Petrov Hull, heir to the prestigious Honeysuckle Family and reluctant ambassador of Longsong Stronghold, never imagined he would have to return again, and so soon, to the modest and noisy Border Town.
In truth, Petrov harbored zero intentions of traveling during the harsh inclemencies of winter, much less did he desire to abandon the thermal comfort and military security of his fortified home while incarnate folkloric legends, the demonic beasts, ravaged the rural western region. However, when Duke Ryan himself summoned him to his private quarters and shoved a parchment with the royal seal at him, personally delegating the mission of delivering "urgent news" directly into the hands of the 4th Prince, Petrov swallowed his excuses, for there was no way to refuse.
He, evidently, knew the explosive content of the letter he carried in his mount's saddlebag.
That missive was no secret; the entire aristocracy of the Kingdom of Graycastle, from the southern nobles to the port merchants, discussed in scandalized whispers the shocking news: the ruthless King Wimbledon III, Ayling, had fallen. And the assassin's blade had not been wielded by an infiltrating agent of the Church or by foreign spies, but by his own eldest son and natural heir, Gerald Wimbledon.
The succession of events narrated by the bards was dizzying.
Immediately after the announcement of the bloody tragedy spread through the halls of King's City, Timothy Wimbledon, the Second Prince, stepped forward. Under the mantle of duty, he announced to the court and to the people that the Kingdom would collapse without a King. Considering Gerald's atrocious betrayal—now caged and with a price on his head—Timothy, as the second in the line of succession, declared himself the supreme ruler and imminent heir to the throne of Graycastle.
However, the acceptance of this heroic narrative was far from unanimous.
Among the aristocrats who liked to see beyond the court's tapestries, it was said that the whole process of Gerald's swift and ruthless trial was, at the very least, muddy and strange.
During the public interrogation sessions, the once proud First Prince was only seen in glimpses; he seemed doped or physically broken, and was never allowed to say a single word in his own defense, his hands remaining bound with blessed chains from beginning to end.
Therefore, the more cautious and conservative wing of the Ministers pleaded to rigorously investigate the assassination before placing the crown on Timothy's head. Insidious rumors—spread in taverns and masquerade balls—suggested that Timothy Wimbledon had, in fact, orchestrated a macabre theater. The gossip claimed that he himself had ordered the poison or the dagger for his father, manipulated the evidence against his older brother, and now bathed in fake tears as he eagerly rushed to step into the royal boots.
But, in the end, debating guilt and innocence proved useless against the weight of established power.
The Second Prince had maneuvered the pieces perfectly and secured the total support of the astute Imperial Prime Minister and the Royal Guard. Now, with brute force on his side, Timothy assumed the position of Regent King. The very moment he sat on the Gray Iron Throne, he issued the first executive order of his blood-soaked mandate, summoning all his competitors.
The message was clear as the sounding of a military trumpet: the bloody battle for the throne, decreed by the late King, was officially over.
The new decree demanded that all sons and daughters of Wimbledon III, scattered across the borders to govern, return to King's City immediately upon receiving the orders, even before the end of winter. Only there, after evaluating each one's performance in their territories over the last six months, would Timothy then be officially and publicly crowned.
Petrov Hull, with his sharp merchant and diplomat's mind, could detect the poison disguised as urgency in those lines.
Timothy's plan was ingenious and lethal.
By ordering the compulsory return, he forced his siblings into a deadly choice. Everything depended on how they reacted. If they cowered, returned to the capital, and surrendered the armies of their borders, they would virtually give up the dispute. By prostrating themselves before the brother who had possibly assassinated the firstborn and taken the throne, they would recognize his legitimacy, and then Timothy would naturally and peacefully become the undisputed Wimbledon IV.
In the local geopolitics of the west, all documents sent to the rustic Border Town had to be dispatched and inspected first by Longsong Stronghold. But when Duke Ryan, the de facto ruler of the western lands, broke the seal and read the copy of the royal decree summoning Roland, the noble's first reaction was to let out a snort of pure mockery.
