Chapter 430: They Have Arrived

At Rockhold Fortress, within the inner city, a squad of knights and soldiers clad in gleaming armor marched in formation along the broad streets. Above them fluttered the banner of Count Pompey of the Holy Spirit Plains, its gold and crimson embroidery catching the sunlight with a dazzling brilliance—both magnificent and imposing.

Sir Mariland stood atop the inner city walls, watching the troops advance in orderly ranks. After a long moment, he spoke softly, “This is likely the last reinforcements we can hope for.”

“Better than nothing,” replied Viscount Carol grimly, standing beside him. “Count Pompey understands what it means if this fortress falls.”

The troops entering the city were not the royal knights sent by the crown, but the private army of Count Pompey himself. Their arrival signaled that the count, having received the increasingly urgent reports, had finally grasped the gravity of the situation and made his decision.

Rockhold Fortress sat on the edge of the Pompey family’s lands. Officially, the land belonged to the Pompeys, but in reality, the fortress was under direct royal control. The soldiers stationed there swore allegiance to the king, not the count. Surrounding the fortress were farms, mines, and mills—none of which the count was obligated to supply or support. Yet, he clearly understood that if the fortress fell to the Cecils, his own territory would be in grave danger.

News of the “Old Ancestor’s disregard for tradition” had already spread among the southern nobles taking refuge inside the fortress. Count Pompey could not be sure the Cecil forces would stop after capturing Rockhold, nor could he guarantee they wouldn’t pillage the surrounding lands to replenish their war losses. At first, he had been somewhat complacent, confident the Cecils couldn’t take the fortress. But thanks to Sir Mariland’s persistent efforts, the count had finally sent his troops to aid the defense. And this small force was the only help Sir Mariland could muster.

“How much fighting spirit these pampered lords from the Holy Spirit Plains can muster is anyone’s guess,” Sir Mariland sighed. “But as you said, it’s better than nothing. At least they can man the catapults or shoot arrows from behind the walls.”

Viscount Carol hesitated, then couldn’t hold back: “Any news from the south lately?”

“I sent out three groups of scouts disguised as merchants and hunters. Only one returned,” Sir Mariland said, his face dark as still water. “All we know is that the Cecils are sending troops this way. Beyond that, the situation further south remains a mystery…”

“They haven’t given up…” Carol’s heart sank. “They’ll come sooner or later.”

Seeing the viscount’s pale, fearful expression, Sir Mariland sighed inwardly. He had great confidence in the fortress he commanded. Despite the terrifying tales told by the southern nobles about the Cecil army, he believed those nobles had been scared out of their wits, their fears magnifying the enemy’s threat beyond reason. Having fought in many battles himself, Sir Mariland knew well how fear could distort perception. Filtering out the exaggerations, he was not intimidated by the Cecils.

But that didn’t mean he would underestimate the threat.

The Cecils were no gods, as the southern nobles claimed, but they were certainly not to be taken lightly. Rockhold Fortress would face a bitter struggle. According to Sir Mariland’s calculations, the Cecil’s “Heavenfire Explosion” magic wouldn’t breach the fortress’s magical barrier quickly, but the defenders had no way to repel the enemy’s long-range, continuous magical assaults.

This battle would drag on—a protracted siege, or, more discouragingly, a one-sided bombardment by the Cecils, with Rockhold’s defenders unable to mount an effective counterattack.

Sir Mariland was not afraid of a long, grueling fight. What truly worried him was the fortress’s isolation and the worsening state of the kingdom. As long as the situation continued to deteriorate, no matter how long Rockhold held out, it would eventually fall.

He patted Viscount Carol on the shoulder. “Let’s go back. We need to relax, have a couple of drinks to calm our nerves.”

They left the walls and entered the fortress’s great hall.

As soon as the doors swung open, Sir Mariland spotted Viscount Marolan standing in the center, clad in a loose nightgown, holding a glass of wine. His eyes were bleary as he chatted animatedly with the serving girls. Nearby, Viscount Konsko paced anxiously, his face flushed from days of heavy drinking.

