Chapter 53 - Lord Dalen POV (19 Jan 25)

Lord Dalen sat on the edge of the watchtower, legs swinging over the side like a kid too tired to care if he fell. A faint, rhythmic thud echoed from the distance, like distant drums signaling an unseen threat. From here, he could see almost everything: the trench that ringed the hold, the earthen berm behind it, and the low sprawl of rough shelters spread out in the clearing like a refugee camp that never left.He chewed absently on a bit of smoked meat. It tasted like wet leather and regret.No stone walls. No gleaming keep. No polished banners fluttering proudly in the wind. Not really a lord at all.Just dirt, desperation, and a trench deep enough to break an ankle if you didn't see it coming.When he'd been offered the choice when the world ended — Crafter, Adventurer, Lord — it hadn't been a choice at all. Dalen had spent a decade dying under flickering office lights, answering emails about toner cartridges and end-of-quarter reports, his soul slowly dissolving in a gray cubicle.So when the system offered him a clean slate and a title?Hell yes, he'd thought. I'll be a Lord. My own boss. No middle management. Maybe some meetings, sure — but with myself and the open sky.He hadn't realized it would mean four hundred terrified people looking to him for every answer... half of whom couldn't swing a stick straight — or that he'd be the one expected to fix everything when things went wrong, which they did. Constantly. He realized how naive he was then.Half of them wouldn't even listen to him.The only brilliant thing he'd done, looking back, was dig the trench.It circled the entire settlement like a scar — six feet deep, 4 across, reinforced on the inside with a low berm of packed dirt and salvaged timber. Behind that, four wooden watchtowers loomed on rough platforms — squat, ugly things with no roof, but built solid.He'd made damn sure of that.They were manned day and night, each one with archers and a lookout. Because the only thing keeping the kobold and goblin raids from overrunning them was the fact that Dalen had scavenged a lot of bows and arrows from early skirmishes. He didn't have a stone. He didn't have healers. But he had enough firepower to make attackers bleed before they got close.And so far, that had been enough.He thought picking a starting area right next to a couple of rivers and the forest would allow him to get the best of both worlds, and for the first week, things had been going great. But the twin rivers, while offering natural resources, also acted as barriers, limiting the movement and strategies of both allies and enemies as conflict escalated. Navigation issues had slowed potential reinforcements and complicated supply routes, while also creating a perfect trap that confined raiding parties to predictable paths. Namely...him. Soon enough, the raids started.He glanced down into the makeshift camp. People moved between cookfires, hauling buckets, mending gear. Some of them were still sleeping in their shelters. They were supposed to be working, but he didn't have the heart to make them get up. They were tired. Others had dug burrows into the berm wall and built a roof of wood.Half his soldiers were wounded. Food was low again — hunting parties rarely returned with much, thanks to kobold patrols.He'd posted on the forums for help three times in the last week. One reply offered 'thoughts and prayers.' Another told him to grind better drops. The third was just someone trying to sell him fake upgrade tokens. Dalen had laughed at the absurdity of it all. But, as he reread the replies, the laughter caught in his throat, turning into a tight knot of fear. Beneath the veneer of sarcasm, a chill of despair crept in, whispering the unthinkable—what if this was all there would ever be?He rubbed his eyes."I'm not cut out for this," he muttered. "A meeting-minutes guy. I didn't sign up to be a warlord."Boots thumped up the ladder behind him."My lord!"Dalen turned as a scout clambered up, breathless, holding a sealed envelope in one hand."What now?" Dalen asked.The scout handed a letter over."Who is this from….?" Dalen trailed off questioningly, waiting for his name."Toren, my Lord.""Ok, Toren, who is this letter from?""Sir, I'm assigned to scout the western side of the forest. I was scouting there yesterday and found a marching camp. With an army in it! I tried to get close to see who it was, but…Well, I got captured, sir. They made me spend the night with them. I tell you, it was the best food I've had in a while, but they asked me questions about the situation in the forest and told me they are going to fight! Then the next morning, their Lord gave me this letter to give to you. My lord, they had healing potions!"This all came out as fast as Toren could say it, a stream of words Dalen had a hard time hearing, much less understanding.'Wait, say that again," Lord Dalen said. "There's an army marching into the forest to fight the Kobolds and Goblins? How many?"Toren just nodded his head excitedly, "There musta been two hundred of them, my lord! They were grand folk, treated me nicely right after they caught me sneaking around their camp."Dalen cracked the wax and scan the message, his brow furrowing. Then he slowed. Reread it. Then once more, just to be sure.To Lord Dalen,Harold of the Landing, writing from the field.I command the expeditionary force currently operating to your east. We come from the east of you if you follow the river towards the mountains. I have cleared the hostile forces en route— primarily goblin dens and assorted variants. I've read your postings on the forum. I know things haven't been easy for you. I understand supplies are short. You have wounded yourself; you can't heal. And they are under unrelenting attack. You've held your ground despite it all. I have secured my village, and I am marching my forces to relieve you, if possible.Your hold is the closest viable defensive position. If our situation becomes untenable, expect us to fall back on your hold. We'll be coming in strength.I hope we won't need the hospitality. But I plan for the worst-case first. When you receive this letter, please make another forum post titled "Annoying goblins?" Then write a short post asking if anyone's figured out how to make swords that glow near monsters. I know it's silly, but we need to practice operational security. If we're headed your way, someone will reply that it's not that kind of game. If we do arrive, expect us to stay a few days to heal our wounds and recover enough to march home. I will, of course, do what I can to improve your situation. Until then, hold fast. You're not alone out here, no matter how it feels. Humanity must stand together.— Harold of the LandingDalen just stared at the words."…No way," he said quietly. "There's no way this is real."He reread the letter, slower this time, lips moving as if that might change what it said—an army. Relieving pressure on his Hold. And then, almost casually, the possibility of retreating here.Here.Dalen lowered the parchment and looked out over his settlement.The trench was visible from where he stood — deep, wide, and ugly, dug by tired hands with borrowed tools. Beyond it, the earthwork rose just high enough to give archers cover. The watchtowers stood solid and practical, the one thing he was proud of. Everything else was temporary. Too little canvas. All wood and hope nailed together, and praying it held.An army like that didn't come knocking on places like this.He turned the letter over, rechecking the seal—plain wax. No flourish. No bragging. The words weren't boastful either — just direct. Matter-of-fact. Someone is planning for things to go wrong.That made it worse.He hadn't heard of Harold. No forum arguments. No advice threads. No loud claims or recruiting posts. Just… this letter. From the field. From someone already fighting.Dalen swallowed."If he's lying," he muttered, "he picked a hell of a way to do it."He folded the letter carefully, smoothing the creases with his thumb, as if it might tear if he wasn't gentle. Then he leaned both hands on the rough railing of the tower and stared at the trees.If Harold was honest — if any of this was real — then someone out there had looked at the mess Dalen was in and decided it was worth helping. Not out of obligation. Not because of some alliance.Just because.Footsteps sounded behind him."My lord?" Toren asked hesitantly. "Is something wrong?"Dalen took a breath and straightened."No," he said, then corrected himself. "Yes. I mean—no. Get the word out. Extra watch tonight. Fires on every tower. I want the trench checked for collapses, and I want the archers rotating every four hours."The guard blinked. "Are we expecting an attack?"Dalen hesitated, then shook his head."…Maybe not."He looked back at the letter one more time before tucking it inside his coat."But we might be expecting guests."