Darian watched Bran's face as the man wrestled with the choice before him. The blacksmith's scarred features contorted with indecision, then hardened into resolve. Something shifted in his eyes—a spark that hadn't been there before.

  Decision made. War Frame update: Rebellion probability increased to 75%.

  "These people aren't soldiers," Bran said, his voice low enough that only Darian could hear.

  "They don't need to be," Darian replied. "They just need to want their freedom."

  Bran looked past him to the gathered villagers, their faces a mixture of fear and hope. He drew a deep breath and nodded.

  "Fine. But their blood is on your hands, Warmaster."

  Darian accepted this with a slight nod. "As is mine on theirs."

  Bran turned to the crowd, his massive frame straightening. The chains that had bound him minutes ago now lay forgotten in the dirt. He walked to the center of the square, and Darian stepped back, allowing him the moment.

  "People of Oakvale," Bran called out, his voice stronger than Darian expected. "You know me. I've forged your plows and shoed your horses. I've asked for nothing but fair pay and quiet days."

  The villagers murmured in agreement. Darian noted how they responded to Bran—respect mixed with affection. Natural leadership aura: 65%.

  "Today, that changes." Bran pointed to the dead soldiers. "The Empress sent these men to take me away. Not for any crime I committed, but for the blood that runs in my veins."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.

  "For too long, we've suffered under Malevora's boot. Our sons conscripted into her armies. Our daughters taken to serve in her palaces. Our harvests seized for her wars." Bran's voice rose with each sentence. "The Empress demands everything and gives nothing but pain in return."

  Darian stepped forward. The moment felt right. "Tell them who you are, Bran Copperfield. Tell them your true name."

  Bran hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "My name, my true name, is Branwell Ironheart. Cousin to Emperor Alaric, whom Malevora murdered along with his family to steal the throne."

  Gasps rippled through the crowd. Darian seized the momentum.

  "You stand before the true Ironheart!" he proclaimed. "Unlike Malevora the pretender, the usurper, the murderer who stole the Imperial name and stained it with innocent blood!"

  The villagers stirred, uncertainty transforming into something more potent. Bran raised his hand.

  "I ask you now to make a choice. The Empress's forces will come. We can flee, scatter to the winds and hope for mercy that will never arrive. Or we can fight." His voice dropped, became almost gentle. "This is the start of something greater than us. Today, the people of Veyltharion begin the fight for their freedom."

  Darian watched the ragged cheers rise from the villagers' throats. Their faces transformed—fear gave way to hope, then hardened into determination. These weren't soldiers. Not yet. But the spark had caught, and Darian recognized the birth of something powerful.

  War Frame analysis:

  Rebel Footmen potential recruits: 32 able-bodied villagers.

  Combat experience: 5

  Natural cohesion: 40

  Morale: rising, currently 35%.

  "Bran," Darian said, placing a hand on the blacksmith's shoulder. "Gather anyone who can hold a weapon. We need to arm them with whatever this village can spare."

  Bran nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd with new purpose. "My forge has some tools that'll serve as weapons. Hammers, axes, a few hunting bows."

  A young man pushed through the crowd. Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with the awkward eagerness of youth. Darian recognized him as the villager he'd stopped earlier—the one who'd nearly attacked the Imperial soldiers.

  "I want to fight," the young man declared, his voice cracking slightly.

  Bran's expression softened. "Thomwell Miller. Your father wouldn't thank me for putting you in harm's way."

  Darian studied Thomwell briefly.

  War Frame assessment:

  Subject - Thomwell Miller.

  Individual Offense: 15

  Individual Defense: 10

  Special Abilities: None

  Notable Traits: Natural strength, loyalty to Bran.

  Weakness: Untrained, impulsive.

  He nodded. Raw potential stood before him—untrained but eager. Sometimes symbols mattered as much as swords.

  "You should carry Bran's banner," Darian suggested. "A standard-bearer doesn't just hold cloth—he holds the heart of the rebellion."

  Thomwell's chest swelled. "I'd be honored."

  "I don't have a banner," Bran said with a frown.

  The old woman who had spoken earlier stepped forward, her back straight despite her years. "The village seamstresses will make one for you, Lord Ironheart. We've kept the old patterns—the true Ironheart crest, not that twisted thing the Empress uses."

  "Gretel, I'm no lord," Bran protested.

  "You are to us," she replied simply.

  Darian felt the pieces align in his War Frame. A legitimate heir. A willing army. A symbol to rally behind. The rebellion took shape before his eyes, raw and fragile but real.

  "The banner will serve as a beacon," Darian said. "Others will come when they see an Ironheart stands against the throne."

  Several hours later, Darian watched the villagers assembled before him in the village square. Their faces carried a mixture of determination and fear. These were not warriors—these were farmers, laborers, and craftsmen who had never held a weapon with the intent to kill. Their makeshift armaments caught the afternoon sun: pitchforks, hammers, a few hunting bows, and even a couple of rusted swords that had seen better days.

