Chapter 828: The North

Imperial magi-cars emblazoned with the empire’s crest crushed the still-frozen tundra of the far north beneath their wheels. The rhythmic hum of engines and the grinding of wheels shattered the silence of the wilderness. One after another, vehicles laden with troops and supplies snaked along the newly refurbished Imperial Highway, forming a dark, flowing ribbon of iron and earth.

The jagged outline of the northern mountains grew sharper against the horizon. Above them, the clear, lofty blue sky stretched like a vast curtain, shimmering under the radiant light of the blazing sun.

Byron’s gaze drifted through the window, taking in the starkly different landscape from the southern lands he knew so well—snow-capped peaks and frozen ridges. Opposite him sat Duchess Victoria, still and composed as if carved from ice.

Byron had been ordered northward to establish the empire’s coastal presence on this remote, frigid frontier. He was also to serve as the imperial envoy to receive guests from the Principality of the Holy Dragon. Meanwhile, Duchess Victoria had just completed her official report in the capital and was returning north as well. Their journeys coincided.

The unfamiliar scenery unfolding outside stirred an unexpected feeling even in Byron’s gruff nature. He muttered, “I never imagined I’d one day visit the northernmost reaches of this country—let alone as a general. Fate’s a strange thing, unpredictable as ever.”

Victoria glanced at him calmly. “I heard you were once a mercenary, roaming from south to north, General Byron.”

“Roaming from south to north…” Byron chuckled, shaking his head. “Back then, dealing with bandits and wild beasts in the forests and valleys around a single town was considered battle-hardened. Visiting two or three cities was enough to claim you’d traveled far and wide. Mercenaries would spin the wildest tales in taverns, but none of it compared to the Peppo-Cecil railway line today. People back then… well.”

The nearly fifty-year-old mercenary knight, who had clawed his way from society’s bottom to the empire’s upper echelons, spoke with a trace of self-mockery, but a flicker of nostalgia softened his expression. “Still, those years as a mercenary introduced me to some interesting characters. I remember leading a small mercenary band, and there was a swordswoman—Elisa or maybe Elena—tough as any man. She was from the north, from a place called Kazaborre… For us back then, that was almost another world.”

“Kazaborre,” Victoria corrected gently, “near Winterhold. It’s quite far from the south. How did your friend end up down here?”

“Supposedly, she traveled with her parents’ merchant caravan as a child. Their convoy was attacked near Pompey—maybe by bandits, maybe by the lord’s enforcers. Her whole family perished except for her and an old servant. The servant died later, and she drifted south alone. That’s the story, though no one really knows if it’s true. Mercenaries love to invent wild backstories to boast and set themselves apart, but most of them are probably just ruffians from some nearby village, wielding swords cobbled together from broken weapons sold by down-and-out veterans.”

Perhaps unfamiliar with such “lowborn” tales, or maybe intrigued by the fading mercenary profession and its stories, Victoria’s icy eyes brightened with curiosity. “You became a knight later. What happened to your comrades? Did that swordswoman return north?”

Byron fell silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No, and no chance to go back either. Twenty years ago, the north was just too far for ordinary folk.”

Victoria studied him for a couple of seconds with her crystalline gaze, then withdrew it calmly. She looked out the window again toward the northern lands and remarked casually, “After spring, the pace of the north-south railway will quicken. Once magi-trains race across these plains, no corner of the empire will feel distant.”

“That’s good news,” Byron laughed. “After all this time on magi-cars, my bones ache. Not that I’m complaining about the Imperial Highway’s quality—just that for long journeys, trains are steadier and more comfortable.”

“The Gorgon River won’t rise until mid-Revival Month, and even by water, you can only reach Saint Suniel,” Victoria said evenly. “If His Majesty’s envisioned ‘aerial routes’ come online soon, they might be the better option. Flying is definitely faster than trains or ships.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to embrace the skies yet,” Byron admitted awkwardly. “I’ve flown on a griffon before… not a great experience. And those flying machines made of steel and crystal? They make me even more uneasy.”

“But the sky will inevitably become a battlefield, General Byron,” Victoria said earnestly. “Even on traditional battlefields, mages with flight have turned the tide more than once. If not for past technical and cost limitations, which nation wouldn’t want to control the skies?”

“Of course, I understand,” Byron said quickly, a bit helpless. Suddenly, Victoria reminded him of Philip—both serious, both prone to suddenly getting serious in the middle of a joke. But while he could spar verbally with Philip, he found it impossible to out-argue a top-tier noble trained in logic and rhetoric. All he could do was nod. “I’ve even thought about whether future ships could carry small dragonrider aircraft for aerial reconnaissance—to scout sea conditions and find safe routes. But honestly, I’m just not comfortable with flying.”

