The prince’s voice rang clear through the chaos, smooth and amused, as though every unfolding event had been meticulously scripted by his own hand.

And perhaps, in some way, it had.

In the Empire’s central territories, the halls of the Imperial Information Bureau,normally silent and calculating,had transformed into a storm of frantic scribes, exhausted analysts, and overwrought tacticians. Intelligence agents from every noble house, and representatives of the Empire’s elite divisions, had become trapped in a rising tide of uncertainty.

The cause of their unrest lay to the North.

Once considered remote and stolid, the North had erupted with movement. And not the idle shuffling of nobles flexing feudal might, but a precise, organized awakening.

Geographically, the North was massive. Excluding the eastern duchies that flanked the mountainous borders, it was the largest unified region under a single military leadership. And at its center stood the Border Count,a noble not merely born into prestige but forged into a Swordmaster, his individual strength enough to topple regiments.

Worse still, his father had once stood among the Five Great Knights of the Empire: Lucar Dvorzak.

Though long believed retired, whispers persisted. Some claimed he still trained in solitude, waiting for the right moment to reemerge. What power did he now command, after years away from the field? No one could say.

And then came Prince Aziel’s order,an unprecedented summons of Northern strength.

The results stunned even the most seasoned observers.

The North didn’t answer with hesitation.

It answered with an army.

Troops gathered in numbers that defied comprehension. Veterans with lined faces and steady eyes. Young warriors hardened by cold winters and harsher training. Sword schools emerged from isolation. Entire villages transformed into marching columns overnight.

Military analysts scrambled to account for the truth.

• Over half of the North’s population is combat-trained and ready.

• Veteran soldiers,dubbed “old wolves”,are confirmed to be in active rotation.

• Lucar Dvorzak, Swordmaster, has maintained a training presence among these forces.

• Reports confirm the existence of reclusive masters, strength unknown.

• Internal communication and rapid mobilization imply pre-established coordination.

• All prior assessments of Northern military strength are obsolete.

• Regional loyalty is rooted in legacy and ideology,far beyond bloodline or coin.

The reports kept coming.

Each one more unsettling than the last.

For the first time in a generation, the Empire had been caught unprepared.

Some within the Bureau began to ask questions aloud. Dangerous questions.

Was this the culmination of a long-gestating rebellion?

Had the North suffered the bitter winters in silence only to rise when the Empire’s spine was vulnerable?

Was this retribution?

Fear gripped the capital. And the Bureau responded as it always did: with paperwork, speculation, and desperate coordination.

“Urgent intelligence! Immediate attention required!”

A junior agent burst into the Bureau’s strategy chamber, eyes wide, waving a sealed scroll above his head.

The room had been a pit of sleepless chaos,pale clerks hunched over tables, commanders poring over maps, dozens running on nothing but cold tea and colder anxiety.

At the agent’s cry, everything stopped.

He shouted again.

“It’s from the agents stationed near Prince Aziel,direct contact!”

Chairs scraped as everyone turned. Bloodshot eyes followed the agent as he pushed toward the high council doors.

He knocked.

But the door flew open before his knuckles touched it.

“Inside. Now.”

The senior officials looked as if they hadn’t slept in days. Gaunt. Sharp-eyed. Their patience wore thin.

The agent suddenly wondered what would happen if he refused to hand the scroll over. What if he just said he left it outside?

He blinked the thought away, blaming exhaustion, and handed over the sealed message.

“Leave us.”

The door shut.

Inside, the director sliced the seal and unfurled the parchment.

His face twitched.

He read it again. Then passed it down the table.

Each reader’s expression darkened in turn.

And then:

“What in the Emperor’s frozen grave is this?” someone muttered.

Another, less diplomatic officer cursed aloud. “This is insanity.”