“Oh! Sir! And my friend Viscount Carol,” Marolan called out, raising his glass loudly. “A toast to you—You simply must try this!”

“Orlan, you’ve had too much,” Carol frowned, helpless at the increasingly erratic behavior of his friend. “And why are you wearing a nightgown in the hall?”

“This is inside the castle. You can wear a nightgown anywhere inside…” Marolan laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m perfectly sober…”

Viscount Konsko approached, bypassing the somewhat incoherent Marolan. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with worry. “Sir, there’s news from the south…”

Sir Mariland waved him off before he could finish. “No good news.”

Viscount Carol looked at his two friends with disappointment—one reckless, the other despondent. The nobles’ usual composure and dignity had all but vanished.

It wasn’t just these two. Nearly all the southern nobles who had fled to the fortress were in no better shape.

These viscounts and barons gathered in the banquet hall or hid away in taverns and brothels, squandering their last coins and wasting their energy on debauchery. There was barely a trace of hope among them.

Thinking of this, Sir Mariland raised his eyes and scanned the hall for someone. Soon, the slender figure of Baroness Ropeni Grant came into view.

She sat quietly in a corner, speaking softly with one of her knights. Though anxiety shadowed her face, her calm demeanor stood in stark contrast to the others.

Sir Mariland had noticed this for days. Watching the other nobles, he shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Better to be a widow…”

Viscount Carol heard the murmur but didn’t catch the words. Just then, the hall’s doors were pushed open again.

A knight in armor hurried in, the clang of his steel boots echoing sharply. The crowd fell silent, eyes filled with suspicion and curiosity.

“General! General!” the knight called out as he rushed to Sir Mariland. “A small group of refugees has arrived outside the walls—they claim to be from the Grant region!”

The Grant region?

The southern nobles in the hall instinctively glanced toward Baroness Ropeni Grant. She looked up sharply, eyes wide with shock as she stared at the knight before Sir Mariland.

Sir Mariland took in the scene, then turned to the knight. “Where are they?”

“Camped in the barracks below the outer wall,” the knight replied. “We haven’t let them into the city—and a squad of soldiers is watching them.”

Sir Mariland nodded slightly—caution was necessary.

The Cecils had clearly sealed off the southern lands. At least in the buffer zone between Rockhold and the southern border, Cecil forces had established blockades everywhere. Even experienced scouts sent from the fortress couldn’t break through. Anyone escaping from the south now was, no matter how you looked at it, highly suspicious.

“Bring them to the main hall,” Sir Mariland decided quickly, glancing at the southern nobles gathering nearby. “Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you all to come—perhaps we will finally receive clear news from the south.”

Soon, Sir Mariland and the nobles entered the castle’s main hall. Shortly after they took their seats on the dais, a small group of soldiers escorted several ragged, battered figures inside.

The newcomers looked as if they had endured great hardship—tattered clothes, dirt-streaked faces, bruises and wounds. Their disheveled appearance reminded the southern nobles of their own recent plight. Sir Mariland sighed quietly, then asked, “Who are you? Are you from the Grant lands?”

Most of the ragged group looked frightened and tense. Only one man stood calm in the center—a tall, middle-aged man. He seemed not to hear Sir Mariland’s question, instead scanning the hall as if searching for someone. Finally, his gaze settled on Baroness Ropeni Grant. The man bowed deeply, his voice choked with emotion: “Mistress, I have finally found you!”

Baroness Ropeni recognized him immediately. Rising from her seat, she said in disbelief, “That’s my steward!”

“Are you sure?” Sir Mariland eyed the dirt-streaked, ragged man skeptically. “He really is your steward?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Ropeni replied firmly, sweeping her gaze over everyone present. “I haven’t had a drop of wine!”

“Very well, I understand,” Sir Mariland nodded, then looked down at the steward. “Steward, do you bring news from the south?”

“They’ve come! Mistress, and all of you—The Cecils have arrived!” The steward’s face twisted with pain, his voice trembling with fear. “They’ve already taken Grant Castle, and occupied Konsko and Carol’s lands. They’re coming this way!”

(End of chapter)