For a moment there, he was tempted to join the fight. To stand up, walk over to the pile of wooden swords, pick one up, and face a knight. Let the other knights watch. Let them see their Baron step into the arena and swing a sword like one of them.

He imagined it: the crowd going quiet, the fighters stepping aside, the chosen knight looking nervous but determined. They would try their best, of course. They would want to impress him. They would want to show him what they could do.

But then he thought against it.

Who knows what would happen? Since they would be facing him, they would try to put in so much expectation because they set their hopes too high... and end up winning against him?

That would be embarrassing. Not because losing to a knight was shameful, they were trained fighters, after all. But because of the expectations.

The knights would expect him to be good. They would expect their Baron, the man who had burned Valdenmoor’s barracks, who had captured a king, who commanded an army of the dead, to be a skilled warrior. And when he wasn’t... when he fumbled, when his footwork was sloppy, when a knight easily disarmed him... what would they think?

He just watched.

After spending a lot of time there, he wasn’t sure how long, the sun had moved significantly across the sky, he decided to leave. He stood up from the wooden crate, stretched his arms above his head, and looked around the yard one last time. The knights noticed him standing. The chatter died down and the sparring stopped.

"I’m heading out," he said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Good training."

The knights straightened. Some bowed their heads. Others raised their wooden swords in salute.

"Hail, Baron Darion!" someone shouted.

The others joined in. "Hail, Baron Darion! Hail, Baron Darion!"

The chant echoed through the yard as he walked toward the gate. Darion smiled but didn’t look back. He just raised one hand in acknowledgment and kept walking.

They hailed him as he left the knight barracks. The sound followed him out the gate, down the path, all the way until the walls of the barracks faded behind him.

He would be going to have a nap now. The morning had been long, breakfast with Garren and Seren, then the wait for the carpenters, then the reading, then the visit to the barracks. His eyes were heavy. His body was tired.

He arrived at the castle, pushed open the heavy door, and made his way inside. The great hall was empty. The fire had died down to embers. Maret was nowhere to be seen. Aldra was probably in the kitchen. He didn’t stop to check.

He climbed the stairs to his room, pushed open the door, and lay down on the bed. The mattress was lumpy. The pillow was flat.

He closed his eyes.

And slept.

He was woken up by the sound of someone knocking.

He wasn’t even sure how long he slept, but it was long enough for someone to knock on the door. His eyes blinked open to the light of his room, his mind still foggy, his body reluctant to move. For a moment he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together where he was and what time it was.

The knock came again. Three sharp raps against the wood.

He thought it was Maret waking him up for lunch. She sometimes did that when he overslept, appearing at his door with a plate of food and a look that said, You need to eat. But then... he didn’t know. It could be something else.

He had to go open the door.

He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, and walked to the door. His joints protested slightly, sleeping on that lumpy mattress never did his back any favors. He would change it very soon. He pulled the door open.

It was Garren.

The older knight stood in the hallway, still in his traveling clothes, a layer of dust on his shoulders from the road. His face was calm, but there was a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"My apologies for the disturbance, m’lord," Garren said.

Darion waved a hand. "It’s fine. What happened?"

He came out of his room, pulling on his shoes, put them on and followed Garren downstairs as they discussed.

"Give me the details," Darion said as they descended the stairs.

Garren nodded. "The buying went well. We visited the timber yards we identified yesterday. The sellers were cooperative, the carpenters knew them, so there was no haggling or inflated prices. We paid for the wood, and the transport has already been arranged."

"And the wood? Where is it now?"

"It’s already at the farmlands. The wagons arrived shortly before I came to get you. The carpenters are there now, overseeing the unloading."

Darion nodded, processing. "What of Seren?"

"She’s with the men on the farmlands. She decided to stay and watch the unloading."

Darion smiled slightly. Of course she did. Seren was never the type to sit around and wait. If there was something happening, she wanted to be there.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and walked through the great hall. The fire had been relit at some point. Maret was nowhere to be seen, but the smell of cooking food drifted from the kitchen.

Darion and Garren went to the stable. The stable workers were already there, moving between the stalls, tending to the horses. They greeted Darion and Garren as they approached.

"Two horses," Darion said to one of the workers.

The man nodded and hurried to prepare the mounts. Within minutes, Darion and Garren were on horseback, riding out of the stable and toward the farmlands.

The afternoon air was warm. The road stretched ahead of them, flanked by fields that had once been dead and were now slowly coming back to life. The sun was high, the sky clear.

Darion urged his horse forward.

Time to see the construction begin.