Chapter 3 - The Provisional Camp
The morning air was cool and crisp, with dew and an earthy scent. As Ashborn stepped out of the tent, warm, golden light welcomed him. It filtered through the tall spruce and thick greenery. The forest stood around the camp like a protective guard, its leaves whispering in the breeze and creating a soft melody.
Ashborn paused for a moment to take it all in. Beyond the worn paths, the camp spread out before him. Beige and green linen tents mixed with wooden supply carts and small campfires that sent smoke curling into the air. Thousands of people moved about—soldiers polishing weapons, others tending to horses, and some resting on crates with bandaged limbs and tired eyes. Serfs hauled water, while children chased each other around bundles of firewood. Horses snorted near the makeshift stables, and blacksmiths hammered at their anvils, their sounds echoing like distant drums. It was a camp born of need, alive with the buzz of many lives.
As Ashborn walked, his boots crunched on gravel and damp leaves. He soaked in the vibrant life and rhythm of the weary camp. Flags fluttered on wooden poles—some displayed the sigil of House Blackwood: a black oak crowned in flames. Others were smaller, marking the various regiments in his forces.
It was still a long road to the fief he now ruled, a thought that felt strange yet familiar. My land. My people. With every step, Ashborn felt a quiet sense of belonging ease its way near his heart.
He asked the soldiers outside his tent for directions and was guided to the medical tent. Two guards flanked the entrance, straightening as soon as they noticed him. "My lord," one of them murmured with a bow.
Ashborn nodded and entered. The air inside was thick with the scent of herbs and alcohol. The canvas ceiling glowed warmly in the sunlight, casting soft shadows over the rows of injured men. The groans of the wounded were muffled by the gentle assistance of a tall woman in her thirties, clad in a deep green robe tied at the waist with braided hemp, indicating her status as a doctor.
"Doctor Verissa," Ashborn greeted her.
The woman turned, her tired eyes lighting up with gentle recognition. "Lord Ashborn, you're walking already? It's a blessing... I should be surprised, but I'm not." He offered a faint smile. "I wanted to see the men and thank you for keeping me alive."
Verissa stood at the far end of the medical tent, her sleeves rolled past her elbows, her arms stained with the faint hues of dried bandages and crushed herbs. Her dark chestnut hair was tied into a messy braid, with a few loose strands framing a face that was more stern than soft, but no less striking. Her gaze held an edge, like someone who had seen too much suffering to waste time on pleasantries.
When she met Ashborn's eyes for the first time after his recovery, she studied him like a wound–cautious, critical, searching for hidden fractures. And perhaps, in her measured silence, she found them.
She smiled and moved to his side, her hands wiping clean on a cloth. "You have the constitution of a tiger, and your recovery is almost unnatural—but not unheard of for a Knight with strong Aura roots. Still, don't push yourself. You're stitched with thread and fate right now."
Ashborn chuckled lightly. "I'll take care. How are they?" Verissa's eyes dimmed. "We lost a few more last night. But the rest... they're fighters. Tough sons of the earth."
As he walked further in, the scent of herbs, blood, and boiled linen hit him - sharp, earthy, and real. Inside, rows of cots held soldiers in various states of recovery. Some had bandaged limbs, while others were unconscious, their chests rising shallowly. A few looked up as he entered, their expressions changing from confusion to recognition.
"My lord," one of them rasped, struggling to sit up straighter. Ashborn raised a hand gently. "Rest." The man nodded weakly, his eyes filled with respect. Toward the back, a soldier with dusky skin and a long scar down his cheek winced as he tried to sit up, his right arm tightly bound in a sling. Ashborn made his way to him.
"You stayed standing long enough to drag three of your men back from the line," Valyn had told him earlier. "Even after you took an axe to the shoulder." Ashborn knelt beside him. "What's your name?" The soldier looked stunned for a moment before answering, "Thorne, my lord. Just... Thorne."
"Just Thorne? You saved three men. Do you remember their names?" "I do," he said, his eyes dark with weariness. "Kellan, Mardek, and Juri. Mardek lost a leg. Juri's likely blind now. But they're alive."
Ashborn nodded slowly. "Because of you." Thorne gave a crooked smile. "Didn't think lords knew our names, or cared."
"I will always," Ashborn reassured. He stood and offered a rare gesture: he clasped the man's good hand with both of his. "Rest, Thorne. Your strength saved lives. That bravery is worth more than anything." As he turned to leave the tent, whispers followed behind him - not of awe, but of respect. Not of Noble title, but Ashborn the man.
