The Last Banner

The early morning air was crisp as Hadrian walked alongside Alexander through the farmlands just outside Aegis. The low hum of activity surrounded them—farmers calling to one another, oxen pulling carts loaded with grain, and the faint rustle of wind through the fields. The new crop rotation system had been in place for several weeks now, and Hadrian was eager to see the results.

"So," Alexander said, breaking the quiet, "you're dragging me out here to look at dirt?"

Hadrian smirked, shaking his head. "Not just dirt. Improved dirt. Dirt that's making us more food with fewer people working the fields."

Alexander raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed. "Dirt's dirt. You're the genius, though, so I'll take your word for it."

They approached a group of farmers gathered near a cart of freshly harvested legumes. The crops were neatly bundled, and the farmers' faces bore the weathered marks of hard work—but there was a glimmer of pride in their expressions.

"My lord," one of the farmers said, nodding to Hadrian. "The rotation's working. The legumes are doing better than I thought, and the grain yields are up in the other fields."

Hadrian nodded, his gaze sweeping over the cart. "Good. Keep me updated on the next planting cycle. The fallow fields should rest for one more season before we use them."

Another farmer, older and gruffer, spoke up. "It's more work than we're used to, but... it's working. We're getting more out of the land. I'll give you that."

Alexander leaned closer to Hadrian, his voice low enough for only his brother to hear. "Is that the closest thing to a compliment you've gotten out here?"

"Pretty much," Hadrian replied, his smirk widening. "I'll take it."

They spent another hour walking through the fields, inspecting the progress of the new system. By the time they returned to the main road leading back to Aegis, Alexander was grumbling about mud on his boots, and Hadrian was already planning his next stop.

The workshop buzzed with activity as Hadrian and Alexander entered. Blacksmiths hammered away at iron, and carpenters carved stocks from hardwood. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust and hot metal, the rhythmic clang of hammers blending with the hum of conversation.

"Status report," Hadrian said, his voice cutting through the noise.

The foreman, a stocky man with a soot-streaked face, stepped forward. "We've got 27 matchlocks ready, my lord. It's slow going with the materials we have, but the men are getting faster."

Hadrian nodded, running his hand along the polished stock of a completed musket. "Good. Focus on quality over quantity for now. I'll find a way to get more iron and sulfur."

Alexander picked up one of the finished matchlocks, testing its weight in his hands. "They're not much to look at, are they?"

"They're not supposed to be," Hadrian replied. "They're supposed to work."

Alexander smirked, lowering the weapon. "Fair enough. Just don't expect me to use one. I prefer a good sword."

As the brothers walked through the workshop, Hadrian noted the efficiency of the workers, their movements more precise than they'd been weeks ago. The progress was real, but the limitations were clear. They needed more resources—and quickly.

Later that afternoon, Hadrian sat at the edge of the manor's garden, overlooking the bustling town of Aegis in the distance. The faint hum of activity carried on the wind—voices from the market, the clanging of tools from the workshop, and the occasional bark of a dog. His thoughts churned as he considered the slow pace of matchlock production and the financial strain it was placing on the dukedom.

This isn't sustainable, he thought, his fingers absently brushing a sprig of lavender growing at his side. We need more iron, more sulfur—and enough money to fund everything without relying on Father's treasury.

His gaze drifted to the sky, his mind shifting to an idea he'd toyed with for weeks now. Soap. The thought had first struck him during one of his walks through the town, observing the lack of cleanliness among the commoners and even some of the merchants. In his world, soap had been a common commodity, but here it could be something more—an exclusive luxury, marketed as a status symbol for nobility.

It's simple enough to produce, he mused. Animal fat, ash, a bit of fragrance. The challenge is making it desirable. Market it as a luxury, something only the wealthy can afford, and they'll flock to it.

The idea solidified in his mind, and he stood abruptly, dusting off his hands. Alexander, who had been lounging nearby with a book he clearly wasn't reading, raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've just figured out how to win a war."

"Not a war," Hadrian said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "A fortune."

The next day, Hadrian gathered a small group of townsfolk in the courtyard. Most were tradesmen or laborers, people he trusted to handle the task at hand. He stood before them, a makeshift chalkboard propped up behind him with simple instructions scrawled across its surface.

"We're going to make soap," Hadrian began, his tone confident but direct. "Not the kind you'd find in every home—this will be something special. Fragrant, refined, and exclusive."

The group exchanged skeptical glances, and one man raised his hand. "Soap? Isn't that just... lye and fat?"

"Exactly," Hadrian said, gesturing to the materials laid out on a nearby table. "But we'll refine it. Add scents from herbs and flowers. Shape it into something elegant. This isn't just for cleaning—it's for status."

He outlined the process with precision, walking them through the steps of boiling animal fat, mixing it with lye, and adding lavender and rose petals for fragrance. The townsfolk listened intently, some nodding as they began to understand.

By the end of the session, Hadrian assigned tasks to each member of the group, ensuring they had the materials and instructions to produce the first batch. "We'll start small," he said. "Once the first batch is ready, I'll handle the rest."

Over the next week, the soap production began in earnest. The workers returned with neatly shaped bars, their pale colors faintly marbled with the herbs embedded within. Hadrian inspected each batch carefully, noting areas for improvement and refining the process further.

He arranged a meeting with the nobles from the surrounding regions, pitching the soap as a rare luxury item. The gathering was held in the manor's formal hall, the bars displayed elegantly on silver trays. Hadrian stood at the head of the room, his presence calm but commanding.