  His War Frame activated automatically, categorizing them in his mind:

  Rebel Footmen (32)

  Offense: 15

  Defense: 10

  Morale: 40

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Special Abilities: Terrain Familiarity in the Golden Plains

  Weakness: Untrained, Poorly Equipped

  Not ideal, but Darian had worked with less. He paced before them, assessing each man's stance and grip. Some held their weapons too tightly, knuckles white with tension. Others shifted nervously from foot to foot.

  "They look eager enough," Bran muttered at his side. "But eagerness won't stop Imperial steel."

  Darian nodded. "The Imperial garrison at Westbridge has fifty men. All armed, all armored."

  Bran's eyebrows shot up. "You've scouted them already?"

  "I make it a point to know my enemies before I meet them," Darian said. "Those soldiers are green recruits. Fresh faces assigned to a quiet post because they showed no particular talent beyond basic training."

  "That still makes them fifty trained soldiers against thirty-two farmers," Bran countered, his voice low so the assembled men couldn't hear. "The math doesn't favor us, Warmaster."

  Darian understood Bran's concern. The blacksmith didn't want these people to die for a cause they barely comprehended.

  "You're right," Darian admitted. "The numbers work against us. Which means our first battle must hinge on something else." He turned to face Bran directly. "It must hinge on us."

  "Us?"

  "You and me," Darian clarified. "Our battle prowess. We need to break their formation in the opening moments. Create enough chaos that numbers become less relevant."

  Darian caught the skepticism on Bran's face. The blacksmith's eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened into a frown.

  "My battle prowess?" Bran scoffed. "That was a lifetime ago."

  "Before you left the Imperial Court to marry a commoner, they called you the Duke of the Fell Hand." Darian held Bran's gaze. "Your skill with the warhammer became legendary even beyond the Empire's borders."

  Bran didn't deny it. He just rubbed his calloused hands together, the hands of a blacksmith rather than a duke. "I'm rusty."

  "Killing and bloodshed always come naturally to a true warrior," Darian said. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but experience had proven them true. "No matter how rusty you claim to be, your combat instincts will return quickly enough."

  Bran studied him for a moment. "You're one to talk. I've seen you fight. Skilled swordsman, accomplished rider." His eyes narrowed. "And what was that with the fire from your hands? Battle Mage? Spellblade? Both are rare enough to be myth in these parts."

  Darian shook his head. "I'm neither Battle Mage nor Spellblade. I'm a Warmaster." He flexed his fingers, remembering the burn of the Fire Bolt spell. "I know only two Battle Magic spells: Fire Bolt and Fortify. The latter hardens my flesh and skin and increases my strength slightly."

  The distinction mattered to Darian. His instructors at Myrmidos had drilled it into him—a Warmaster's power came not from personal combat prowess but from elevating those who followed him.

  "The rest of my spells relate directly to commanding troops," he added.

  Bran's eyebrows rose. "What kind of spells?"

  Darian smiled. This question he welcomed. "I'd be happy to demonstrate." He turned toward the gathered Rebel Footmen, who stood awkwardly with their makeshift weapons.

  His mind cleared as he focused on the task. The War Frame activated. His consciousness expanded outward. He reached for the familiar power of Warsong and felt it stir within him.

  "Watch," he told Bran.

  Darian drew a steady breath and released the Warsong spell that hovered at the edge of his consciousness. The power unfurled from his mind like a banner catching the wind. No gestures needed, no words spoken—just his will and purpose extending outward.

  Connection established.

  His War Frame immediately displayed the status in his mind's eye:

  Warsong active.

  Connection strength: 100%.

  Range: 3 miles.

  Linked units: Rebel Footmen (32), Bran Copperfield.

  The villagers and Bran showed no physical reaction. That pleased Darian. A Warmaster's presence in the minds of his soldiers created no discomfort—the Great Sages at Myrmidos had engineered the spell for seamless integration.

  "Hello," Darian projected through the link, his thoughts clear and controlled.

  The effect rippled through the assembled group. Eyes widened. Several men flinched. One dropped his pitchfork. Bran's head snapped toward Darian, his expression a mixture of shock and suspicion.

  "What in the name of—" Bran began aloud.

  "You don't need to speak," Darian thought to him. "Just think your response. The link works both ways."

  "What sorcery is this?" Bran's thoughts came through rough but clear, tinged with wariness.

  Darian addressed the entire group through the Warsong. "This is Warsong, the first of my Warmaster abilities. I've established a mental link between us all. You can hear my thoughts, and I can hear yours if you direct them to me."

  Confusion swept through the villagers. Several attempted to respond at once, their thoughts a jumbled cacophony in Darian's mind. He winced at the mental noise.

  "One at a time," he commanded. "This takes practice."

  Thomwell's thoughts pushed through, eager and bright. "Can we all hear each other?"

  "No," Darian clarified. "Only me. I serve as the central point. You can speak to each other normally."

  Bran stepped forward. "How far does this... connection reach?"

  Darian appreciated that Bran asked aloud for the benefit of the others. "Three miles," he responded through the link. "Three miles," he repeated aloud. "Once established, I can maintain this contact with minimal effort for days if necessary."