As he stepped out, the clinking of armour and the sound of hooves caught his attention. Valyn returned with a saddled chestnut stallion, waiting for me to ride. "My lord," Valyn said, tossing him the reins with ease. "I thought you could use some fresh air."
Ashborn mounted with some effort, his sore muscles responding slowly. Valyn followed, and they began a slow canter along a dirt path that curved along the forest ridge. The world opened up before them. Hills rolled like green waves in the distance, kissed by morning mist. Birds flitted between trees, their songs blending with the sound of hoofbeats.
"Where are they burying the dead soldiers?" Ashborn asked. "Near the Funeral Grounds..." Valyn's face clouded, a shadow of sorrow crossing his brow as if memories weighed him down.
"We should go."
Together, they made their way through the camp, where soldiers stood at attention, forming a path. The funeral grounds were silent, except for the wind rustling through the oak leaves.
Before them lay four stretchers, each bearing a fallen man wrapped in cloth and bound with rope—four knight-attendants, each one a name Ashborn struggled to remember, yet their sacrifice felt heavy in his chest.
A little further away, mounds of earth waited for the twenty-seven infantry and four archers who had fallen in the ambush. Small bundles of possessions sat on wooden crates—tokens to be sent to families far away.
"From the soil we rise… and to the soil we return," Valyn said, his deep voice filled with sorrow. "Let flame bear witness to valour, let smoke carry their names to the sky. Their courage cannot be forgotten, even if their voices are."
Ashborn inhaled deeply and stepped forward, his voice low but steady.
"They weren't nobles, not born into power or titles. But they stood before blades meant for me... and in doing so, they became more than any title could grant." His voice trembled slightly. "Their names will be written into the stones of my fief, into the roots of the land we build. Let them be the foundation."
A flame was lit beneath each body, and the wood caught quickly, crackling to life. The crimson light danced over faces, old and young alike. Some soldiers cried, while others stared into the fire with clenched fists. Even the serfs stood in reverent silence, their rough hands held over their hearts.
Valyn murmured beside him, "I knew two of them. Good men. They laughed too much... and feared too little." Ashborn looked at him and asked quietly, "How often have you seen this, Valyn?" Valyn replied, his eyes reflecting the firelight, "Too often. Yet it never stops hurting. That's the price of leading."
As the flames began to die and smoke curled into the high branches above, Ashborn remained, his cloak fluttering in the wind, his hands at his sides. He whispered to himself, not for others to hear, "I'll remember them... even if I forget myself."
The wind shifted again, soft and mournful, and the forest seemed to sigh.
As the ceremony came to an end, the two men turned back toward camp, the soldiers dispersing slowly behind them, the sounds of life hesitantly resuming. The smell of smoke still clung to Ashborn's cloak as he looked once more at the vast camp, his people.
Ashborn walked slowly back through the rows of tents, Valyn and Alde keeping a respectful distance. Outside, the sun hung lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the camp. They wandered toward the outskirts where the serf tents were pitched—smaller, shabbier, huddled near the treeline. Children played with sticks and stones, their laughter spilling through the air like birdsong. Women pounded laundry in basins. Men sharpened tools and stacked firewood.
That's when Ashborn saw her—a small girl no older than ten, trying desperately to lift a sack of potatoes twice her size. Her brow furrowed, her little arms shaking. Ashborn and Valyn approached her, their horses settling down beside them. With a warm smile, Ashborn offered, "Do you need a hand with that?" His voice was gentle, with a hint of kindness in his tone.
She looked up, startled, then her eyes widened, and she dropped the sack instantly, stumbling into a clumsy bow. "M-my lord! I didn't mean—"
He knelt to meet her gaze, his voice gentle. "What's your name, little one?"
A moment of uncertainty passed before she replied, "I'm Lysa. I help the cooks." "Ah, Lysa," he said, a small smile breaking through his serious face, "even the strongest warriors need help sometimes. It's not a sign of weakness, but a sign of wisdom."
She blinked in surprise. "You don't talk like the other soldiers."
"I'm not like them."
He easily lifted the sack and placed it beside the others near the kitchen tent. Lysa followed him with wide eyes. "My papa says you're one of the Black Oak Lord's Soldiers because of your crest." He nodded thoughtfully. "Then I'd better be as strong as an oak tree, right?" She flashed a wide grin. "No, you need to be stronger."
Ashborn playfully pinched her cheeks, a warm smile spreading across his face as he handed her a handful of snacks. After giving her a cheerful nod, he strolled back to his horse, effortlessly mounting it, and with a gentle kick to its sides, they set off down the path, leaving behind a cloud of dust.