"This," he said, holding up a bar of soap, "is not just a tool for cleanliness. It's a mark of refinement. A symbol of status."

He demonstrated the soap's lather and fragrance, emphasizing its exclusivity. The nobles murmured among themselves, intrigued by the concept and the craftsmanship. By the end of the meeting, Hadrian had secured several orders, each noble eager to claim a product that set them apart from their peers.

Within weeks, the soap became a sensation among the nobility. Hadrian's region, now the sole producer of this "luxury soap," saw an influx of wealth. The venture brought in 3,000 gold pieces, enough to pay the militia, purchase materials for matchlock production, and even improve the town's infrastructure.

As Hadrian stood in the workshop one evening, overseeing the arrival of new iron and sulfur, he allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. It's not just about weapons anymore, he thought. It's about building something lasting.

The sun hung low in the sky as Hadrian and Alexander made their way back toward the manor, the weight of the day's work settling into their steps. The faint hum of activity from the nearby workshops filled the air, a reminder of the progress being made, albeit slowly.

Alexander broke the silence, his voice thoughtful. "The soap idea—did you come up with that all at once, or has it been bouncing around in that head of yours for weeks?"

Hadrian glanced at his older brother, his expression softening. "A bit of both. I noticed how little people value cleanliness here compared to... well, to what I remember. It seemed like an opportunity."

Alexander nodded, his gaze drifting toward the bustling streets of Aegis below. "I'll give you this: it's working. Father was impressed when he heard about the gold coming in."

"And you?" Hadrian asked, his tone lighter.

Alexander shrugged, but there was a faint smile on his face. "I'm impressed you managed to convince a room full of nobles that soap is worth more than their swords. That's no small feat."

Hadrian chuckled softly. "It wasn't just about convincing them. It's about showing them something they didn't know they wanted."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the path leading them toward the edge of the training grounds where recruits were still working through their drills. Alexander paused, leaning against the fence as he watched the men struggle to perfect their formations.

"They're improving," he said, nodding toward the recruits. "Slowly, but it's happening."

Hadrian joined him, his arms resting on the wooden rail. "It's all about discipline. If they hold their formation, they have a chance."

"Still feels strange," Alexander admitted. "Watching you lead. You were always... quieter. Now you're barking orders like you've been doing it your whole life."

Hadrian glanced at his brother, studying the faint lines of tension around his mouth. "Is that a problem?"

Alexander shook his head. "No. Just... different. Good, I think."

The sincerity in his voice caught Hadrian off guard, and for once, he didn't respond with a quip. Instead, he nodded, his focus returning to the recruits. "They need us. All of us. If this works, it's because of them."

"And because of you," Alexander added, his tone firm. "Don't forget that."

The two brothers stood there for a while longer, the setting sun casting long shadows across the fields. For the first time in weeks, Hadrian felt the weight on his shoulders lighten, if only a little.

The manor was quieter than usual, the usual bustling energy subdued. Hadrian made his way down the dimly lit corridor toward his father's chambers, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. The door was slightly ajar, and from within, he could hear the faint murmur of conversation and the occasional, sharp cough that had become all too familiar.

He paused for a moment outside the door, steeling himself before stepping inside.

The room was warm from the brazier burning in the corner, the faint scent of medicinal herbs hanging in the air. Duke Leonidas sat propped up in bed, his face pale and drawn, the lines around his mouth deeper than Hadrian remembered. A servant stood by with a tray of steaming tea, which Leonidas waved off weakly.

"Hadrian," the Duke rasped, his voice strained but steady. "Come in. Don't linger in the doorway like a thief."

Hadrian entered, closing the door softly behind him. "You should be resting."

Leonidas's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I rest too much as it is. The more I rest, the less I feel like myself."

Hadrian moved to the side of the bed, glancing at the stack of papers resting on the small table nearby. Even now, his father insisted on handling matters of the dukedom, his seal pressed on several of the documents. "You should let me take care of some of this," Hadrian said, nodding toward the papers. "You've already trusted me with the militia. Let me help with the rest."

Leonidas's eyes narrowed slightly, the sharpness of his gaze momentarily cutting through the haze of illness. "You think you're ready to manage the affairs of this house?"

"I think I'm ready to try," Hadrian replied evenly. "And I think you don't have to do it all alone."

The Duke coughed again, the sound rattling in his chest, and leaned back against the pillows. For a moment, he didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh.

"You've changed," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You've grown sharper. More... deliberate. I'm not sure whether to be proud or wary."

"Be both," Hadrian said, his tone light but steady. "It's probably safer."

That earned a faint chuckle from Leonidas, though it dissolved quickly into another cough. He gestured weakly toward the chair beside the bed. "Sit. Tell me what you've been doing with the gold from this... soap business of yours."

Hadrian obeyed, settling into the chair and explaining how the funds were being used to pay the militia, purchase materials for matchlocks, and improve the workshops. As he spoke, he noted the way his father's eyes flickered between focus and exhaustion, the weight of his illness dragging him down.

"You're doing well," Leonidas said finally, his voice fading as his eyes began to close. "Better than I expected."

The words, though faint, carried a weight that struck Hadrian more than he expected. He sat quietly for a moment as his father's breathing slowed, the lines of tension in his face softening as sleep overtook him.

Rising from the chair, Hadrian adjusted the blanket around his father's shoulders before leaving the room. The door closed softly behind him, but the sound of Leonidas's labored breathing lingered in his mind.

He's getting worse, Hadrian thought, his jaw tightening. And I'm running out of time to prepare.