Translator: CinderTL
"Let him in."
Monen withdrew his gaze from the wind and snow, turning to settle back on his throne. All traces of emotion had vanished from his face, replaced by his customary composure.
A messenger, travel-worn and with cheeks flushed crimson from the cold, strode into the tent. He knelt on one knee, raising a fire-lacquered letter high with both hands, his voice trembling slightly from the cold and excitement.
"Your Majesty! By order of Princess Gloria, I present this urgent dispatch!"
Monen nodded slightly. Enrique stepped forward to accept the letter, then respectfully presented it to the King.
Monen's gaze lingered on the distinctive fire-lacquered seal. He lightly traced its edges with his fingertips before swiftly breaking the seal.
The tent fell silent, save for the rustle of parchment unfolding and the ceaseless howl of the wind and snow outside.
Monen's eyes scanned rapidly across the sheepskin letter, taking in Gloria's elegant yet forceful script.
Unlike Enrique's concise report, the letter contained a detailed account of the eastern campaign.
Within moments, the King had grasped the full scope of the eastern conflict.
"The abyss..." Monen murmured to himself, his gaze shifting from the letter to the still-throbbing wound on his left arm, which remained shrouded in an ominous aura.
A cold, knowing smile curled at the corner of his lips.
"Hmph, I never imagined that beyond those deluded orcs in the north, there would be humans willingly worshiping such filth. Arno... what an utter fool."
His voice was low but carried an icy resolve.
He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over Enrique, who stood at attention awaiting orders. His command was clear and forceful:
"Issue the order: prepare the entire army. We march at dawn tomorrow, returning to the royal capital."
Almost simultaneously, deep within the Golden Valley Kingdom, in the magnificent yet treacherous Golden Grain City, another storm was brewing.
Flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the Council Hall, illuminating the heavy, oppressive atmosphere.
Several elderly nobles sat like statues around the hall, their faces unnaturally pale in the flickering light.
Prince Lucius, nearing seventy, clutched a secret report recently delivered by his trusted aide.
The blood drained from his meticulously maintained face, now etched with fine wrinkles.
News of the Eastern Front's collapse, Duke Arno's uncertain fate, and the allied forces of Gloria and Duke's relentless advance struck his mind like thunderbolts.
"Useless! Arno, that fool blinded by lust!"
Lucius spat the words through clenched teeth, crumpling the secret report in his hand into a ball.
"How could he fall so easily into Gloria and Duke's trap?"
But his moment of fury was fleeting.
He took a deep breath, swiftly regaining his customary icy composure. Turning to a soldier standing at attention nearby, he commanded in a low voice, "Go to the tower immediately and ask those bookworms how much longer they intend to delay the task I assigned them."
The soldier bowed in acknowledgment and hurried away.
The great hall fell silent once more, broken only by the crackling of firewood in the hearth.
Lucius scanned the nobles seated around the room, their barely concealed panic clear as day.
The true source of their fear lay not in the Eastern Lands.
The allied forces of Gloria and Duke posed no real threat.
Though many elite troops had been redeployed from the royal capital to reinforce Arno's eastern front, the standing legions garrisoning Golden Grain City and the surrounding region, along with the transcendent warriors loyal to the royal family, still held an overwhelming advantage in numbers and combat prowess.
The ragtag party cobbled together from border guards and remnants of the church could never hope to breach the kingdom's heart.
The true danger had always come from the north.
Lucius knew better than anyone that the spies he had planted and the rumors he had spread could only cause minor inconveniences for his lion-hearted father, delaying his return south by a few days at most.
His meticulously crafted plan had been designed to pit Arno's forces against Monen's advancing northern army, hoping to profit from their clash like a vulture feasting on carrion.
To this end, he had paid a considerable price, weaving what he believed to be an airtight web.
Yet, with Arno's defeat and the rapid fall of the Eastern Lands, the web had shattered before it could ensnare its intended prey.
