Shock of the New
The great hall of Greymoor Keep thrummed with voices. Peasants, village elders, and a few minor lords had been summoned, all murmuring with suspicion. At the high dais, Kael, Riven, and Damian sat not in thrones, but at a long table littered with scrolls and sketches.
Kael rose, unrolling a parchment. His voice carried through the hall.
"From this day forward, no farmer in the lands of the House of Voss Arclight Cross shall starve in winter. We are establishing granaries in every major village — storehouses where excess harvest shall be gathered, guarded, and rationed in times of famine."
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
"Not only that," Damian added smoothly, stepping forward, "but these granaries shall be built with stone and new engineering. They will not rot. They will not burn. And the stores will not be seized by lords for their tables before the peasants' bellies are filled."
The peasants' whispers grew feverish.
"Granaries… for us?"
"They'll keep food for the hungry?"
"Never heard of such a thing…"
But the minor lords shifted uneasily, their faces pale.
One elder lordling stood, his voice trembling with outrage. "My lords of VAC — this is an affront to custom! Food is the lord's property, to be taxed and distributed at his discretion. To say otherwise is to unmake the feudal bonds that bind us!"
Riven leaned forward, his grin wolfish. "That's the idea."
The hall erupted in shouts — peasants cheering, lords arguing, tension boiling.
Kael slammed his hand down on the table. "Enough! This is not debate. This is decree. We did not spill blood to sit in Halbrecht's chair and play his same game. This is how it will be under the House of Voss Arclight Cross: the people will live, and in turn, they will fight and work for us."
Damian's voice slid in like a blade in velvet. "And should any noble resist? Remember that we have an army, and the people's love. Choose carefully where your loyalties lie."
The peasants roared with approval, pounding the stone floor with their fists. The lords swallowed their anger, but their eyes glittered with fear.
Later that night, in taverns and fields, peasants whispered like wildfire:
"The sky-lords will feed us through winter!"
"They build stone houses for grain!"
"They care for us, not just their coffers."
And in the manors of the nobles, whispers were darker:
"They are unmaking order."
"They turn peasants into loyalists with food."
"If they keep this up, no lord will be safe."
The reform was simple. But it was revolutionary.
And for the first time, VAC was not merely ruling Greymoor. They were reshaping it.
Bread and Oaths
By the week's end, Greymoor was alive with new songs. Peasants returning from the fields sang them while hauling baskets, their voices carrying over the cobbled lanes:
🎵 "The sky-lords guard the grain,
Our children shall not wane,
No famine shall remain—
So long as gods shall reign." 🎵
In taverns, drunkards slammed mugs on tables, bellowing half-remembered versions. Children chalked strange new symbols — crude sketches of VAC's three interlocked initials — on walls. And in churches, some priests whispered hesitantly that perhaps these sky-lords were divinely touched, bringing a justice even the gods had long withheld.
The loyalty of the people was no longer just obedience. It was turning into faith.
That evening, in the council chamber, Sir Aldric stood at attention as the three CEOs spread scrolls and crude ledgers across the table.
"Taxes," Kael muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The whole medieval system is rotten. Lords bleed peasants dry, then wonder why the land produces nothing."
Damian tapped a quill against the parchment. "We need something predictable. Rational. A flat agricultural tithe, small enough that the peasant keeps most of what he grows, but structured enough to fund the state. And—" his smile sharpened, "—no arbitrary seizures. That keeps the people loyal."
Riven leaned back with a wolfish grin. "So… no more random raids where knights ride in, torch a barn, and call it taxation?"
Aldric flushed slightly. "That was… a common practice under Halbrecht. Feared, yes. But effective."
Damian fixed him with a piercing look. "Effective in the short term. Suicidal in the long. You were here for the rebellion, Aldric. Do you think it happened by accident? Or because Halbrecht turned his own people against him?"
The knight shifted uncomfortably, then bowed his head. "…Your point stands, my lords."
Kael scribbled on the parchment, sketching out numbers and allocations. "We'll call it the Harvest Levy. Ten percent of grain stored in the granaries, overseen by VAC's men. In famine, we release it back. In plenty, it funds roads, soldiers, and infrastructure. Everyone eats. Everyone benefits."
Aldric studied the paper as if it were sorcery. "A tax… that makes the peasants love their lords?"
Riven smirked. "Welcome to the new world order, Sir Knight."
When the council dismissed, Aldric lingered in the doorway, watching as the three men bent back over their tablet, faces glowing with its strange light.
He muttered to himself, almost reverently: "They change more in weeks than others do in centuries… no wonder the people sing of gods."
And outside the chamber, the faint sound of peasants' songs drifted through the night air, rising like a prayer carried to heaven.
Nobles in Shadow
In a smoke-filled chamber within Greymoor Keep, several minor lords huddled together, away from the ears of peasants and VAC's men. Their faces were pale, their voices hushed but sharp with venom.
"This Harvest Levy is madness," Lord Trenvar spat. "Ten percent tithed, and none of it under our control? It robs us of authority. The peasants will look to them, not us."
Lady Calwyn, her jeweled fingers trembling on her cup, hissed, "Already they sing songs. My own tenants pray to the sky-lords before they bow to me. What power remains to us if the people see VAC as gods?"
"They call it fairness," another sneered. "But fairness is just theft in prettier clothes."
The chamber murmured in agreement. Yet none dared openly defy VAC. The memory of Halbrecht's fall was still fresh. His blood had barely soaked into the stones, and already the new rulers had armies and the loyalty of the mob.
One lord whispered, "If this continues, we will not be lords at all. We will be stewards in their service."
Another muttered back, "Better a steward than a corpse. Do you wish to share Halbrecht's fate?"
Silence. Bitter, fearful silence.
House Hollowmere
Far to the west, in the moss-draped halls of Hollowmere, Lord Branth Hollowmere listened as his steward read the latest reports.
"Granaries," the steward said with disbelief. "A universal tax tithe. Soldiers drilled in strange new formations. The people sing of them as gods."
Branth leaned forward in his chair, thick fingers steepled. His dwarven features were carved hard as granite, his beard plaited with silver rings.
"So… the upstart House of Voss Arclight Cross builds its foundation not on fear, but on love." His deep voice rumbled like a landslide. "Fools. Love is fickle. Fear endures."
Yet even as he said it, unease lingered in his eyes. Because fear was precisely what VAC had shattered in Greymoor, and still they stood.
"Keep watching," Branth muttered. "If they last through winter, they may be worth more than we thought… or dangerous enough to bury."
House Cazwyn
In the silken courts of House Cazwyn, Lady Mirabel lounged on a chaise, her feline features gleaming in the lamplight. Her eyes were sharp as a dagger's edge, her tail flicking lazily as her courtiers whispered the same news.
"Granaries? A fair tax? Feeding peasants?" She laughed softly, a musical sound. "How… quaint. They think to buy loyalty with grain."
One courtier bowed. "And yet, my lady, the peasants adore them. Some already call them saviors. Gods."
Mirabel's smile widened, predatory. "Good. Let the rabble worship. Gods are always the easiest to tear down — they fall hardest when shown to bleed. And when they do…" she sipped her wine, "we shall be there to collect the pieces."
Back in Greymoor, the peasants sang louder, while the nobles fumed in silence.
And beyond its borders, in Hollowmere and Cazwyn, two minor great Houses marked VAC's name upon their ledgers of politics — one with suspicion, the other with mockery.
Both with intent.
The game board was shifting, and VAC had moved first.