Starting from Algard Fortress at the empire’s northernmost point, called ‘the end of civilization’ because only barbarians lived beyond it, coming down with the rugged Tourbe mountain range as its spine, it bordered the southern kingdoms of Vizern and Hagrifen. Such a vast grand duchy was a kind of inviolable territory that even the emperor couldn’t touch carelessly.

The most distant and powerful force from the commands of the emperor, the supreme ruler of Lamuah.

The reason the imperial family couldn’t carelessly dismiss them was because they were the sword that protected the empire’s north. Grand Duke Nicerion was a gargoyle whose very existence made potential threat elements to the empire—Vizern, Hagrifen, northern barbarians—cower.

The master of the North swept the battlefield with cool eyes. Though it was almost April, cold still penetrated through clothes at the battle site near the Tourbe mountain range.

Two years ago, the reinforcements who first faced the northern winter were horrified by the cold where their saliva droplets would freeze solid when they sneezed. Those who had lived their entire lives only in Lamuah, with its generally mild climate, and in the imperial capital, would never have faced such raw cold.

Not missing this opportunity, the natives of the grand duchy who had been looked down upon as northern bumpkins boasted loudly that this weather was warm compared to the northernmost regions where thin ice would settle on lakes even in spring, saying the weak southern bastards were just as expected.

Minor disputes led to arguments, arguments led to fistfights, and it almost led to conflicts between allies based on their regions of origin.

If General Lorge hadn’t brought a large quantity of alcohol, claiming it was brewed for his son’s wedding, and all the soldiers hadn’t resolved their grievances, Lysander would definitely have had to behead several officers as examples for inciting discord.

“Your Grace.”

“What is it.”

Lysander asked briefly without turning his head. Lieutenant Joseph Lorge, son of General Lorge, bowed his head.

“An envoy from the enemy has come.”

The grand duke’s aide, Percival Lizre, raised one eyebrow.

“What business do they claim?”

“That’s something Your Grace should go and hear.”

Joseph answered casually and grinned at Percival.

At first there had been so much noise, but after rolling around in the North for about two years, something like camaraderie seemed to have developed.

Percival, who assisted Grand Duke Nicerion, and Joseph, who assisted his father General Lorge. Perhaps because they were similar in age, similar in rank, and did similar work, they seemed to have grown quite close. Last time he even witnessed Percival forcibly stuffing supply bread into the mouth of the drunken Joseph who was crying that he missed his wife, to shut him up.

It was quite an ugly sight, but Lysander pretended not to notice and passed by. Joseph Lorge, I’m tolerating this for the sake of your wife. Be grateful to her.

Joseph’s wife, Elizabeth, was clever, unlike her husband who was still somewhat naive.

She was sharp enough to immediately grasp the purpose of her husband’s superior, that big shot who suddenly showed up at the wedding claiming he’d be a groomsman, and propose a deal.

Few knew that the price for the eastern emerald mine development rights in the grand duchy that the Lorge ducal family had won was Madame Elizabeth’s secret cooperation. People questioned the sudden redistribution of interests, and several branch families who had been eyeing the development rights were upset, but Lysander, the eye of the storm, Grand Duke Nicerion, remained calm.

Just seeing Alix’s new appearance and receiving the opportunity to convey his feelings to her was enough for Elizabeth to have fulfilled the value of the emerald mine development rights.

The mysterious eyes that shone even with her face tightly wrapped in a mask, the lips that revealed intelligence, her straight gait and sweet body scent.

The ecstasy of kissing that transparent hand where blue veins showed through was vivid.

He longed for her.

However, he dared not ask her to wait with his body committed to the battlefield, so he only conveyed his heart.

He desperately hoped for her response, but couldn’t bring himself to force it.

He knew a woman who had withered at the end of waiting without promise.

A woman who, despite being driven from the position  of grand duchess and wandering foreign lands for life with her son, firmly believed that the husband who abandoned her would someday find her again.

Until the day she died, she was immersed in blind hope that her husband would send someone to fetch her, pour oil on her brittle hair and place the grand duchess’s crown on her again, put silk shoes on her cracked bare feet and lead her to a cedar carriage.

