The great orc stronghold had fallen. Flames and silence were left in its wake.

Now, the path back toward Northwall lay open.

The prince, Aziel, walked quietly. Not a single word passed his lips.

Even as Count Balzac stole cautious glances from up ahead, hoping, perhaps, that the prince would speak.

Even as the former Count, Lucar, trailed beside him, releasing strange, guttural sounds “Khm. Krhm. Kheh-heh-hehm “ that landed somewhere between an exaggerated cough and a theatrical growl.
Still, Aziel didn’t look up.

His eyes were fixed on the imprints in the snow, boot-shaped hollows that crunched with each slow, deliberate step.

[Confirming fate… Lucar Dvorjak: Extremity, Challenge, Transformation, Stubbornness, Master of the Sword. All fates soon to be scattered by superior destinies: Death and Failure.]
[Confirming fate… Balzac Dvorjak: Helplessness and doubt grow steadily. The fate-seed ‘Simma’ takes deeper root in his heart. Rebellion and Defeat have become pronounced.]
[Location Fate: Severance, Rigidity, Tradition. Deeply embedded old customs run unchecked.]

The threads of fate unraveled and hung in the air before him like spider silk in moonlight. And he matched them against the memories of his previous life.

The north… faltering.
A father desperate to die in glory.
A son burdened by snow and silence.
A house entrenched in ritual.
The glacial mystics creeping ever southward.
A people crushed by fear, staring at extinction.
And over it all, an Empire that did nothing.

But why?

Why did Count Balzac’s fate pulse with Rebellion?

Why had the Empire left the north to fall?

When Northwall was finally overrun and the frost bled through the breach, it had been the central provinces, and the imperial heart, that suffered the most. The collapse of the barrier had hastened the empire’s decline by decades.

Back then, Aziel had assumed it was just incompetence. Cowardice. Stupidity from the center and weakness from the north.

But now … 

“There’s a gap here. A hole between what I thought I knew and what I see now.”

The northern frontier didn’t match the story he’d remembered.

Lucar, for all his madness, still possessed judgment.
Balzac, for all his heaviness, had shown devotion.
They weren’t the traitors he had once believed.

So then… What had the Emperor, the Tyrant, been thinking?

The man who was now, technically, his father.

“He may have lacked strength, but he wasn’t stupid. If he entrusted full authority to me, he must have had a reason. He wouldn’t just abandon the north. Not when even his firstborn was stationed here.”

A sensation stirred in Aziel’s spine. Not quite fear … Not quite realizing. 

A cold itch crawling beneath the skin.

There was something that didn’t connect.

So he stopped.

All movement behind him ceased, like breath sucked out of a room.

He turned his head slightly, staring at Count Balzac’s back. The snow crunched faintly under the weight of his steps.
Lucar turned to look at his son, eyes unreadable.

Aziel looked between them, and asked the question plainly.

“Did you plot treason?”

The wind fell still.

The snow stopped breathing.

Even the trees seemed to hold their branches, listening.

Neither count responded.

Lucar’s pale eyes didn’t so much as twitch.
Balzac’s brow furrowed just a little, barely noticeable, but tight enough to suggest that the accusation had not come entirely unexpected.

Aziel narrowed his eyes.

It was suspicious.

Why were there no official soldiers escorting them back to Northwall? Why had no units appeared, not even to greet a royal prince?
Instead, they were surrounded by old soldiers, retired, grizzled, grim, and two Swordmasters. Almost as if… being escorted, but also observed.

Andre and Sol finally noticed something was off. Their expressions tensed. Hands drifted to weapons.

Alfred’s eyes sharpened. The Bluewing knights spread subtly into formation.

If this turned into a confrontation, if it became a fight, Aziel couldn’t say for certain that they’d escape.

The northern veterans weren’t simply old.

They were honed. Still. Sharp.

He exhaled, lips curling faintly.

“If you kill me here, it’ll just be called a tragic accident. Won’t it?”

No answer.

The snow breathed steam as warm breath met cold air. The fog lingered, uncomfortable.