Lysa watched the kind soldier disappear into the distance, her heart racing with excitement. Clutching her small basket of treats, she waved enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with happiness as she wished him a heartfelt goodbye.
As Ashborn rode away, he felt something shift in his chest – something warmer. He wasn't just leading soldiers or commanding titles. He was protecting stories, names, families, and lives.
While riding, Valyn rode beside him, arms crossed, his sharp eyes watching.
"You're different from before," Valyn said. Ashborn met his gaze. "Maybe I'm just becoming the man I should've been all along." And for the first time since waking in this strange world, Ashborn believed it.
"Where are we going next?" Ashborn asked.
"To Alde," Valyn replied. "He's working in the alchemist's tent, finishing a potion." When they arrived, a faint green glow pulsed through the seams of the old mage's tent. Stepping inside, they found Alde Brightborne hunched over a wooden workbench, glass vials clinking and steam curling from a brass cauldron.
Ashborn watched with a twinkle in his eyes as the old mage bent over the simmering cauldron, his sleeves charred at the edges, muttering arcane incantations under his breath. Wisps of blue steam curled around his fingers, yet he remained unfazed, his eyes sharp behind rounded spectacles slightly too large for his narrow face.
He looked every bit a scholar, with his silk robe stitched with celestial patterns, silver-white hair smooth like water, and a trimmed beard, clean and sharp. But behind the aged shell was a force to be reckoned with.
Ashborn had seen him on the battlefield, fire dancing at his fingertips and lightning splitting the sky at a single whispered phrase. An overwhelming power.
Ashborn stood beside him, watching the old man mix a restorative potion for him with steady, deliberate care. He felt something else, too - guilt. This man had killed for him, bought him back. And Ashborn wasn't quite the same man Alde remembered.
Alde spun around, as if Ashborn's gaze had become a physical weight. A faint smile crossed his lips, but his narrow eyes behind the rounded lenses hinted at a deeper concern. "Still brooding, my boy?" he asked, his tone light and teasing, yet serious beneath. "You're not dead, that's progress," he added, his voice laced with humour and relief.
To the others, Alde Brightborne was a Master Magician, a living legend. But to Ashborn, he was something harder to define - a remnant of a past he couldn't quite recall, yet somehow a cornerstone of a future he wasn't sure how to build without him.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of smoke, pine, and faint ash. The tent had quieted down, except for the low hum of the fire and the rustle of the flaps. Inside Alde's tent, a faint golden light flickered - neither candle nor lamp, but a suspended orb of magic that pulsed gently in rhythm with the mage's breath.
Ashborn sat on a low stool, cradling a steaming cup of herbal tea in his hands. The warmth seeped into his palms, but it did little to ease the storm brewing in his chest.
Alde stood across from him, carefully shelving a row of vials into a wooden rack. His movements were methodical, his back slightly hunched. Valyn stood beside the tent's flap, arms crossed, ever the silent sentinel.
"Alde," Ashborn said quietly.
The mage paused, not turning around. "Hm?"
"I need to speak with you both," Ashborn said, breaking the silence.
Alde straightened slowly and finally turned. His face was lined with the weight of years, but his clear, sharp eyes met Ashborn's with a depth that made it hard to speak. Valyn shifted his stance and stepped fully into the light, his expression sharpening.
"I'm not the same man I was," Ashborn began, eyes on the tea swirling in his cup. "Or... I don't remember being him."
Alde tilted his head in confusion, brows raised. "You're not making sense, my boy." Valyn's gaze narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
"I mean it," Ashborn said, voice low and a hint of sorrow. "Since waking up... everything is different. My thoughts. My memories. I don't have any recollection of memories, I can't seem to remember my friends, brother, or people. All of them feel like strangers. It's like... I've been shattered and put back together again, but the pieces don't fit the way they used to."
The silence that followed was dense and unyielding. Alde didn't interrupt, instead studying Ashborn with an unreadable expression, the flickering orb above them casting shifting shadows across his features.
Ashborn continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The last thing I remembered was the arrow, the convoy being attacked, and the sharp whistle slicing through the air."
Alde finally stepped forward, pouring himself a measure of the same tea. His hands were calm as he took a long sip, then sighed. "I suspected something was off," he said, sitting opposite Ashborn. "You've been quieter, hesitating in ways you never used to. You may feel different, but you'll always be Ashborn to us."
"Do you trust me?" Ashborn asked.
Alde smiled faintly. "I've seen too much in this world not to. Souls Scattering, magic that defies the gods, men who forget and find themselves anew. If the essence within you has changed, well, that only means your path forward must change with it."
