The lord of Grasshawk Fief

Grasshawk Fief's walls were low, and monsters had gnawed several sections of masonry into pitted ruins during the last Blood Moon Season.

The bitter wind swept dead grass and shards of ice across this squat defensive line, howling as it went.

Ryan, the newly appointed twenty-four-year-old lord, stood behind the city gate, clutching a rolled decree from the governor.

Ryan came from a peripheral branch of a viscount's family in the Inland.

He had no impressive resources, no powerful patron, and none of the burning passion needed to fight to the death for glory.

Grasshawk Fief had survived its first Blood Moon Season not because he was a formidable fighter, but because its open terrain lay off the monsters' main line of attack.

Later, he had swiftly latched onto the joint defenses formed by Blackpine Fief and Blackiron Canyon. Sheltering at the fringes of that vast web of firepower, he had barely managed to survive.

Ryan knew better than anyone that luck alone had kept him alive this long.

But at the Eternal Night Wall, luck was the least reliable thing of all.

So when he received the decree from the Governor's Mansion and learned that Grasshawk Fief had officially been placed under Blackpine Fief's overall command, he felt none of the humiliation of having his territory swallowed up. Instead, he breathed a sigh of relief.

To Ryan, that thin sheet of parchment bearing the governor's wax seal was a ticket aboard a ship that could carry him through to the next Blood Moon Season.

He did not care whom he bowed to, as long as that person could truly hold back the monsters outside and let him live a little longer.

"My lord, they're here."

A muffled, steady rhythm of hoofbeats came from the gray mist beyond the walls.