walls of Ironhold that blotted out half the sky. The hooves of the tens of horses around him clopped against the ground, echoing off the stone outcroppings composing the valley floor and walls. It made the detachment sound as if they were a force to be reckoned with, not something that looked pitiful in comparison to the fortifications.

Ironhold, for all its obscurity in history, was not a place to be taken lightly. It was built centuries ago, right after a major beastwave ravaged the entire north and spilled into the central plains. Basetown had experienced a particularly challenging time during that period due to poor management, and as a result, they were cut off from all reliable aid for years. No one wanted to be so isolated again, so they devoted most of their manpower to ensuring it never happened.

They constructed an easily defensible road directly south through the Weeping Mountains with evenly staggered cutouts that would serve as rest stops for travelers. In the last mountain pass before the top plateau of the Steps, they decided to construct the town. The pass was a little more than a quarter mile wide at the widest portion, and the mountain's slopes were exceedingly steep while standing about half the height of the surrounding peaks.

It made it simple to plant two massive walls in the middle of the valley that stretched all the way up the slopes to the mountaintops in staggered levels. Not content with simply raising a hundred-plus walls on steep cliffsides, the natural stone outcroppings around the base were smoothed out, making simply reaching the defenses a challenge. The finishing touch was to ensure that nothing could approach without being seen, so twin towers were constructed where the walls met at the mountain peaks.

With the outer defenses done, the designers moved on to the next key points, making the town as close to self-sufficient as possible while also providing support to the mining operations in the area. With two intentions and two slopes, it was a fated match. The western mountain was carved into to make farming terraces, and the eastern side was dedicated to smithing for the mines. Or at least that applied to the upper sections of the mountains, as the lower portions were primarily devoted to housing and storage.

It had everything going for it, but it turned out to be the biggest embarrassment of the Fridgia family's history. A couple of decades after the town was constructed, most of the iron mines the town was named after were tapped out, and the rest weren't far behind. There were more iron veins deeper into the mountains, but getting to them and establishing themselves was hardly worth the cost by that point.

While the north was rich in minerals, it was also mostly uninhabited. In the past, before Ironhold's creation, Basetown was practically the only supplier of steel in Olimpia, but shortly afterward, that was no longer the case. Other mines with ore that were only slightly worse quality were established in the southern sections of the Weeping Mountains. Mines that were a stone's throw from the Ashen Sea and thus could be shipped to Olimpia and the other major southern cities far more quickly and efficiently. With the iron mines running dry, the northern legions claimed most of the steel production that was left, and the rest was shipped south at hardly any profit, meaning the nobles simply couldn't justify opening more mines.

What made everything worse was that during that time, there were clear signs that the beast waves were decreasing in intensity. The Senate started demanding that legions be retired, and the Guardian of the North had no choice but to acquiesce. Bitter as Justinian's ancestors were, they had to admit the truth of the matter.

Ironhold had never once fulfilled the purpose for which it was constructed and had only ever been a drain on the Fridgia Family's resources. The final nail in the town's coffin came when the legion tasked with guarding the town and maintaining the road was disbanded. In the space of a couple of years, half the merchants who regularly visited the place stopped as the coin from the active legionaries disappeared.

Two centuries were tasked with guarding a place that needed a legion, and most of the families saw the writing on the wall. A town that had close to thirty thousand inhabitants and could hold far more emptied to around five thousand. The population never recovered, but it also didn't drop much more, as there was still a need for a minimal legion presence due to the limited mining and minor trade route.

Given its location, the town earned the nickname of the Fridgian Asscrack. It served as an eternal embarrassment that everyone within Justinian's family avoided like the plague. His father was the first one of the family to pass through the area in… he didn't know how long. Which was a pity.

The town might have been an embarrassment, but the stark solidity of the construction had quite an impact on those approaching the walls. It spoke to his family's resilience, and in the end, it was going to more than prove its worth. As long as the gates of the wall weren't kept wide open like they currently were, welcoming anyone to march through. However, it was marginally understandable due to the small group standing just off to the side of the gate.

To the back of the greeting party was a squad of legionaries, if Justinian was being generous in his description. The men's equipment had numerous spots of rust, their leather straps looked as if they were ready to snap at a tug, and some were missing entire pieces of gear. The noble wished that was all, but the men themselves were as round as barrels and were gasping for breath as they stood in place.

Standing before the group that Justinian would hesitate to leave in charge of a latrine was what he expected, so long as he went by the atmosphere and not physical appearance. Where the thugs pretending to be legionaries were overweight, the man in front was a twig and a surprisingly short man. He looked like he had never experienced lifting something heavier than a quill.

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What made utter sense was that the man looked like he could excrete enough oil to keep a century or two of legionaries' weapons in good order. Which made Justinian wonder why it was his men had such poorly maintained weapons.

The man, whom Justinian assumed was the governor of Ironhold, wore an old formal toga colored a bright yellow, trimmed in silver, and had many stains. Really, it was the old — no, that is ancient, not old — style that nauseated Justinian the most. Modern togas were light, airy things that a gentle wind could pick up and whisk away. A lot of them were also partially transparent, as the wearer had a tight collar shirt and slacks underneath, at least for males.

