The fortnight unfolded like a tightly wound spring, each day releasing a measured burst of effort and preparation. Dawn arrived cold and clear over the Gilded Wilds, the sky streaked with pale gold as the Tenebrae household stirred. Breakfast remained the anchor of their routine: steaming bowls of oat porridge sweetened with honey from the apiary hives, thick slices of bread infused with Roselda's gentle warming spells, and venison smoked the previous autumn, sliced thin and crisped on the griddle with a whisper of Cindy's preservation magic. The long table groaned under the weight of food and family, voices overlapping in a familiar chorus—Clarice teasing Tyrell's latest letter, the younger girls recounting lessons in herb planting and rune-carving, Belfin and Ophelia giggling over spilled milk that somehow righted itself mid-fall thanks to a sibling's quick spell.
Byrt allowed no lingering once plates were cleared. "To the yard, lads," he commanded, and the seven oldest sons followed without protest. The training ground behind the house was a simple affair: packed earth worn smooth by years of boots, bordered by stacked logs that served as benches or barriers. Byrt positioned himself at the center, arms crossed, the scars on his forearms from old Royal Guard campaigns catching the early light.
"Line!" he snapped. Roland took point, Chris and Tom to either side, Sam, Harold, Jeffrey, and Matthew filling in behind. They stood at attention in tunics and breeches, breath fogging in the chill.
Byrt began where every recruit started: stance and movement. "Weight on the balls of your feet. Knees soft. Shield up—always up." He demonstrated the shield wall, bodies angled, edges overlapping like scales on a dragon. "A gap kills the man beside you. A gap kills us all."
They drilled footwork first—advance, retreat, pivot—until calves burned and boots scuffed furrows in the dirt. Then came the wooden swords, blunt and heavy. Byrt called pairs: Roland against Chris, Tom sparring Sam, Harold with Jeffrey, Matthew facing his father directly. Strikes rang out, parries thudded, grunts and corrections filled the air. Byrt moved among them, adjusting an elbow here, a grip there, occasionally delivering a controlled shove to teach balance.
"Recover faster, Matthew! The ground won't wait for you."
"Jeffrey, channel that magic into your stance, not your fingers—steady the body first."
Jeffrey flushed but nodded, drawing on the everyday spells he shared with Roselda to reinforce his limbs against fatigue. From the porch, the women watched: Cindy with quiet pride, Clarice twisting a handkerchief, Roselda murmuring small encouragements that drifted on the breeze like dandelion seeds.
By mid-morning, sweat soaked through tunics, and they shifted to the mine. The iron vein ran deep and true, dark streaks promising wealth for Eldermere. But Byrt insisted on fortifying before they left. Roland directed the timbering, checking angles and load-bearing points with a practiced eye. Chris and Tom hauled fresh beams down the narrow shaft, muscles straining under the weight. Sam measured depths with knotted cord, marking safe progress. Harold and Matthew cleared fallen rock, barrowing it out to the spoil pile. Jeffrey wove subtle stabilizing charms into loose sections of wall, preventing minor cave-ins before they started.
Each afternoon the shaft grew safer, more secure. Joists sat firm, braces angled perfectly, the vein exposed but held in check. The mine would endure their absence—Cindy and the girls could manage light work, and neighbors would pitch in—but Byrt wanted no accidents haunting his conscience.
One overcast afternoon, Byrt rode alone to the Levithoro compound. Smoke billowed from tall stone chimneys, and the clang of hammers provided a steady percussion. Stanley Levithoro met him at the gate, wiping soot from his hands before clasping Byrt's forearm in the old soldier's grip.
"Byrt Tenebrae, still alive and ornery," Stanley rumbled, grinning. "Thought the frontier might've swallowed you by now."
"Swallowed me? Nay—it's chewing slowly." Byrt laughed. "You look well, old friend."
They walked through the forge yard, past apprentices shaping glowing billets, the heat a living thing that pressed against skin. In the quieter back smithy, Stanley gestured to a row of finished pieces: seven breastplates of layered steel, seven kite shields rimmed in iron, seven longswords with vine-twisted crossguards.
"Tyrell's work, mostly," Stanley said. "Boy's got a steady hand and a steadier heart. He's eager for Clarice—talks of nothing else."