The former King Wimbledon III had always been a relatively complacent suzerain with the local nobility; he delegated the dirty work and granted them immense freedom to extort and rule like petty lords. But the militarized and paranoid rise of the Second Prince indicated that his ruling policy would be incomparably iron-fisted and oppressive. The slaughter of Gerald was the proof: after being condemned to death and having his neck kissed by the guillotine in the central square, the message sent to anyone who opposed the new king was one of pure extermination.
Given this scenario of rolling heads, the Stronghold's nobility calculated that no one in their right mind—especially Garcia or Tilly—would dare return to King's City, fearing they would step into a trap and be swallowed by the same guillotine that killed Gerald.
However, in the predatory eyes of the six ruling families of Longsong Stronghold, the new king's order fit like a magic glove.
It was considered a bureaucratic blessing.
Two months ago, the hasty Count Elk put into practice an unauthorized assassination plan against the 4th Prince, an act that deeply displeased Duke Ryan—but only because the ambush failed miserably. Roland not only survived the mercenaries' attack in the tunnels, but counterattacked with ruthless severity, ordering his men to execute the main agent of the attack, the senior mercenary, and condemning the organizer himself, the noble Dmitry Hill, to die strangled at the end of a thick rope.
With noble blood officially spilled by the Prince, both sides had crossed the red line; the conflict was now public and irreconcilable.
Originally, the cautious Duke Ryan intended to swallow his pride and wait until the end of the Months of Demons. After all, with spring, he would have the perfect excuse and mobility to march against Border Town and "restore order." But now, with this royal parchment from Timothy in his hands, he had won this dispute with the Fourth Prince cleanly and perfectly legally.
Roland Wimbledon, as if by divine decree, had been called back to the capital by the future King of Graycastle. Therefore, as soon as the royal-blooded Prince mounted his horse and headed east, the abandoned Border Town would naturally, and without legal resistance, return to the administrative and tributary control of Duke Ryan.
And the juiciest part: if Roland Wimbledon were foolish or proud enough to refuse the new sovereign's return order, Duke Ryan was fully authorized to gather his knights and fetch the "rebel Prince" by brute force—all wrapped under the patriotic pretext of serving the banner of the new monarch.
Deep down, for the survival of the Six Families of the west, the Duke didn't truly care upon whose head the crown would rest, as long as the irritating Roland disappeared from his lands.
Remembering his previous mission, Petrov felt not the slightest peace of mind as the boat cut through the icy river.
In his last, catastrophic visit to Border Town, he had given his diplomatic word of honor to the Prince and his Advisor that on his next trip, he would bring prosperous commercial contracts. Instead, the Prince suffered a barrage of tragedies and traps: the mysterious death of his father, the forced rise of a hostile brother, and the notification of a mandatory military withdrawal. Petrov was fully convinced that the 4th Prince did not want to hear a single word of that package of horrors.
The journey, however, offered its own surprises.
Because the kingdom was graced with warm water currents from the south of the continent, the maritime route serving Border Town was strangely peaceful. The Redwater River never froze completely, making navigation possible even under the fury of the blizzard.
From time to time, seeking relief for his anxiety, Petrov left his cabin and walked to the ship's wooden railing, looking through the portholes toward the wild shores.
He carefully observed the gray landscape, looking for signs of the inevitable collapse, but what he saw... Or what he didn't see, was what intrigued him the most. During the entire arduous journey upriver, he didn't spot bodies scattered across the snow on the slopes, he didn't see peasant families dying of starvation or ragged crowds fleeing the region in despair.
The absence of civilian destruction indicated a terrifyingly improbable fact: Border Town had not yet fallen.
Petrov adjusted the collar of his coat, genuinely surprised.
On his last pass through the decaying port, the famous defensive wall that Roland and that unbearably perceptive Advisor had mentioned was not yet standing; there was only a pathetic trench filled with packed dirt and wet mud. The Ambassador had no faith in that construction, laughing at the idea of trying to hold back beasts with a wall of stone bound with clay.
And then, to further blow his tactical conception apart, a glaring anomaly appeared.
He saw a considerable cargo boat, proudly bearing the merchant flag of the prosperous Willow Town, majestically and slowly sailing down the black waters of the opposite bank.
