Ashes Of the Führer

"Good morning, Führer!" the room echoed as I entered.

With a single flick of my wrist, silence fell.

The same faces. The same station placements. Even Seris stood exactly where she had days ago — as if she'd never moved, as if time held no sway over her.

I took my seat at the head of the table, fingers interlaced, elbows resting lightly on the wood.

"Reports," I said simply.

Commander Bruno Hartmann was the first to speak. His voice carried the edge of urgency, but not desperation — just enough weight to command attention.

"My Führer," he began, standing. "My cavalry division remains small — only fifty-three riders strong. Not due to lack of willing men. We've got plenty of them now, more than we can train quickly. The issue… is horses."

He glanced around, then back to me.

"We've lost none in combat. But we started with little to begin with. The beasts never kept many — just enough for their overseers and elite to move between outposts. Most were slaughtered when we took the valley. Now, we're stretched. Half our operations rely on speed and distance, and I can't promise either if we stay at this number."

I nodded once, prompting him to continue.

"I'd like your permission," he said carefully, "to pull a number of the farmers — the younger ones, the handlers — and assign them to begin controlled breeding. We've already identified six mares and two stallions fit for the task. If we can rotate them properly, use our grain surplus to sustain them, we'll start seeing foals within the season."

Bruno paused, then added with uncharacteristic restraint, "I don't ask this lightly. Every pair of hands pulled from the fields slows harvest. But without horses, we stall — and a stalled cavalry is just infantry with attitude."

I steepled my fingers, letting the request sit in the air for a few seconds. Bruno didn't squirm — he never did — but the tension in his jaw gave him away.

"We cannot afford a cavalry bottleneck," I said at last. "Speed is our only advantage in open terrain. If we lose it, we become reactive. And reactive armies lose wars."

Bruno gave a small nod, his arms still crossed.

"However," I continued, "diverting fieldhands will impact grain consolidation. I won't have our winter supply jeopardized for horses we won't ride until spring."

I turned my eyes to the far end of the table. "Wilhelm?"

The veteran general folded his arms and exhaled through his nose. "If I may, mein Führer — the timing aligns well. Once the first wave of harvest is complete, we'll have idle hands for two to three weeks before the next rotation. Assign the breeders then. No impact on food totals."

Bruno chimed in again, more assured now. "That works. I only need a few men to begin — enough to rotate feed, supervise mating, and maintain the stalls. We can keep the work contained near Homestead Nine. It's fortified and isolated. No risk."

From my left, Virella spoke for the first time — quiet, but clear. "If I may, I suggest warding the stable grounds. Animals are sensitive to the aura of conflict. If the foals are born skittish, they'll never serve as proper warhorses."

Bruno raised an eyebrow but gave a nod. "If you can keep them calm, I'll train them to kill."

A few chuckles rolled around the room.

I let it simmer for a beat before giving my answer.

"Approved. You'll receive ten handlers after the final grain count. Keep the rotation lean. No waste, no dead stock. I expect the first foals before snowfall."

Bruno straightened. "Understood, mein Führer. I'll oversee it personally."

"Good," I said, then leaned back slightly. "Now — next report."

A low shuffle of boots followed as another figure stepped forward — lean, cloaked in a worn gray overcoat still dusted with mountain ash. The scout gave a stiff nod.

"Mein Führer," he began. "Two days ago, my team reached the eastern edge of the Quadrumontes range — near the second valley north of the limestone spine. While navigating the high passes, we discovered smoke trails. Multiple. Not wildfires. Campfires. Human in origin."

The room quieted a degree further.

"How many?" I asked, eyes narrowing.

"Three encampments, that we confirmed. All tucked along narrow terraces and ridge plateaus. No sign of demi-human activity. No guards. No watchtowers. Just humans — thin, under armed, most wearing animal hides and homemade cloth. No formal leadership we could identify."

Wilhelm grunted. "Mountain dwellers. Remnants of failed outposts, perhaps."

I held up a hand. "Did you establish contact?"

The scout shifted his weight. "I attempted, mein Führer. We approached under white cloth, hands unarmed. I identified myself as a freed man under your command. Tried to initiate dialogue."

He paused. "They refused."

I studied him. "Refused how?"

"Wouldn't speak. Some retreated into their shelters. Others watched from a distance. No aggression… but no welcome either. From the way they held themselves, I'd say they've been burned by trust before. Or they simply want nothing to do with anyone beyond their ridgelines."

Commander Reinhard scoffed. "Cowards hiding behind stones. If they won't come down, we drag them down."

The scout nodded once. "They number no more than two hundred — likely less. No livestock to speak of. Sparse farmland. They're surviving on forage and dried roots, maybe wild game. No industry, no weapons worth noting. If we returned with a detachment—"

"—they'd fold," Bruno finished. "Two hundred unarmed peasants? A single cavalry charge and they'd be ours by sundown."

I sat quietly, tapping two fingers on the table's edge.

"They may be small," I said, "but isolation breeds fear — and fear sharpens quickly into desperation. I won't waste men fighting ghosts in rocks unless we must."

Then I looked to the scout.

"You said they refused contact. But did they show hostility?"

"No, mein Führer," he answered. "Cautious, not aggressive."

"Good. We do not strike them. Not yet. We watch them. One scout team, rotated weekly. Observe without engagement."

Virella looked up. "Why spare them?"

"Because they may be useful," I said simply. "A silent people in the mountains see things others don't. If we break their walls with kindness, they become allies. If we break them by force, they become corpses."

I glanced toward Seris, who stood ready with a slate. "Mark the location. Begin drawing a route from the valley. In two weeks, I want a proper envoy sent — with food, not steel."

Reinhard grumbled. "If they spit on our kindness again?"

"Then we remind them that kindness was a choice," I said coldly.