His carefully laid plans had dissolved into nothingness.
A chilling sense of failure and an ominous premonition of impending crisis gripped his heart.
Lucius's icy gaze swept across the assembled nobles, his voice betraying no hint of emotion.
"Given this dire situation, what are your esteemed opinions?"
The nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
Finally, the eldest among them, an earl with silver hair, spoke hesitantly.
"Your Highness... perhaps we should confess everything to His Majesty the King and beg for his forgiveness. After all, you are his eldest son, bound by blood... surely His Majesty would not be overly harsh."
His words were immediately echoed in hushed agreement by the others, as if they had grasped at the only remaining lifeline.
Lucius silently observed the group before him, a sharp, cold laugh rising in his heart.
He knew better than anyone.
For these nobles, the King might show leniency to maintain stability, perhaps stripping them of their titles and confining them, but ultimately sparing their lives.
Their fervent agreement was nothing more than a calculated retreat, ready to abandon him at any moment.
These fair-weather allies had never possessed a shred of genuine loyalty.
But for him, the first prince who truly orchestrated everything, Monen would show no mercy.
Lucius understood perfectly that in his father's eyes, the stability of the kingdom and the majesty of the law always came first.
Any act that threatened the nation, regardless of the perpetrator, would be punished without exception.
Before the bedrock of iron-fisted rule, familial bonds paled into insignificance.
His thoughts drifted back to years past.
To his younger brother Adrian, once hailed as a "military genius" throughout the court.
Even though Adrian had died during the pursuit after his failed rebellion, his corpse was dragged to the plaza upon its return to the royal capital. There, it endured a public, symbolic flogging as a warning to others.
Lucius still vividly remembered the marks of shame etched onto that cold body, a chill creeping up his spine.
If...
If all of Monen's other heirs had perished, perhaps, just perhaps, the King might have spared Lucius's life out of consideration for his status as the sole successor.
But fate had other plans.
An exception remained alive—a figure Lucius had never taken seriously, now approaching the royal capital with the momentum of victory.
"Gloria..."
Lucius spat out the name through clenched teeth, his voice dripping with suppressed venom.
He had never imagined that this young sister, who barely registered in court, would one day become the deadliest sword hanging over his head.
As Lucius stewed in resentment and bitterness, a messenger rushed in, kneeling on one knee to report.
"Your Highness! A small detachment has appeared outside the city. Their leader claims to be Duke Arno and demands entry!"
Lucius's eyes narrowed, a glint of shrewdness flashing within them.
He didn't immediately trust the claim. Instead, he ordered in a deep voice:
"Verify their identities thoroughly. Ascertain the number and condition of their entourage."
Moments later, the soldier returned to confirm that the leader was indeed Duke Arno himself, accompanied by only a handful of retainers.
Lucius pondered for a moment, then waved his hand.
"Open the city gate and let him in. Have him brought directly to me."
The wait in the Council Hall stretched on, until an elderly noble couldn't suppress a yawn. Just then, measured footsteps finally echoed from beyond the door.
Lucius looked up.
A figure emerged slowly from the shadows of the corridor.
The silhouette was indistinct in the dim light, but the tall frame was unmistakably Arno's.
Yet when the newcomer fully entered the Council Hall, the bright candlelight illuminated his face, and Lucius couldn't help but let out a low, puzzled hum.
The Arno before him was nothing like the defeated, disheveled fugitive he had expected.
His clothes were as pristine as if freshly laundered, showing barely a trace of travel dust.
His complexion was not wan but rather flushed with an unnatural rosiness, his eyes sharp, and his spirit seemed more vigorous than ever before.
What unsettled Lucius even more was the inexplicable sense that this Arno was somehow different from the man he knew.
That habitually stern, unsmiling face now bore a faint...
An elusive hint of mockery.
The curve of his lips carried a playful air, as if he were savoring the lingering panic on the faces of those in the hall.
(End of the Chapter)
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