Byrt smiled. "She speaks highly of him. The dowry?"
"Twenty ingots of your best ore, master tools for Cindy's garden spells, lifetime trade rights between our houses. In return, these." Stanley tapped a breastplate. "Not parade gear. Battle-ready. Light enough to march in, strong enough to turn a beast's claw."
Byrt ran a finger along the etched surface. "Stanley… this is more than generous."
"You pulled me out of the fire at Blackridge Pass," Stanley replied softly. "Twice. And now our bloodlines join. Consider it family business."
They lingered over ale in the forge's small office, reminiscing: campaigns under King Augustus, the chaos of coronation year, the way young men like them had once thought themselves invincible. Stanley spoke of Tyrell's quiet courtship—gifts of wrought jewelry, long walks along the river, Clarice's laughter brighter than ever. Byrt shared tales of his sons' drills, their growing skill, the pride and fear that warred in his chest.
Before departing, Stanley handed Byrt a sealed crate. "Oil and runes for the final touches. Your women know the craft better than most."
Byrt gripped his shoulder. "Thank you, brother. Truly."
Back home, the rhythm continued. Clarice and the girls sewed gambesons—padded linen coats to wear beneath plate—embroidering protective sigils into hems. Roselda and the younger ones—Eden, Landina, Elizabeth—blended herbal oils with moonlight incantations, creating wards against rust, fatigue, and glancing strikes.
Belfin and Ophelia added their signature mischief: enchanted spoons that fled across the table at breakfast, practice swords that "vanished" only to reappear in the rafters, trails of sparkling dust that led straight into mud puddles.
The final evening arrived under a sky bruised with twilight. The family gathered in the yard as the boys donned their new gear. Breastplates settled over gambesons, shields strapped to arms, swords belted at hips. They stood taller, older, the Levithoro steel gleaming dully in the fading light.
Byrt faced them, voice steady despite the knot in his throat. "One last thing before you go."
He paced before the line, meeting each pair of eyes. "There is an old Tenebrae saying, handed down through blood and battle: 'A knight in shining armor is nothing more than one who falls first in battle.'"
Silence fell.
"It means keep your gear maintained—clean, sharp, oiled. But never let polish stay your hand. A gleaming shield draws eyes but stops no blade if you hesitate. Fight to live. Fight to return. Use every tool, every trick, every dirty move if it keeps you breathing."
Roland nodded solemnly. "We understand, Father."
Cindy approached then, leading Clarice, Roselda, Eden, Landina, and Elizabeth. Each held a small vial of shimmering, silver-blue oil—magic distilled from night-blooming herbs and family chants. They moved down the line, dipping fingers and tracing the Tenebrae crest onto shield and breastplate: two swords crossed over a shield, a black sun blazing at the center.
As fingertips touched metal, soft voices rose in unison—everyday spells of protection, endurance, homecoming. The crests glowed briefly, warm and golden, then sank into the steel, etched forever. A ward against misfortune, a beacon of belonging.
Clarice lingered with Roland, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Come home, brother."
Roselda squeezed Jeffrey's hand. "Magic and steel together. Don't forget."
The younger girls hugged fiercely, leaving tear-streaked fingerprints on polished edges.
As the boys shouldered travel packs and turned toward the road, a peal of giggles erupted from the barn. Belfin and Ophelia peeked out, faces smeared with grins and dirt. Along the path leading from the property stretched a deliberate line of fresh, odorous barn muck—shoveled precisely where boots would land.
Chris groaned. "You little demons."
Ophelia waved sweetly. "Watch your step, big brothers!"
Belfin cackled. "Safe journey!"
Byrt barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Out of the mouths—and shovels—of babes."
The seven raised shields in final salute, the black-sun crests catching the last rays of sun. Then they marched away, stepping carefully around the prank, laughter echoing back like a charm against the dark.
Cindy slipped her hand into Byrt's, fingers intertwining. "They carry us with them."
He squeezed back, eyes fixed on the retreating figures. "Aye. And we'll be here when they return."
The path curved toward Eldermere's guard post, where Captain Ulric Dane and the militia waited. Beyond lay drills, beasts, and the forging of men into something harder.
But tonight, the Tenebraes stood together—watching, waiting, unbreakable.