Petrov rubbed his eyes.
In any spring, this would be the most mundane sight in the world, but they were in the frozen hell of the Months of Demons! Seeing a merchant ship sailing calmly a few kilometers from the mountains meant that, even under the brutal siege of demonic beasts, Border Town still possessed the infrastructure, Count Arthur's logistics, and the surplus labor to conduct business and export river goods? If they hadn't transferred their miners and civilian farmers to bulk up the meat in the wall's defense, how in the name of the old gods were they resisting the tide of monsters?
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Three tortuous days later, the Honeysuckle heir's ship docked at the pier of Border Town.
Structurally, it was still the same improvised and ruinous port from his last visit; however, a pragmatic change stood at the end of the pier: a sturdy wood and masonry shed had been built. As soon as the ship's gangplank touched the snowy dock, two militia guards, uniformed and well-equipped, stepped out of the shelter and positioned themselves strategically, scrutinizing every face and tracking every movement of the boatmen and crew tying the ropes.
Petrov's diplomatic mind immediately deciphered the intention behind that architecture.
Evidently, with the help of a noble Advisor from the Kingdom of Dawn, the 4th Prince had established a strict river border control. The order was clear: under the threat of espionage and desertion, absolutely no one was to enter or, especially, leave the Prince's stronghold by the river without prior permission and a severe search.
After a meticulous, yet bureaucratically efficient identity check, the guards provided a horse for Petrov. He was not treated as a free visitor; he was strictly escorted by the patrol to the castle gates.
Just as in his disastrous previous visit, Prince Roland Wimbledon preferred to receive the ambassador not in the cold office, but in the comfort of the castle's spacious dining room. Curiously—far from any usual time for hearty court meals—the Prince ordered the servants to set up a banquet on the long, polished wooden table.
The servants quickly arranged generous platters of cured ham grilled in oil, golden cuts of fried river fish, accompanied by an eccentric salad seasoned with wild herbs harvested before the snow. To top it off, heavy pots of butter, baskets of fresh bread that radiated heat, and vegetables preserved in olive oil—something that would be welcome at any wealthy noble's dinner.
Roland took a sip of wine and cut a piece of ham. It seemed he had developed a taste for conducting uncomfortable political negotiations with a full stomach and his guests relaxed by food.
While the Ambassador's mind worked on reading between the lines, Petrov's hands, conversely, didn't falter for a second. The etiquette of the capital demanded diplomatic moderation, but the heir's belly spoke louder. During the terrible days on the freezing river, his stomach hadn't enjoyed much relief or comfort. In the harsh reality of winter, even the members of his own influential and wealthy Honeysuckle Family, when not entertaining high-ranking guests, resigned themselves to eating slices of bread with salted bacon to save resources.
He ate fast.
The formality of the meeting, however, needed to be honored. When the dessert fruit platter was served, Petrov set down his silver cutlery. With the reverence demanded by centuries of noble tradition, the diplomat raised the heavy parchment and extended the letter with the intact royal family seal directly to the Prince.
Roland, wiping his mouth with a linen cloth, took the letter and broke the red wax seal using, rather unceremoniously, the rounded tip of his dinner knife. Leaning back and partially moving out of the ambassador's line of sight to disguise any shock, Roland unrolled the thick parchment.
His eyes quickly scanned the elegant handwriting.
The King is dead?
Roland felt a strange emptiness. He didn't harbor a single atom of love, affection, or patriotic mourning for this father. In practice, Roland wasn't from that world, and the inherited memories of the former 4th Prince only showed a cruel, absent, and cold father who poured merciless judgments upon him, feeding a mountain of sickly resentment. The current King was merely a political piece on a chessboard, and now, that piece had fallen.
The Prince's silence was heavy and tactically embarrassing. Should he tear out his hair, scream to the gods, and plaster a masked expression of pain and filial mourning that no one in Graycastle—much less the spies and Advisor Arthur walking the halls—would believe?
