The silence that followed the retreat of the Guild army was not peaceful; it was the heavy, suffocating silence of a hospital ward waiting for a diagnosis. The Oakhaven courtyard, usually a bustle of construction and training, was now a triage center. The liberated Bear beastmen sat in huddles around the coal braziers, their fur matted with blood and mud, staring blankly at the shattered remains of the greenhouse.
Valeria didn't have time to mourn the glass. She was in the kitchen, which had once again been converted from a bomb factory into an operating theatre.
The Duke of Ironclad lay on the sturdy oak table. He was stripped to the waist, revealing a chest that looked like a map of a dying world. The Necrotic Curse was a spiderweb of black veins radiating from his heart, pulsing with a sickly green light. Every time it pulsed, the Duke's breath hitched, a wet, rattling sound that signaled fluid filling his lungs.
"It is advancing faster than I predicted," Ignis said, his hands glowing with diagnostic magic as he hovered over the patient. The Dragon looked exhausted, his red robes stained with soot and sweat. "The curse is feeding on his mana core. He is a high-level warrior, which ironically makes the curse stronger. It has more fuel to burn. He has three hours, not twenty-four."
Valeria stood on the other side of the table, wiping her hands with a rag soaked in strong spirits. She looked at the man who was their only political shield against the annihilation of the Guild. If he died, they were just bandits in a valley. If he lived, they were the retinue of a Grand Duke.
"We need the root," Valeria said, her voice flat. "It's the only option."
"It is suicide for the Sanctuary," Ignis argued, though his protest lacked heat. "The World Tree is a sapling. It just expended its entire mana reserve to banish the undead. If you cut a primary root now, the shock could kill it. And if the tree dies, the barrier falls, the crops die, and we freeze."
"If the Duke dies," Valeria countered, "Lysandra comes back tomorrow with a thousand men, and we die anyway. I'll take the gamble on the tree."
She turned to Kael, who was standing guard at the door, his golden fur dull and singed from the battle in the wheat field.
"Kael, I need a spade. A silver one, if we have it. Iron poisons spirits."
"We have the silver trowel from the alchemy kit," Kael said. "It's small."
"It will have to do," Valeria said. "Silas, you come with me. The spirits guarding the tree trust you. If I walk up with a blade, they might attack."
The walk to the ruined greenhouse was a grim procession. The wind whipped through the jagged shards of glass still clinging to the frame, whistling a mournful tune. Inside, the temperature had already dropped to match the outside air, but the area around the sapling remained in a pocket of supernatural warmth.
The spectral animals—the stag, the fox, the owl—were huddled tight around the silver trunk, their translucent bodies acting as a living blanket. As Valeria approached, the spectral stag stood up. It lowered its antlers, its eyes burning with a protective white fire.
"Easy," Silas whispered, stepping in front of Valeria. The Wolf Prince lowered his posture, displaying submission but not fear. He let out a low, rhythmic chuffing sound—the language of the pack. "We are not enemies. We are healers. To save the Alpha, we must take from the Mother."
The stag hesitated. It looked at Silas, then at Valeria, and finally at the knife in her hand. It seemed to understand the concept of sacrifice. Slowly, the stag stepped aside, though it kept its gaze fixed on Valeria's hand.
Valeria knelt in the dirt. The soil was warm and hummed against her skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the sapling. "I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll buy the best fertilizer Renard has. I'll sing to you. Just... please don't die."
She began to dig.
She cleared away the topsoil with the silver trowel until she exposed the root system. The roots weren't wood; they looked like veins of solid mercury, pulsing with light. She identified a secondary taproot—thick as a finger, glowing faintly.
"Hold the trunk," Valeria told Silas. "Steadily."
She took a deep breath, gripped the root, and brought the silver knife down.
SCREE.
The sound wasn't physical. It was a psychic scream that tore through Valeria's mind like a needle. She gasped, nearly dropping the knife. The light in the greenhouse flickered violently. The spectral stag reared up, thrashing its hooves.
"Do not stop!" Silas barked, his hands firm on the trembling trunk. "Finish the cut!"
Valeria gritted her teeth against the headache blinding her and sawed through the tough, fibrous light. With a final snap, the root came free.
Liquid light—pure, concentrated sap—began to bleed from the stump.
"Seal it!" Valeria ordered.
She grabbed a handful of clay she had prepared—mixed with healing salve—and slapped it over the wound on the tree. The bleeding stopped. The tree shuddered once, then settled into a dim, low hum. It was alive, but barely.
Valeria stood up, clutching the severed root. It was warm, vibrating in her hand like a captured bird.
"Thank you," she whispered to the spirits.
She turned and ran back to the house.
Inside the kitchen, the Duke had stopped breathing. His skin was grey, and the black veins had reached his neck.
"His heart has stopped!" Ignis shouted, pressing his hands to the Duke's chest to manually pump the organ. "Valeria!"
"I have it!" Valeria slammed the root onto the chopping block.
She didn't brew it. There was no time. She chopped the mercury-like root into small discs, threw them into a mortar, and crushed them with the pestle. The root turned into a glowing, silver paste.
"Open his mouth," Valeria commanded.
Kael pried the Duke's jaw open. Valeria scooped the raw paste into the Duke's mouth.
"Water," she snapped.
Caspian poured a cup of water into the Duke's throat to wash it down.
For ten seconds, nothing happened. The Duke lay still, a corpse on a kitchen table.
Then, his chest heaved.
It was a violent convulsion, arching his back off the wood. A blinding white light erupted from beneath his skin, visible through his ribs. The light raced through his veins, chasing the black necrosis.
Where the silver light met the green curse, steam hissed from the Duke's pores. He screamed—a guttural, unconscious sound of agony as his body became the battlefield for two opposing A-Rank magics.