The fact this man wore a kind of formal clothing that went out of style like four hundred years ago… it didn't speak well of him. Worse, he couldn't say he didn't know, as a step behind him to the right was a young woman holding a clipboard, who wore a conservative skirt and blouse, the modern trend for well-off commoners.

Head turning to the side at the sound of a trotting horse, Justinian recognized the rider and slowed his own mount, waiting for the man to approach. Getting right to the point as the rider slowed next to him, the high noble asked, "So, can we be expecting reinforcements from the River Lords?"

The scowl audible in his voice, Knight Gilbert answered, "No. As most of them put it, they have no obligation to help the Fridgians defend their land… though they left unsaid, "so long as a Fridgian lives." On the bright side, some of them said they would send a caravan of food. I'm sure they will try to milk the gifts for all they are worth, but it's something."

Clenching the reins in his hand, Fridgia's hand shook before he released the tension through force of will. "It is something… the headline of my recent life. fuck'em. Thank you for dealing with that task, Gilbert."

"It was my duty, Milord." The knight responded with a seated bow, suddenly acting awfully formal as he fell back.

Turning toward the expectant gazes, Justinian stopped his horse next to them and nodded his head, signaling them to approach. "My Young Lord Fridgia," said the oily man as he wobbled his way over on the stilts that he called legs, though he was moving surprisingly quickly. "It is an honor to meet you, even if these times are dire. I am Governor Hydrophant, the overseer of these lands, and I must say on behalf of this town, having your presence is a relief off my mind that I cannot even begin to describe…"

"That is good to hear," Justinian responded, his tone stilted as his distaste for the man grew by the second. "I am only doing my duty as a high noble to his people. I might not have been there at the beginning, but I plan to remain to the end."

"Wonderful!" Exclaimed the man, a smile stretching his face that looked like it would break his paper-thin skin as he showed off his too-white teeth. "That is simply wonderful to hear, My Lord!"

"I do not mean to be rude, but I do not think now is the time for flowery language or formalities," Justinian announced, not missing the flicker of annoyance, or perhaps irritation, that flashed across the man's face. "If you would, can you inform me of the overall situation of Ironhold and the refugees from Basetown? And what signs of beastkin have there been found in the area?"

"Ahh," the man said, trying, but utterly failing, to contort his face into a mask of regret and empathy, "I would like to agree that now isn't the time for conversation. However, I must beg your pardon and ask some clarifying questions. Not that I would be so bold as to take up your time when your people are in danger, but that is just the thing… There has been no sign of beastkins."

"None? Not a single one on the ground or air? I find that hard to believe." Justinian stated, his voice incredulous.

At his words, one of the so-called legionaries stepped forward, "i's t'e truth, M'lord. I've got me men on th' wall day an' night and not a beast in s—

"Milord!" Thundered a voice so loud that it echoed off the slopes of the mountains. Before the high noble could look up, a crash of steel sounded to his right as someone fell to the ground. "I am sorry that I was not here to greet you when you arrived, but someone seemed to have forgotten to inform me."

"I apologize, Sir Knight." The governor condescended, "It seemed that my messenger failed to find you in a timely manner."

"Haa!" scoffed Knight Holder, "If you sent one, they never found me at all." Dismissing the greasy man with a snort of disdain, he bobbed in a bow, "Milord, since our arrival, we have not seen any signs of beastkins within easy scouting range of the walls. I have sent out messengers to all of the small villages, mines, and even to the Tribes within the Weeping Mountains to spread the news of the fall of Basetown and the looming threat. Many seem to have taken the warning to heart and have started fleeing here. The problem is that while Ironhold can house far more than we currently have, there isn't enough food. Already, starvation is a looming issue, as the terraces within Ironhold have long lain fallow."

"That is precisely what I wanted to talk to you about." Said the governor, plowing his way back into the conversation. "I am the first to empathize with those who lost their homes and livelihoods, but my city can not accommodate this influx of people. I must insist that if you do not have the means to support them, they have to move along their journey to other lands."

Justinian felt a flash of anger at the words, and the snake of a man seemed to shrink into himself as his face drained of color. "Justinian," said Gilbert, moving his horse next to his and reaching over across the distance between them, but he did not dare to touch the high noble. "Calm down."

The High Noble wanted to lash out, but he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath, raining in his anger as he had been trained since childhood to do. It was one of the things that every high noble house taught to their youth. Those with high levels of power could, and did, affect the world on a whim.

It was not unheard of for someone to be killed when a high noble lost control of their emotions. That noble would be shamed for their actions and, depending on who was killed, could face other repercussions, but the point was that it happened.

"Don't worry," Justinian finally ground out, "You will not have to bear the burden of the refugees. I have a caravan of supplies with me, and there are more on the way, so while times will be rough, we can all come through this together."

"Ohh? Well, that is a delight to hear!" And this time, when the snake of a man smiled, it actually looked like he meant it. The emotion sent a shiver down Justinian's spine, as the show of emotion just looked wrong on the man.

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