No one argued.

I turned back to the room.

"Next report."

Otto rose from his seat, a rolled parchment clutched in one hand, soot from the forges still smudging his sleeves.

"Mein Führer," he began, voice steady. "A matter of population. More than one thousand human refugees now mass outside the western palisade of our Village by the Quadrumontés. Roughly seven hundred are slaves we freed during the push through Larrák Valley. The rest drifted in—wandering farmsteads, forest stragglers, ridge-dwellers who smelled our cook-fires. Hungry. Desperate. No demi-human pursuit."

The room hushed. I leaned forward.

"Refugees?" I repeated. "How organized?"

"Poorly," Otto said. "Loose family knots. No banners, no blades—only what they dragged on handcarts. They've pitched scavenged tents close to the northern treeline where the foothill pines thin; shelter's mostly wagon canvas and rotted planks."

A beat of silence.

"Then we grant them purpose," I said. "Send crews to the eastern woods along the river-cut. Fell timber. Expand the palisade outward—new barracks, granaries, stables. Every tree we drop becomes a wall. Every wall expands our claim."

Otto nodded, but his brow creased. "Their rations?"

"There is no coinage yet," I replied. "So we install a blunt system: work-for-bread. The state holds the grain and dispenses it by labor token. No barter, no markets, no hoarding. We tally at dusk—wood cut, bricks stacked, trenches dug. Tokens buy supper, nothing more."

He frowned. "A ration ledger then?"

"Worse," I said, letting the contempt show. "A filthy equal-share structure. But it keeps order until the forges burn in every captured hamlet from Stonehall to Wehlen. When that day comes, we melt the tokens down and mint Crowns."

Bruno exhaled through his nose. "Soft words for hard times."

"It is survival in uniform," I answered. "Order masquerading as fairness."

Otto absorbed this, face unreadable.

Bruno raised a hand. "With your leave, Führer—I've identified at least two dozen refugees who once handled livestock. I request them for Homestead Nine on the east ridge of Larrák Valley. Six mares, two stallions—foaling season is near. More hands, stronger stock."

"Approved," I said. "Choose only the hardy, feed them double oats. A cavalry without horses is a spear with no head."

Bruno grinned, short and sharp. "They'll ride before the first snow."

I turned back to Otto. "Next strain?"

He cleared his throat. "The sulfur pit beneath the southern cliffs of the Quadrumontés is bleeding workers. Fumes rot lungs; deaths climb weekly. To keep powder flowing we need… two hundred replacements."

Reinhard scowled. "Still shoveling men into that hole?"

"Quietly divert two hundred refugees," I ordered. "No public rosters—call it skilled reassignment. Brand it as lighter duty if needed."

A tension rippled. Seris's quill slowed; Wilhelm's jaw set.

Otto did not flinch. "Understood."

Wilhelm stepped forward at last. "Führer, a request: the first one hundred volunteers bold enough for combat, not labor. I'll shape them into a special corps. Discipline over numbers. Training grounds in the rocky gullies north of Larrák Valley—terrain perfect for trials."

Bruno's brow rose. "Special corps? Armed with what?"

Reinhard leaned in. "What trials?"

Otto spoke before Wilhelm could. "Classified."

A rumble of dissatisfaction, cut by a soft snort from Virella. She closed her spell-tome with a whisper of parchment and sparks. "Curiosity, commanders, is how cats die—twice," she murmured.

Bruno rolled his eyes. "Black magic and bayonets, then. Fine."

Wilhelm met my gaze. I gave one small nod. "Granted. Select the brave, not the brawny. Otto will supply arms. Virella"—I tipped my head towards her—"will handle… auxiliary enhancements."

She answered with a delicate, knowing smile.

"They'll regroup. Eventually. But not yet," Wilhelm said, voice edged with certainty. "Their chain of command fractured. Their morale shattered. They're retreating, not rallying."

"But they'll come," Reinhard insisted, tone harder. "They have to."

Otto shifted in his chair, eyes reflecting the lanternlight."We'll know more within forty-eight hours. Our forward scouts are moving through the eastern plains and along the ridgelines beyond the Quadrumontés. They've been ordered to observe, not engage. If the demi-humans are mustering troops, rebuilding outposts—we'll see the smoke before we hear the drums."

Virella's voice came next, cool and distant."Even if they rebuild… they'll need time. Magic doesn't restore armies. It only accelerates their death."

But I shook my head once.

"You overestimate their unity," I said. "Even if word spreads—even if the survivors crawl back to their lords—nothing will happen."

The room turned to me.

"Their government is a lie. A brittle facade kept together by old bloodlines and land claims. The nobles squabble among themselves, each hoarding their own troops, fighting each other for acreage and inheritance. No true central command. No high marshal. No strategic doctrine. If one noble hears of this uprising, he might dismiss it as a peasant riot in another's territory."

"They won't respond?" Reinhard asked.

"Not unless we threaten something they value more than order," I said. "Authority. Titles. Bloodlines. When we crush a city instead of a farm… burn a manor instead of a barn… then they'll lift a finger."

Bruno leaned forward, jaw tight. "So we can bleed them slowly."

"Yes," I said. "So long as we strike smart, and leave no spark behind that might unite them."

A silence followed. One of understanding. Of long-sighted planning.The kind of silence that tastes like steel.

I let it sit. Let it settle like ash.

Then, when the weight of it pressed just enough—

I broke it.

"Also… Otto," I said.

He looked up sharply.

"There is a new weapon I want you to build. Only ten. That's all we'll need—for now.""Seris will deliver the blueprint to your quarters before nightfall."

"Understood, mein Führer," Otto said, masking whatever questions stirred behind his eyes.

I didn't give him the chance to ask.

Some weapons explain themselves loud enough.