Every day she whispered to her son that his father is only being deceived by his wicked second wife, and when he learns the truth, he’ll accept them both again.

Hope without answer was merely a flame that burned the soul’s wick. Hope that consumed without remainder a body drained of vitality like dry firewood ultimately left only white flying ashes.

Standing on a battlefield where life and death crossed countless times in an instant, he therefore dared not tell her to wait.

“Your Grace?”

“I’m listening.”

Even in contemplation, his ice-cold reason accurately diagnosed the situation, and his instincts drew out the optimal choice. Lysander moved his steps and reached the training ground, sitting in the seat of honor. He arrogantly raised his chin and looked down at the standing imperial army, and the Vizern envoy standing in their midst.

The envoy had dressed in splendid clothes to maintain some formality, but his neck involuntarily shrank at the unexpectedly intimidating appearance of the commander-in-chief. A cool aura like the sharp energy of a magic sword forged in hell’s furnace stabbed at the envoy.

“Didn’t you say you brought a message.”

At the seemingly indifferent but piercing words, the envoy who had been shrinking like a turtle trying to crawl into its shell suddenly came to his senses and hurriedly began reading the letter’s contents in the common language heavily mixed with Vizern accent.

“To the army of the Lamuah Empire. This is a message that His Highness, Crown Prince Heinrich Johann, the legitimate successor of the Turnschwäig royal family and Duke Georg, our side’s commander-in-chief in this war, speaks through my humble mouth, Viscount Jonas of Wilsen, and it is as follows……”

The training ground stirred at the content of the message coming through the envoy’s mouth. Lysander’s purple eyes sank cold as the waters of the North Sea.

***

Imperial capital, Fadesa, Rauli Palace.

In spring when snow melts and flowers bloom, social activities that had been limited to indoors naturally move outside. Therefore, outdoor events become popular so that people can breathe outside air to their heart’s content before going back indoors due to midsummer heat.

In the Emperor’s Forest behind Rauli Palace, where all the notable young figures of the court including me and Mélisande had gathered, a hunting competition was in full swing.

You could say they lived well, but it was quite a traditional event. It commemorated the incident hundreds of years ago when Crown Prince Richard, called the Black Prince, personally went hunting to slay a monster boar that dared to torment the people in Fadesa, the emperor’s territory.

A painting from that time depicting the Black Prince thrusting a sword into the boar’s neck hangs in the imperial gallery, but honestly, it has no credibility. Even if the painter ignored the concept of perspective, how big could a boar be in this world—big enough for five people to ride on its back?

Anyway, events commemorating courage for the people, as always, became distorted and corrupted through generations, ultimately becoming venues for romance and mischief. This was because there was a custom where the hunting competition’s winner would offer his game to the most noble lady (usually the princess or empress who organized the event) on the spot, and the lady who received it would praise him.

Of course, this was limited to the winner, and those who didn’t win would find their own ladies to offer their harvest to. Fox fur was soft and good for decoration, deer antlers were used for ornaments. Pheasants or pigeons caught through hunting were delicacies with different flavors from those raised for food.

Men competed to give better things to the ladies they served, and noble ladies showed off the tributes that arrived before them.

Therefore, a strange tension was circulating in the hunting ground, the rest area where tents were set up. Especially now that the court’s power was divided into ‘pro-Duke Picart faction’ and ‘pro-crown prince faction.’ They had to shine brighter than the opposing faction. Ridiculously, even such trivial events shook the political scene’s morale.

Since the empress’s health had deteriorated again over the past few months, it was Crown Princess Diane who organized this event. The timid crown princess who hated appearing before people looked like she might faint every time someone spoke to her. How was she planning to present awards like that?

She looked like she wanted to dump the responsibility on someone and flee to the forest, but Elene, the only other noble lady she could pass the duty to, was absorbed in her hobby of falconry.

Crown Princess Diane had been married into the empire for over ten years, yet she still tried to hole up in her room and only associate with those from her homeland. Did the crown princess, who remained on the periphery of society without even creating her own faction, realize that she was called ‘the Andrette woman’ more often than ‘Her Highness the Crown Princess’?