Ashborn stared down into his cup, the tea rippling softly from the tremble in his fingers. "I'm not him, Alde. Not truly. And yet I have his memories – some of them. I have his name, his title, and his responsibilities. I don't know if I deserve any of it."
Valyn's silence stretched long before he finally exhaled. "You may not remember all of us, Ashborn, but we remember you. And that means something. You earned my loyalty not because of your name, but because of your heart. If that still beats in your chest, then I follow."
Ashborn blinked, surprised. "Even if I'm not who I was?" Valyn gave a crooked smile. "None of us is who we were yesterday. I don't need the old Ashborn. I need the one standing before me now." Alde chuckled softly, nodding. "Listen to the boy. He speaks sense."
Ashborn let out a long breath, one he hadn't realised he was holding. Some of the weight in his chest eased. Alde reached out, placing a gnarled but steady hand on Ashborn's shoulder. "You don't need to be him. You only need to be true to who you are now. You're not alone in this, lad. And whatever storm you carry inside, we'll walk beside you through it. Just..." His voice grew firm. "This stays between us. If the men know their lord has forgotten them, forgotten himself... it could break morale."
Ashborn nodded solemnly. "Nobody else will know." Valyn's expression hardened. "Not a word leaves this tent." "Good." Alde gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before leaning back. "You may not remember growing up, Ashborn, but I do. I remember the boy who cried when he couldn't summon even a flicker of flame. I remember the lad who once tried to heal a wounded bird with sheer will. You may feel different, but a person doesn't change easily. And whatever you've become... We'll shape that into something the world won't dare ignore."
Ashborn's gaze drifted between them – one, an old mage who had watched him grow; the other, a loyal knight who'd fought and looked after his predecessor in blood-soaked battles.
Ashborn smiled, feeling something stir in his chest–something delicate, like hope. "Thank you, Alde, Valyn." The old mage smiled softly and lifted his cup in a mock toast. "To second chances. And stubborn boys with forgotten pasts." Alde mirrored the motion. "To find ourselves anew."
Valyn grabbed a mug of mead from the side table and clinked it against theirs. "And to kicking fate in the teeth."
They drank in silence, not needing more words. The mood in the tent had lightened a bit after their shared words, though a quiet tension still lingered - the kind that comes before action. Ashborn set his cup down as Alde unrolled a worn leather map onto the nearby table, its edges curled from age and use. Valyn leaned forward instinctively, his eyes scanning the familiar markings.
"We should discuss the march," Alde said, tracing a gnarled finger down the inked trail that wound through dense forests and foothills. "The men are making final preparations. They're gathering provisions, crates of grain, salt, dried meats... and the healers have packed what few tonics and bandages we have left."
Ashborn nodded, his eyes narrowing as he took in the route. "We'll pass through the Greenwood trail, correct?" Valyn confirmed with a curt nod. "Aye. Thick woodland for nearly two days. The path is narrow, but easily defensible - assuming no remnants of Lythandor's force remain."
"And after that?" Ashborn asked. "Once we clear the Greenwood, we'll break into open plains by the River Elric," Valyn said, tapping the map. "From there, it's three days of hard riding alongside the river to reach the gates of Blackwood Vale - your fief."
Ashborn repeated the words inwardly, still feeling a sense of unfamiliarity. "And the serfs?" he asked, glancing between them. Alde took a slow breath. "Nearly two thousand. They'll travel in wagons or on foot, with livestock and seed. Most are from the outlying villages - displaced or starving after the border war."
"They're yours, Ashborn," Valyn added. "You have the right to dictate their lives; they belong to you alone." The thought settled heavy in Ashborn's chest. Two thousand lives, counting on him.
"How many soldiers will remain behind?" he asked. "Around a hundred militiamen," Valyn answered. "To cover the rear and deal with stragglers or late supplies. The bulk will travel with us - nearly five hundred, split across flanks and centre. Knights on the outer ring. Infantry escorting the serfs."
Ashborn considered it carefully. "And the materials?" "Armaments, tools, carpentry supplies, scrolls, even some livestock... for specifics, we'll need to consult the Quartermaster Charles Taylor. I'm sure we've secured enough wagons, but it will be a slow journey; we'll manage," Alde said. "It's a long march, Ashborn. It's a journey - a seedling of our future domain."
Ashborn looked over the map again, his eyes settling on the symbol denoting Blackwood Vale: a black oak set against a crimson fire with a dragon perched on it. "How long do we have?" "Less than two hours," Valyn said, adjusting his belt. "The sun will be high by then. The men await your word."
Ashborn straightened, his expression hardening with quiet resolve.