His eyes proceeded through the message with the coldness of a coroner. The nauseating stench of a high-court conspiracy rose from the parchment. Wimbledon III had been assassinated, and the blame conveniently fell into the lap of the eldest son, the biggest obstacle to ascension to the throne? Backed by swords and using the new crown as a shield, the Second Prince, Timothy, wasted no time in proclaiming, under the facade of peace, the "merciful end" of the battle for the throne, demanding everyone's return into a trap.
Roland disguised a light cough in his hand and, raising his head back to the table, met the gaze of deep hesitation and the apologetic features of diplomat Petrov Hull.
Right, the Prince's calculating mind deduced.
So this is Timothy's underhanded play. With the letter demanding my return while the snows still block the roads and the Demons tear through the west, I am perfectly aware that the swindler Duke Ryan won't be able to stop smiling regardless of my decision. It's a trap; it doesn't matter if I play the game and obey the new "King's" order, abandoning my castle to the Duke, or if I stay and protect my people, becoming a rebel outlaw in the eyes of the Crown—I'll be screwed either way.
Duke Ryan threw me against the sword of the new King.
Roland smiled secretly and, with measured movements, folded the thick paper of the letter once more and tapped its edges on the oak table.
— "I understand." — the Prince pronounced, his voice completely neutral, revealing minimal emotion, ignoring the etiquette that forced him to discuss his father's death with Duke Ryan's messenger.
— "W-Well, Your Highness..." — Petrov hesitated. The Prince's brutal and calm indifference to the assassination and the ultimatum was disconcerting. — "So what are you going to... Do?"
The Prince picked up his goblet of full-bodied wine and swirled it slightly.
— "This winter? Stay." — the Prince shrugged with absolute naturalness. — "Even if I felt an uncontrollable and desperate desire to return to the warm embrace of my beloved siblings, I would be obliged to wait. I will have to wait, at the very least, until the definite end of the fury of the Months of Demons. Think with me, Ambassador: if I turn my back right now, at the peak of the ice, the thick snow, and the peak of the monsters' bloodthirsty incursions, what would become of the humble people of Border Town who trust their lives to my walls?"
Petrov listened to the humanitarian justification, the ambassador swallowing hard.
At a table in the capital or before any other average lord of Graycastle, the exquisite lies of power would have Petrov readily responding with flattering platitudes: "Ah, Your Highness is kindness incarnate; do not distress yourself. The strong and benevolent Honeysuckle Family, under the command of Duke Ryan, will send supplies and guards to help you properly deal with this forgotten people..."
But sitting face to face with the formerly stupid and now impenetrable 4th Prince, a young man who had survived mercenary assassination attempts and built a miracle under a winter siege, Petrov felt an instinctive and rational fear; he understood that he could not open his mouth with arrogance in that wolf's dining room.
Deep down, he realized with diplomatic sadness that, for the first time in a long time, he genuinely loathed the role and the dangerous identity duty had given him: useless messenger of arrogant nobles. He merely bowed his head and nodded:
— "I understand Your Highness's immense responsibility. Shall I take a documented response to the lords at the Stronghold?"
In response, with a quick flick of his left hand's fingers, Roland ordered one of his secretaries to bring quality paper, dark ink, and a quill to the end of the dining table. The Prince wrote, with quick and aggressive handwriting, a dry, short, and decisive reply. He sealed the envelope with a generous amount of melted wax, deeply stamping the mark of his own Border Town seal, and held it out back to the messenger.
Petrov took the letter, and his eyes instinctively examined the recipient written in fresh, thick ink on the cover of the refined paper. It was addressed to 'Prince Timothy Wimbledon'. It was not addressed to His Majesty, King Wimbledon IV.
Petrov broke into a cold sweat.
The message was received loud and clear; now the Prince of Graycastle of the west was willing to go to war, not only with monsters, but with the rest of the kingdom.
Moments after the heavy door closed behind the pale Petrov, Roland still held the letter with the "bad news." He gestured to one of the maids clearing the table.
— "Go and call Arthur immediately. Tell him the nobles from the capital sent a message."
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A few minutes later, Arthur's calm footsteps echoed in the corridor.
The strategist entered the room, adjusting his coat and closing the door. He looked at the torn letter on the dining table and at Roland's scowling face.