  The War Frame showed him the rebels' stats adjusting in real-time:

  Morale: 45% (+5%)

  Cohesion: 50% (+10%)

  "This will allow us to coordinate without signals or messengers," Darian continued through the link. "In battle, I can give orders instantly to any of you, regardless of noise or chaos. But that's not all."

  Darian concentrated, letting his mind sink deeper into the Warsong connection. The spell thrummed through his consciousness, a familiar and comforting presence. He visualized a bright blue line extending from his position toward the center of the village square.

  Manifest.

  The line appeared, glowing and vibrant against the dusty ground. Only those connected to his Warsong could see it—to anyone else, nothing had changed. He watched with satisfaction as the villagers' eyes widened, following the luminous path only they could perceive.

  "What is that?" Thomwell asked, his voice hushed with awe.

  Darian drew another line, this one red, curving around the edge of the square.

  "These are command lines," he explained. "They show you where to move, which positions to take. I can direct troops across a battlefield without a word spoken aloud."

  He pushed his concentration further, and the words "ADVANCE HERE" appeared in glowing letters above the blue line. Several of the farmers gasped. One man stumbled backward, nearly dropping his pitchfork.

  Darian smiled. Their reaction reminded him of his own first exposure to Warsight at Myrmidos. The memory felt distant now, as if it were from another life.

  He reached out through the Warsong link again, but this time he split his focus thirty-three ways. To each villager, he sent a different message—their names, a personal instruction, a unique word. The effort strained his mind, like trying to hold thirty-three separate conversations at once.

  "Thomwell, stand tall with the banner."

  "Hansel, tighten your grip on your axe."

  "Willem, adjust your quiver before it falls off your belt."

  The villagers erupted in excited chatter, each receiving their personal message. Some looked bewildered, others delighted. Bran's expression shifted from skepticism to grudging respect.

  "This must put a tremendous strain on your mind," Bran said. "Controlling every movement of thirty-two men at once."

  Darian nodded. A dull ache had already begun to form behind his eyes. "You're right. No Warmaster can maintain direct control over hundreds of troops for long. The mental toll becomes too great."

  He focused again, this time on restructuring the Warsong network. The spell responded to his will, and the mental connections shifted like threads in a loom. The primary link between himself and Bran strengthened, while secondary threads extended from Bran to the villagers.

  "There," Darian said. "I've designated you as the leader of the Rebel Footmen. The connection now flows primarily through you."

  Bran furrowed his brow. "What does that mean exactly?"

  "It means I only need to communicate my orders to you," Darian explained. "You then command your regiment directly. The spell creates a harmonizing effect—your men will follow your commands more intuitively, with greater coordination."

  "So they're not puppets," Bran said, relief evident in his voice.

  "No. They maintain their will and judgment. The spell simply enhances the natural bonds between a leader and his followers." Darian paused. "Your regiment will move as one when you lead them, Bran. They'll anticipate your commands before you even give them."

  Darian watched with satisfaction as the new command structure settled into place. His War Frame flickered with updated information as Bran took his position at the head of the formation.

  Rebel Footmen (32)

  Offense: 20 (+5 leadership bonus from Bran Copperfield)

  Defense: 15 (+5% leadership bonus from Bran Copperfield)

  Morale: 45%

  The numbers pleased him. Designating Bran as regiment leader had immediate benefits beyond mere convenience. The War Frame quantified what Darian already knew—a proper chain of command amplified effectiveness. These men would fight better for Bran than they would as a loose collection of individuals.

  They look steadier already, Darian thought. The connection between Bran and his footmen remained tenuous, of course. New bonds always did. If they survived their first engagement, that connection would strengthen. The War Frame would register improved cohesion, perhaps another 5% boost to their combat effectiveness.

  Darian remembered his earliest lessons at Myrmidos. War Sage Alberan had drilled this principle into him repeatedly: "A regiment that fights together, grows together." Even raw recruits transformed into veterans if they survived battle. The crucible of combat forged something that training alone never could.

  "What if we lose half of them?" Darian remembered asking Alberan that question. The War Sage had told him that regiments retained their effectiveness so long as a core remained—fifteen percent or more of the original force. The veterans passed their knowledge to newcomers, maintained traditions, upheld standards. The Rebel Footmen would grow stronger with each engagement, provided enough of them survived to carry the regiment's spirit forward.

  He decided against explaining any of this to Bran or the villagers. They already struggled to comprehend the Warsong. The complexities of regimental cohesion and combat experience would only confuse them further.

  Darian placed two fingers to his lips and released a sharp whistle. The sound cut through the village square. Moments later, Bright Spear trotted around the corner of the blacksmith's shop, his white coat gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  "Magnificent beast," Bran murmured.

  Darian mounted with a fluid motion. He looked down at Bran and the assembled villagers—his first regiment in this new campaign.

  "We march on Westbridge Garrison now," he announced. "The Imperial soldiers expect nothing. Their complacency will cost them dearly."

  Bran's eyes widened. "Now? With no further training?"

  "The best training happens on the battlefield," Darian replied.

  He nudged Bright Spear forward a few paces, then turned to face the Rebel Footmen.

  "Follow me," he commanded. "Today we strike the first blow against tyranny."