Those loyal to Aziel edged toward him.

Those under the Counts gathered instinctively around Balzac and Lucar.

All eyes were locked in a dead standoff.

And yet, the three in the middle, Aziel and the two counts, remained still. Not a step. Not a flinch.

The forest made no sound.

‘Perfect place to bury a body.’

Somewhere nearby, a beast howled, ‘Keng, keng!’ sharp and guttural.

Had it scented blood already?

At last, Lucar spoke.

“…What made you think that?”

Aziel’s voice was low, steady.

“You. A former member of the Empire’s Five Swordmasters. Your son, also a Swordmaster. You’re surrounded by elite northern soldiers, some of them officially retired, others hidden from command. You harbor a mystic in the north. A sealed glacial relic.”

He let the implications simmer.

“By my estimation, your military power is enough to raise a banner against Ironhold itself. You’ve got reason. Grievances. A cause. Decades of neglect. Why wouldn’t you rebel?”

Several of the veterans narrowed their eyes, but no one spoke.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Aziel murmured. “Northwall wasn’t a border fortress. It was a crucible. A training ground. You were breeding soldiers.”

A few of the veterans shifted. Not much, but enough.

It was the truth. And they knew he knew it.

Cold realization prickled under his skin. The puzzle pieces clicked into place. Everything,finally made sense.

He tilted his head, eyes dark with amusement.

“You were once descendants of the frostlands, weren’t you? The Eskimos. Or close enough. A bloodline washed and buried, but never forgotten.”

“…That blood’s been diluted. Replaced,” Lucar said.

“You think Central cares about that?” Aziel said softly. “They sent someone to investigate the hearth assassinations. They kept digging. They would’ve found your secret armies eventually. Just like I did.”

Now he saw it clearly.

In his previous life, the First Prince hadn’t come to help. He’d come to spy.

And when he uncovered what the north had hidden… he reported it

.

The center called for blood. The investigation turned into an accusation.

Had Lucar gone to speak with the Eskimos in secret, to broker peace or warn them? Had he died there?

And then Balzac,bereaved, cornered, desperate,had stayed behind, watching his people wither.

They hadn’t rebelled.

They hadn’t submitted.

They had simply frozen.

“…So that’s how it happened,” Aziel whispered.

“The Empire believed it had justification,” he continued, voice louder now. “They saw a seed of rebellion. They saw a region of blood traitors. They thought you made the Eskimos yourselves, as puppets. A manufactured enemy.”

He turned toward Balzac.

“And you… all this time, you’ve been deciding whether to kill me or not.”

“…Is that what you believe?” Balzac asked at last, voice rough.

“You don’t deny it.”

“…Because we’ve been suspected for generations.”

Aziel nodded once.

“Then what’s your answer?”

Balzac’s expression sagged.

“We followed you,” he said. “We guarded your path. We fought by your side. What more do you want? Do we have to prove it with blood?”

His voice cracked, not with fear, but with bitterness.

Even so, he didn’t flinch.

Aziel’s gaze sharpened.

“The best traitors swear loyalty first. That’s always how it goes.”

“Northmen aren’t like that.”

“You sure?”

“…I am. At least, I am.”

His eyes darted once, briefly, toward his father.

Lucar took over.

“…Your Highness,” he said calmly. “You’re not wrong.”

A ripple passed through the ranks.

Eyes shifted. Some hands tightened around sword hilts.

“I suspect there were counts who once held those ambitions,” Lucar continued. “That’s why these forces were prepared. But we didn’t make those plans.”

“And now?” Aziel asked. “What’s the north now, under you? Under your son?”

Lucar didn’t blink.

“Did you come to punish us, Your Highness? Or to save us?”

“Neither,” Aziel said. “I simply do what I want.”

Lucar smiled faintly.

“Well, what you want seems to be saving us. From where I stand. You burn brighter than anyone. Hot enough to melt our frost. That’s what I believe.”

“…Was that your answer?”

“Yes,” Lucar said. “There were doubts. But in the end… we are the Empire’s wardens of the north.”