Finally, someone read the content aloud:

Prince Aziel and the North have entered a non-rebellious alliance. A massive movement of hostile forces from beyond the northern wilderness,Eskimos and monsters,is underway. To avoid drawing imperial retaliation or suspicion, the Prince and the Border Count have enacted a staged hostage scenario. The Prince is the hostage. The captor: Lucar Dvorzak. The strategy is mutual. Coordinated. Tactical.

The last line at the bottom, clearly added in haste, read:

If true, the Prince and the Count are either saviors… or traitors. Possibly both.

A tense silence settled over the table.

One officer finally exploded. “This has to be a joke! A staged hostage act? By the Prince himself?!”

Another stood. “If this is a ruse, it’s treason.”

Before debate could break into chaos, a second agent burst through the door.

“New intelligence,direct visual confirmation from the Marce Gate!”

All eyes turned.

“The Count’s carriage has arrived. Lucar Dvorzak is confirmed on scene.”

The room held its breath.

“And the hostage is Prince Aziel.”

The silence cracked.

“What else?” someone demanded.

“The scene is… strange. Very strange. The Prince doesn’t look like a hostage. And Sir Lucar doesn’t look like a kidnapper.”

“What are you saying?”

“Sir… it looks staged. Exactly as the report described.”

The pieces clicked into place.

The director leaned back, fingers steepled.

“Contact the Auditing Office. Have them project the consequences. If Prince Aziel succeeds,if he saves the North,how does this affect the succession? How much power will he gain? What will the nobles say?”

He paused.

“Only then do we decide our position. That is the task before us.”

In the city of Marce, the unfolding situation had brought daily life to a standstill.

The main avenue,usually clogged with carts and merchants,was paralyzed.

“Move aside! Clear the streets!” shouted the Hongik Knights, their crimson armor gleaming under the midday sun.

“Out of the way! Remove the carriage!”

Pedestrians scattered as the knights bellowed, but the tension only deepened.

At the center of the road was a black carriage, unassuming but for the unmistakable crest: the sigil of the Border Count.

Beside it stood a towering knight,broad shoulders, iron presence, silvered hair whipping in the breeze.

Lucar Dvorzak.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“That’s him.”

“The legendary Swordmaster.”

“Didn’t he disappear?”

“He once cleaved through an ogre battalion with a training sword…”

The crowd murmured with awe.

But then came confusion.

Lucar wasn’t alone.

A young man stood beside him,tall, composed, regal.

A blade hovered at his neck.

But he didn’t flinch.

He walked slowly, almost casually, as if on a morning promenade.

“Who… who is that?”

The platinum hair, the immaculate posture,it all clicked at once.

“That’s Prince Aziel!”

The revelation struck like lightning.

“Bow! Kneel before the Prince!”

Dozens dropped to their knees in reflex, but eyes remained fixed on the scene.

Why was Lucar threatening the Prince?

What was happening?

Then came the words.

“Lucar,” the Prince said softly, “if you lower your sword like that, no one’s going to believe this farce.”

Lucar grunted. “Please, Your Highness. Stop walking toward it. I’ll put it away. I mean it.”

A Swordmaster backing away from his hostage.

A prince deliberately leaning into the blade.

The absurdity was too much.

“He’s serious,” someone whispered. “They’re actually… putting on a show.”

“It’s the fake hostage story. It’s real.”

The crowd murmured, stunned and spellbound.

“This is turning into quite the public event,” Aziel commented, eyes sweeping the gathering crowd. “Do you think they’re enjoying it, Lucar?”

“I’m not.”

“I could make it more entertaining.”

“Please don’t.”

“If I did, you’d say I’m being outrageous. And we can’t have that.”

Lucar sighed like a man aged twenty years in a single morning.

“You’re terrifying, Your Highness.”

“And you’re very wise. That’s why I keep you close.”

Their light banter only intensified the surreal mood.

In that moment, all of Marce stood still.

Bakers, merchants, smiths,everyone paused.

To watch a mad prince and a weary knight turn politics into performance.

And in the middle of it all:

A polite hostage taker.

And a hostage who feared nothing.