The Wolf’s first assault was annihilated. Aldric’s crossbowmen, for the first time, received the order “Fire on the enemy lord—not his slaves.” The Wolf’s own language pack, a cracked and outdated French version, translated “brave knights” as “expendable horsemen,” and he threw them away.

“I don’t need words,” Aldric growled. “I need steel.”

His castellan, a nervous woman named Elara, wrung her hands. “The serfs say it’s witchcraft, my lord. They whisper that the Wolf sent it to curse our command menus.”

The shouts of his archers on the wall no longer sounded like guttural grunts. He heard, clear as a bell: “Fire at will!” His own thoughts, previously a vague sense of “build stockpile, gather wood,” snapped into precise instructions: Construct a woodcutter’s hut. Increase carrot production. Your lordship requires more ale.

Over the next week, Aldric became a terror. He issued orders with terrifying clarity. “Build a chapel within the castle walls, not outside them. Route the ox tether past the armory, not the woodcutter. And for the love of God, rename the ‘pointy-stick man’ to ‘spearman.’”

The process of making a foreign thing feel like it was always yours.

But the words were steel.

Aldric drew his sword and pried the crate open. Inside, nestled in silk, was a crystalline disc. No—not a disc. A lexicon. A floating, translucent book whose pages turned on their own, each leaf covered in the spidery script of Old English, Norman French, and something newer, sharper.