— "You read it." — Arthur stated, sitting down with his usual casual elegance in the chair left by the Ambassador. — "Timothy finally struck at your brother Gerald."
— "You already knew about this?" — Roland narrowed his eyes, surprised, resting both hands on the table. — "Arthur, can you say exactly what is happening in the capital? Did Timothy murder his own father Ayling and your brother, Gerald?"
— "The assassination of your father and the framing of your eldest brother were indeed predicted. It's the classic opening chess move to take over a throne in crisis. Timothy is ruthless and paranoid, which makes him dangerous, but also makes him predictable." — Arthur crossed his legs. — "He sent the letter demanding your return, correct?"
— "Yes, before the end of winter, and if I don't go, Duke Ryan will use that as an excuse to come fetch me by force." — Roland growled, frustrated. — "The whole capital will call me a traitor. I'm a moving target."
Arthur was unmoved. — "Relax, Your Highness. Timothy thinks he checkmated all of you with this decree, but he made the classic mistake of underestimating the siblings the old king sent away. You have nothing to worry about in the global scenario."
— "I don't?" — Roland raised his eyebrows. — "Explain."
— "Your lovely sister, Garcia, will not back down a single millimeter in the face of Timothy's arrogance." — Arthur smiled coldly. — "Being in the Southern region, Garcia is obstinate, violent, and ambitious. She would never give up the dispute for the crown and put her neck in the capital's guillotine. As soon as she receives the letter, she will tear it up and begin her rebellion for a war within a few months. She will proclaim herself the Queen of the South and use the Port of Clearwater to fund an army. It will be a colossal and bloody bone stuck in Timothy's throat, dividing his troops and taking the focus away from the west."
Roland processed the information. Civil war was guaranteed.
— "And Tilly Wimbledon? My other sister?" — asked Roland.
— "Tilly?" — Arthur adjusted his glasses, the light reflecting off the lenses. — "Tilly will simply vanish from the map of Graycastle for a while."
Roland tilted his head, his eyes blinking in confusion.
— "Vanish? What exactly do you mean by 'vanish'?" — the Prince asked, his investigative curiosity momentarily surfacing. — "Are they going to send assassins after her? Will she be kidnapped by mercenaries before she can organize an army?"
— "No, no." — Arthur waved his hand in the air, as if swatting away a fly. — "No one will be able to touch her. It is something much more... complex and grandiose. But for now, the details of Tilly's escape are irrelevant to our survival. They are too complex to explain, and I prefer to focus on what threatens us right now."
Roland sighed, accepting that he wouldn't drag any more answers out of the advisor on the subject.
— "Alright. If my siblings are going to distract Timothy, then I suppose I can proceed with my original plan?"
Arthur stood up from his chair. He walked over to Roland, picked up the copy of the letter, and tapped it lightly on the table.
— "Exactly. All you need to do is what you must have already done with that useless Petrov, judging by that dirty quill over there." — Arthur instructed, his voice as firm as a general guiding a lieutenant. — "What Duke Ryan wants most right now is a legal excuse to attack you, based on insubordination, but we are not going to give him that excuse for free. You lied?"
— "Yes." — confirmed Roland. — "I sent a letter back to Timothy saying it would be honorable to obey the call, but that as a 'protective suzerain', I will only begin the return journey to King's City when the snow melts and winter completely ends, because I need to ensure that the people of my territory are completely safe first."
— "Perfect. A classic response of bureaucratic procrastination filled with false virtue." — Arthur flashed a sharp smile. — "You threw the hot potato back at them using the rules of honor. Duke Ryan will hate it, but he will be forced by appearances to wait for you to break your 'promise' in the spring to be able to legally attack you. But by the time spring arrives, the cannons will be ready, the new gunpowder produced, and my System will provide us with more than enough power to drag the necks of the Six Families to the guillotine."
Arthur turned his back and walked to the door.
— "Don't lose any sleep over Timothy's court, Roland. The real war is still knocking at our frozen gates." — Arthur finished, opening the door. — "Garcia and Tilly will cause enough damage in the capital and take care of all the rest, giving the new king a hell of a time to deal with."