“OK—cut the shit,” huffed Halbrecht from across the hall. “You wouldn't have cleared Skaggad for me if you were just here to leech, and you would’ve flagged already if you were with Gronk.”

  Mav Keddery cast a downward glance before stepping back into the shadow of the mezzanine arch. His lord continued pacing forward from the stone steps.

  “You can't be a new-gen because you would've died horrifically at the green bitch—plus NPCs don't auto pick up the quest. And you also definitely can't be new-gen because those fuckers would've invited you on spawn.”

  Halbrecht stopped a few paces short of Sludge, just far enough to leave the swing of its axe short. He was far older than his voice would've betrayed. Where its oddly sweet notes lifted like a boy of far fewer winters, the folds of his face suggested decades of worrisome evenings hunched over a fire; crows feet; sleep in the corner of his eyes; grey-black hair splayed in thin strands.

  “And so seeing as you've ignored my whispers and my invites, yet happily walked through the front door to pick up useless quest junk. Well—”

  He smirked, albeit a polite one.

  “I'd say you're a bit of a fucking mystery.”

  “Me… Sludge,” said the lumberjack—eyebrows creased.

  Halbrecht sighed, long and breathy, pressed his thumb and forefinger into his sinuses and shook his head.

  “Is this RP?”

  “Arr.. pee?” Croaked Sludge curiously.

  A dark shimmer skittered over Halbrecht’s breastplate and dragon-etched pauldrons. It pulsed with a red, impatient crackle of light.

  “Listen dude—I’m running maxed out H?l-pax here. This place has been farmed to shit and I'm the only thing keeping twenty subs from being melted alive. If you want that on your conscious then fine, but at least do something useful—”

  Halbrecht clicked his fingers and Mav Keddery stepped forward.

  “Admin, give this guy one of the backwater settlements so he can at least build something useful while he twirls around falling in love with NPCs.”

  With that, Halbrecht left the way he came; cloak swishing, plate clinking, footsteps echoing.

  Mav Keddery smiled solemnly.

  “To the quartering hall, then.”

  It was only a short run from the Accord down to the Quartering Hall—through a low-sloping vestibule and then down a winding set of stairs. When they stepped through the broad oak doors the room breathed like a held lung.

  It squatted beneath the keep proper—wide, low-ceilinged, ribbed with blackened beams that looked repurposed from ships old enough to have legends instead of names. The floor was a mosaic of scuffed slate and chalk sigils, each ringed in boot-scrapes where arguments had likely gone to die. Lanterns hung at uneven heights, burning with a soft amber glow that made Sludge feel strangely safe, though it didn't flicker like normal fire. Every flame flickered exactly the same. No smoke. No warmth.

  Banners marked the walls. Not heraldry—numbers, shifting in their solid state. Painted tallies, settlement seals, resource glyphs stitched in thread that faintly shimmered when you stared too long. The air hummed with a quiet kind of mathematics.

  As it approached, the iron token hummed in its lumberjack clutch—warming, then pulsing, then finally dissipating into a white wisp of smoke.

  Mav nodded once and sharp, as if only to acknowledge the receipt.

  Sludge paused at the threshold, axe haft thudding once against the stone as it caught on the lip of the doorway.

  “…big,” it said, reverent.

  Mav Keddery inclined his head like this was a compliment paid directly to him.

  “The Quartering Hall scales to regional load,” he said. “Here in the demesne: twenty-five settlements active. Three in decay. Two in rebellion. One on fire, but only narratively.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Only narratively,” Sludge repeated, nodding like it understood.

  “And of course—not including the wider protectorate. Monthia boasts nearly three-hundred settlements en masse, though all of them stretched to capacity of late.”

  They walked.

  As they moved deeper, the hall subtly rearranged itself—tables sliding apart to make room, chalk circles redrawing with soft scratching sounds, a long oaken board extruding from the far wall like a thought finishing itself. Miniatures sat upon it: villages, watchtowers, fields in neat grids. Little plumes of spectral smoke drifted from chimneys no bigger than a thumb.

  Sludge leaned in, squinting.

  “…working?”

  Mav smiled again. He did that a lot. The kind of smile you practiced until it didn’t show teeth.

  “Persistent sim-NPC clusters,” he said. “Each of them with needs, schedules, generational memory. They remember if you starve them. They remember if you build them a harbour and never staff it. I, myself, am bound by their same system states.”

  Sludge’s brows knitted. “Har… bore?”

  Mav pointed. The board responded—one miniature village pulsed faintly blue.

  “That,” he said, “is Barston. Your prior deeds will likely prove useful in establishing a settlement.”

  Mav shifted awkwardly for a moment.

