Chapter 452 First Meeting [4]

A few of the other staff members looked away. One or two took half-steps back

Michael let the silence stretch.

Then his eyes swept past Helmric to the others assembled.

"Captain of the guard," he called.

A grizzled man with a trimmed beard and scar along his left brow stepped forward stiffly, his armor dented but serviceable. "Sir Rauff, my lord."

Michael didn’t rise. "How many trained guards are stationed in Thornvale?"

"Two thousand on paper," Rauff said. "But only five hundred remain active. The rest... disappeared. Desertion, injuries, or reassignment."

Michael arched a brow. "Reassignment by whom?"

The captain hesitated, eyes darting to Helmric. "The steward approved temporary transfers... none ever returned."

"Do you have their names?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Have the list delivered to Roran."

"Yes, my lord."

Michael’s gaze shifted again. "Stable master."

A balding man with mud-stained boots stepped forward and bowed. "Gerel, my lord."

Michael gestured toward the far courtyard beyond the hall. "How many horses?"

Gerel winced. "Fifty for riding. Seven injured. The rest sold last winter... I was told the funds were needed for repairs."

"Repairs?" Michael repeated. "The manor roof leaks, the well is cracked, and I saw moss in the guest hall."

Gerel looked miserable. "That’s what I thought too, my lord."

Michael turned his gaze next. "Blacksmith."

A short woman with thick arms and soot-darkened sleeves stepped forward, crossing her arms. "Gilda."

Michael’s voice lowered. "You were responsible for weapons maintenance and village forgework?"

"I was," she said, then added bluntly, "but I wasn’t paid for the last four months."

Michael raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "I kept working. Villagers need blades and nails, even if the steward’s coin stops."

Michael’s expression didn’t change. "Noted."

He turned again. "Cook."

A heavyset man with red cheeks stepped forward. "Erwin, my lord."

Michael nodded slightly. "What have you been feeding the staff?"

"Root stews. Dried meats. Barley and onions mostly."

"Have food stocks declined?"

Erwin hesitated. "We still receive tithes and market deliveries."

The cook’s eyes flicked toward Helmric.

Michael didn’t press further. He already knew.

"Quartermaster," Michael said quietly.

The woman who stepped forward had a soldier’s bearing, her eyes sharp. "I’ve kept track of the garrison’s supply lists, my lord. They were ordered to be cut months ago. Rations, gear, even armor oil. When I protested, I was reassigned to laundry duty for two weeks."

Michael finally stood.

His voice, when it came, was low but thunderous with restraint.

"Incompetence can be corrected. But theft, exploitation, and betrayal of duty—those are not things I overlook."

He walked forward slowly, stopping just before the assembled line.

"I came here prepared to restore Thornvale. But now I see I must first burn the rot out."

His eyes swept across each face, settling finally on Helmric.

"Steward Helmric," Michael said. "You are dismissed from service. Effective immediately."

Helmric went rigid. "Y-You can’t—!"

Michael’s voice sliced through the air.

"Roran."

Roran stepped forward, gauntleted fist clinking. "My lord?"

"Escort him out. Hold him under guard until I determine where he’ll rot."

Helmric’s face turned white. "You have no authority—"

"I have all the authority," Michael said, his voice like ice. "And if you utter another word, I’ll have you gagged."

Two soldiers moved to Helmric’s side. The man struggled briefly, then sagged as his powerlessness set in.

Michael turned to the others.

"Each of you will be investigated. Those found complicit will join him. Those who remained honest, even in silence, will be given a chance to earn my trust."

He let that hang.

"You serve House Nor now. And House Nor remembers loyalty."

The line of staff members straightened.

A few looked shaken. But others... looked relieved.

A new wind had begun to blow through Thornvale.

And none could deny it.

Michael let out a slow breath.

"Dismissed," he said at last, waving a hand.

The senior staff bowed—some hurriedly, others stiffly—and began filing out, leaving murmurs and nervous glances in their wake. Only Roran remained.

The moment the heavy doors shut behind the last of them, Michael slumped back into his chair.

He pressed two fingers to his temple and closed his eyes.

The headache had started somewhere in the middle of Helmric’s excuses and was now pulsing like a war drum behind his eyes.

Silence stretched in the hall.

Then Michael spoke without opening his eyes.

"Roran."

"My lord?"

"What do you personally think is wrong with Thornvale?"

Roran didn’t hesitate.

"The guard is understaffed, underpaid, and half-trained. The garrison is missing essential equipment. Morale is poor. Leadership is absent." He paused. "The manor is falling apart. The roads are nearly impassable. Trade routes are inefficient and unprotected. Tithes are being misappropriated. The steward was corrupt. The rest of the staff either enabled it or turned a blind eye."

Michael’s lips twitched faintly. "Anything else?"

"Sir?"

"I’m talking about the people."

"What do you think should be done?"

Roran paused for the first time.

Then he stepped forward, his voice measured.

"They’re tired. If you want to win them over, you’ll need more than reforms. You’ll need presence."

Michael opened his eyes.

Michael’s expression remained calm, but a faint glint sparked in his eyes.

When he first came to the land of origin, all this was never part of his plan.

"I see," he said softly.

Michael rose from his chair slowly, crossing to the large window at the end of the hall.

Michael’s voice dropped, firm. "We’ll fix what we can. With our own hands if we must."

He turned back, his tone colder now.

"But while we fix things, I want reports. Full ones. Every noble who has a foothold here. Every merchant with unusual coin. Every knight who took coin but didn’t serve."

Roran nodded. "I’ll see to it personally."

Michael looked toward the high banners of House Nor, newly hung but still stiff in the stale air of the hall.

"We cut the rot at the root. Not just Helmric," he said.

Thornvale would rise again.

And this time, it would rise under his hand.

....hopefully.

Yes.

Michael had no confidence.