"Then let's not keep them waiting any longer. We should meet with Charles first," he said, gripping the edge of the table for emphasis. "I need a clear understanding of our current provisions and resources. It's crucial to gauge our situation before we proceed."
With that, they exchanged glances before walking towards the door, expectation humming in the air as they prepared to ride out towards the camp.
As the camp stirred to life, Ashborn made his way to the caravan quarter, where supply wagons were being counted and secured under the watchful eye of Quartermaster Charles Taylor, a slightly chubby man scribbling on parchment, his brow furrowed beneath his hood.
In the caravan quarter, Charles stood barking orders, his voice cutting through the noise like thunder. Despite the din, his eyes caught Ashborn's instantly, and he stepped forward with a bow that was more respectful than ceremonious.
"Lord Ashborn," he greeted, then nodded toward Valyn and Alde. "Commander. Master Alde."
"Charles," Ashborn replied, offering a firm nod. "I hear you're the one holding this whole expedition together with ink and parchments." Charles let out a tired chuckle. "Ink, parchments, and threats of rationing ale. It's amazing what discipline and hunger inspire."
Alde snorted. "Ration the ale, and you'll have more than hunger to contend with. You'll have mutiny." Ashborn smirked. "Let's see the inventory."
Charles walked into a wagon and brought out a large stack of parchments, handing them over before saying, "Current stocks are three weeks of rations if we stretch them carefully—barley, oats, dried fruit, some root vegetables. Twenty-seven barrels of water, refillable along the Greenwood Trail. Tools for construction, cooking supplies, medicinal herbs, and—"
He hesitated. "—a few comforts. Seven barrels of ale. A hundred bolts of cloth. Five crates of dyes and writing parchment." "You've brought parchment?" Alde asked, eyebrows raised. Charles shrugged. "Some of the serfs are scribes or scholars. Figured they'd be useful once rebuilding begins." "Smart," Valyn said. "You don't build a future with swords alone."
Charles summoned a nearby serf, gesturing attentively. The serf hurried to gather a few wooden chairs and a sturdy table, carefully arranging them in the centre of the open tent.
Meanwhile, Charles remained on his feet, poised and focused, as he engaged in a conversation with Ashborn, addressing his inquiries with an air of confidence. The atmosphere was charged with questions going back and forth as the discussion unfolded, the soft shuffling of the serf's footsteps providing a backdrop to their exchange.
"Speaking of futures," Ashborn said, unrolling the map he found in the parchment. "Tell me about the fief." Charles bent closer, tapping the parchment. "Blackwood Vale lies here—in the basin between the Daggerpine Ridge and the Elric River. Natural defences on both sides. Forest on the west, cliffs on the east."
"I remember the cliffs," Alde said softly. "A fine view. Hard to siege. Harder to farm." Charles continued, "The town itself is modest. Fifty standing structures, most in need of repair. The defence is still intact, but old. The central keep is habitable, but the east tower collapsed during the rebellion."
Ashborn stared at the map, seeing not parchment, but a future sketched in raw earth and ruin. "Population?" "Before the war? Three thousand. Now?" Charles shook his head. "Perhaps two hundred remain in hiding or scattered in the woods. They'll return if they see stability… and food."
"We'll make sure they do," Valyn said firmly. "We can't hold the Vale with just soldiers. We need workers. Families. Children." "And hope," Alde murmured. Ashborn let the silence settle. He could feel the weight of it—not just the numbers, or the supplies, or the broken buildings. But the expectation. These men, these people—they looked to him not as a figurehead, but as the founder of something new.
"Tell me honestly," Ashborn said. "Can we make it in ten days?" Charles straightened his shoulders. "With discipline. With hard work." His eyes met Ashborn's, a reassuring "Yes."
Ashborn nodded slowly. "Then we will depart at midday. Let the people have some time to rest. Have the scouts chart the Greenwood path and inspect the stream crossings."
"I'll take care of that," Charles replied, nodding before leaving.
As he turned to leave, Ashborn held the parchment in his hand a moment longer, studying the lines and curves like one might study the face of an unfamiliar child.
Blackwood Vale...A new beginning...
Valyn leaned in, his voice low. "You'll have to make hard calls soon. Supply, morale, law. It's more than swords and speeches." "I know," Ashborn said. "But I have you. And Alde."
Alde chuckled. "Oh, my boy, you'll have us until the day our bones give out." "And likely beyond," Valyn added with a half-smile. "Blackwood men are hard to kill."
Ashborn looked out at the field where serfs loaded wagons and soldiers adjusted their armour. The wind stirred the tall banners bearing the sigil of the Flaming Oak—his sigil now.