  “It is also the only inhabitable settlement in the region which you have discovered. Which is… unconventional.”

  Sludge remembered. All of a sudden, it was awash with the memory of the old trapper, the butcher, Mera—an arrow split through her forehead, the Barston boys; the blonde one; the one with the crooked nose.

  Fifteen or so houses, each as crooked as the other. A bell tower looming drunkenly. Pig-pens littered like honeycomb. A squat tavern, of course. A watch-post that leaned like it had opinions. A river that curved away before it could be useful. Fields marked with thin yellow thread—nutrient-poor. No palisades, no walls, no banners hung proudly.

  Sludge stared.

  “Barston,” it breathed. A cold sorrow on its lips.

  “Yes,” said Mav pleasantly. “And luckily for you, no one else wants it.”

  A small glyph unfurled above the board, text crisp and merciless:

  [BARSTON Population: 63

  Morale: Low

  Output: Timber (minor), Grain (unstable)

  Threat Index: Dormant, Regional

  Development Slots: 1/6]

  Sludge poked the air where the numbers hovered. His finger passed through with a faint chime.

  “…Sludge can fix? Sludge work?”

  “You can try,” said Mav.

  He gestured, and the hall responded again. New sigils bloomed around Barston—branching lines, faint and conditional.

  “Settlement building is intuitive by design but led by player agency,” Mav continued, voice smooth, instructional. “You don’t place buildings. You unlock them through narrative threads. Population gates labour capabilities. Morale gates speed. Resources are gated by ambition and local coffers. If it pleases you to live the life of a jolly old mayor, then you may.”

  Sludge grunted. “What gate axe?”

  Mav blinked. Then chuckled, quietly.

  “Forestry upgrades,” he said. “Yes. Axe helps. Barston is timber rich, though it needs the right lumber force.”

  The board shifted. One of Barston’s fields dimmed; a new icon flickered into existence—a crude sawmill outline, red-lined.

  “See that?” Mav said. “There is potential here for construction. Red means you may build but you lack requirements. Grey means you can’t. Blue means you’re an idiot not to; optimal placement. You will find a console such as this locally within the settlement, or you may choose more... immersive methods. Your townsfolk will require direction, though.”

  Sludge nodded solemnly. “Blue good.”

  “Blue very good.”

  Mav paused, poised in the perfectly ironed folds of his robes.

  Sludge’s gaze had drifted—not to the numbers, not to the slots—but to the tiny figures moving between the houses. One stumbled. Another helped him up. A woman lifted water from the well, perhaps the same one that had smiled at Sludge just weeks prior. A dog chased nothing in particular, barking, again, at nothing in particular.

  “…they look sad,” Sludge said.

  Mav didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, he tapped the board twice. A new menu unfurled, denser now. Less forgiving.

  “Your first priority is always morale,” he said, and then coughed. “At least, for a happy, functioning settlement. Security. Growth. Perhaps even culture.”

  Sludge scratched it's lumberjack beard, resin flaking onto the stone.

  “…what culture?”

  “Stories,” said Mav. “Festivals with proudly brewed ale. Songs by the fire. Shrines to the dead. It makes them work harder without knowing why.”

  Sludge frowned. “Sounds hard.”

  “Yes,” Mav agreed. “But effective. The best players know that their settlements are their most vital lifeline in this world. For some, it is their one and only. Without a standing settlement; player death is permanent.”

  Another silence. Somewhere in the hall, a chalk circle erased itself with a sound like a sigh.

  Sludge straightened.

  “Barston… be Sludge.”

  The words echoed about the hall. The board flared once, then settled. A thin banner unfurled over the village of Barston—blank. Waiting.

  Mav Keddery exhaled, just a touch.

  “Very well,” he said. “You are now its steward. Not its lord. Don’t confuse the two. They can leave. They can hate you. They can revolt. They can die—all of them, and then you.”

  “…if die?” Sludge asked.

  “Then the slot frees,” said Mav. “And the hall repurposes its placement.”

  Sludge nodded, slow and heavy.

  “…Sludge build fire first. Barston like fire.”

  Mav smiled, this time with his teeth.

  “Fire is good, though regional amenities are pre-unlocked with fundamental essentials,” he said. “Though it's always a good start.”

  Sludge looked up. “Can Sludge… eat?”

  Mav raised an eyebrow.

  “…yes,” he said carefully. “You of course may eat whatever resources are generated by the settlement, though your player stasis is not as dependent on it as your townsfolk will be. Hunger will lead to starvation, which will lead to famine; rot, ruin, riots. Not good, by and large.”

  Sludge’s face split into something bright and simple. For the first time in its existence, it broached the crack of a smile.

  “Good,” it said. “Eat is good.”