“Carrying flying machines on ships?” Victoria’s eyes lit up, her usually impassive face showing genuine interest. “Is that your vision for building the Imperial Navy? Your concept for future naval vessels?”

Byron froze, suddenly realizing he’d blurted out a random new technology to dodge awkwardness—and now the duchess had taken it seriously.

The future admiral’s eyes flicked toward the horizon beyond the window.

Several hours remained before they reached the northern stronghold.

So… how to spin this next?

…

A biting wind whipped snow from the mountaintops, swirling fiercely between the gray-white walls of Dragon’s Reach and the steep rocky cliffs. The storm cloaked everything in a hazy veil, blurring the city’s protective shield into an almost invisible backdrop amid the howling wind and snow.

Sir Gorosh Shikel tilted his head upward, staring at the summit now shrouded in the blizzard. He could almost feel a gaze piercing through the storm’s veil—cast down from the palace atop Dragon’s Reach, as if fixed on him.

Beneath him, the earth-drake beast shifted restlessly, sensing its rider’s unease. The creature scraped its front hooves against the ground and emitted low, indistinct growls.

Despite the “dragon” in its name, the Holy Dragon Principality’s earth-drake was unrelated to dragons. It was a docile herbivore domesticated by the dragonborn. Yet on this dragon-ruled land, many animals and plants bore the “dragon” prefix, a peculiar obsession outsiders could hardly understand but which the dragonborn accepted as normal.

After a long moment, Sir Gorosh glanced back at the group trailing behind him and nodded to the red-haired woman riding an earth-drake beside him. “Lady Aslarena, let us depart.”

“We should have left days ago,” Aslarena grumbled, frowning. “Those ice-headed, stone-brained councilors and elders… their paranoia about the outside world is laughable. I don’t understand why even His Highness Barlogel was swayed by them, suddenly ordering us to stand down the day before the mission. We’ve been waiting all this time…”

Gorosh regarded the fiery-haired dragonmark witch with a gentle tone. “His Highness has his reasons. The Principality’s operation depends not only on us and the duke but also on those ‘ice-headed, stone-brained’ councilors and elders you mentioned. Their opinions must be considered.”

Aslarena shrugged indifferently. “Let them fret. May the ice and stone of the mountains protect their fragile hearts and livers, weakened by worry for the realm. We will witness the outside world, and when history is written, it will be our names, not theirs, that endure.”

A faint smile tugged at Gorosh’s lips. Under his lead, the entire party set off southward, gradually leaving the high mountains that cradled Dragon’s Reach behind.

Before crossing the final mountain pass, Gorosh couldn’t resist one last glance at the snow-covered summit.

Though he had spoken words of comfort to the dragonmark witch, his own doubts were no less.

Many days ago, the Holy Dragon Principality had decided to send a delegation to Cecil. The personnel and supplies were assembled, and he was ready to lead the mission. Yet the entire operation was suddenly halted by an order, leaving the entire team inexplicably on standby until now.

The Principality even had to send a formal letter to the Cecil Empire explaining the delay, adding unnecessary complications.

The order to dispatch the delegation came from the Dragonblood Duke. The sudden order to stand down came from the same duke, who cited the conservative faction’s advice in the council as the reason for further evaluation.

But Gorosh knew Barlogel well. The duke rarely reversed orders for such reasons—it undermined his authority and raised questions.

Though the impact was minor for the duke, he wouldn’t act without sufficient cause.

So… what was the real reason behind the sudden change?

Gorosh withdrew his gaze from Dragon’s Reach, burying his questions deep within. His eyes turned resolutely southward once more.

…

The roaring fire in the brazier chased away the biting chill that clung to the northern mountains. Inside the palace—its rugged architecture hewn from massive stones—Dragonblood Duke Balogur stepped away from the terrace overlooking the valley below and made his solitary way back to his grand yet lonely throne.

The entire throne hall was empty.

All the courtiers had long since departed, and the attendants and guards had been sent away even earlier—everyone knew the Dragonblood Duke preferred to be alone in the hall. He needed the quiet to think, and no one in the palace found this unusual.

After a moment of silence, Balogur exhaled softly, curling his fingers to tap lightly on the broad armrest of his throne.

The crisp tapping triggered the hall’s hidden wards, and an invisible barrier quietly enveloped the space.

Breaking the stillness with his steady, solemn voice, Balogur spoke:

“Code AZ-689, Outlander calling Omega.”

A pale golden communication interface swiftly unfolded before the Dragonblood Duke’s throne, a trembling circular ring of light shimmering in front of him.

(End of chapter)