"Hold him down!" Valeria shouted as the Duke thrashed.
Kael and Silas threw their weight onto the Duke's limbs. The smell of ozone and rotting meat filled the room as the curse was physically burned out of his system.
Finally, with one last shudder, the Duke collapsed back onto the table. The black veins were gone, replaced by faint, silvery scars that looked like lightning strikes. His breathing was shallow, but steady.
"He lives," Ignis exhaled, slumping against the counter. "By the Scales, he lives."
Valeria looked at her hands. They were trembling. She felt drained, as if she had been the one on the table.
"Get him to the guest bed," Valeria said softly. "And post a guard. If he wakes up, I want to know immediately."
The next morning broke clear and bitterly cold. Without the greenhouse glass, the temperature in the yard had plummeted, but the mood in the camp had shifted. They had survived the night.
Valeria sat on the porch, wrapped in three blankets, watching the sunrise. The System Ledger was open in her mind.
[Assets:]
* Gold: 0.
* Food: Critical (2 days remaining).
* Defense: Wall damaged (70%). Greenhouse destroyed.
* Morale: High (Victory Buff).
"We are alive," Kael said, stepping out with two mugs of hot water. They were out of tea. "But we are broken."
"We aren't broken," Valeria said, taking the mug. "We're just remodeling."
She gestured to the yard. The Bear beastmen were already working. They weren't waiting for orders. They were clearing the debris of the greenhouse, stacking the shards of glass carefully. Thorne was directing a team to reinforce the gate with timber from the Guild's wrecked siege engines.
"They believe in you," Kael said quietly. "They saw you stand against the Necromancer. They saw you save the Duke. You aren't just the Lady of the house anymore, Valeria. You are the Warlord of Oakhaven."
Valeria grimaced. "I prefer Project Manager. Warlord sounds expensive."
The door behind them opened. Ignis stepped out, looking grave.
"He is awake," the Dragon said.
Valeria stood up. "How is he?"
"Weak," Ignis said. "But... lucid. He is asking for you."
Valeria walked into the small guest room. The Duke was propped up on pillows. He looked ten years older than he had yesterday. His face was gaunt, and the silver scars on his neck stood out starkly against his pale skin.
But his eyes were the same. Steel grey and sharp as flint.
"Madame V," the Duke rasped. His voice was a shadow of its former boom.
"Your Grace," Valeria bowed slightly. "Welcome back to the land of the living."
"I hear I have you to thank for that," the Duke said, touching his chest. "And that you butchered a priceless magical artifact to do it."
"The tree will recover," Valeria lied. "And you were worth the investment."
The Duke studied her. "Investment. That is a cold word for saving a life."
"We are partners, aren't we?" Valeria said, pulling up a chair. "I need you alive to convene the Tribunal."
The Duke closed his eyes. He let out a long, rattling sigh.
"About that," he said. "The curse... it is gone, yes. But the damage to my core is severe. I cannot summon my aura. I cannot wield my hammer. I can barely lift a quill."
He opened his eyes. "I cannot travel to the Capital, Valeria. The journey would kill me. And even if I made it, I am in no condition to stand before the Emperor and demand a trial against the most powerful Guild in the realm. They would look at me—a broken, invalid old man—and laugh."
Valeria felt a cold pit form in her stomach. "So that's it? We captured Varg for nothing? We fought Lysandra for nothing?"
"No," the Duke said. "Not for nothing."
He reached for a heavy signet ring on the bedside table. It was the Ironclad Seal—the gauntlet gripping the hammer.
"I cannot go," the Duke said. "But my authority can."
He held the ring out to her.
"I am appointing you as my Proxy," the Duke said. "You will go to the Capital. You will take Varg. You will present the evidence. And you will speak with the voice of House Ironclad."
Valeria stared at the ring. It was heavy gold, ancient and terrified.
"Me?" she laughed nervously. "I am a disowned noblewoman living in a barn with five beastmen. If I walk into the Imperial Court, they will arrest me on sight."
"Not if you wear this," the Duke said. "This ring grants you the status of a High Ajudicator. To arrest you would be an act of war against my House. It gives you diplomatic immunity, access to the Royal Archives, and the right to challenge any noble below the rank of Prince."
He pressed the ring into her hand.
"You have the mind of a strategist, Valeria. You have the ruthlessness of a general. And frankly, you are the only person I know who scares the Guild more than I do."
Valeria looked at the ring. Then she looked at the door, where Kael, Ignis, Silas, Caspian, and Lucian were watching.
Her husbands. The Broken Kings.
If she went to the Capital, she would be walking into the lion's den. The center of the Empire that had enslaved them. The home of the family that had disowned her.
But it was also the only way to end this. To secure their freedom permanently.
She closed her hand around the ring.
"Fine," Valeria said. "I'll go. But I'm not going alone."
She turned to her husbands.
"Pack your bags, gentlemen. We're going to crash the Emperor's party."
The Departure Strategy
The decision to leave Oakhaven was not taken lightly. It was a strategic pivot.
"We cannot defend this place against another siege," Ignis analyzed later that afternoon over the map. "Lysandra will return with siege engines that can flatten the mountain. Our only defense is legal immunity. If we initiate the Tribunal in the Capital, all hostilities must cease by Imperial Decree until the verdict is reached."
"So we run to the courthouse to stop the executioner," Kael summarized.
"Exactly," Valeria said. "But we can't leave the Sanctuary undefended."
She looked at Thorne.
The old Bear was sharpening his pickaxe by the fire.
"Thorne," Valeria said. "I am leaving you in charge."
Thorne looked up, surprised. "Me? I am a miner, not a lord."
"You are a leader," Valeria said. "You have fifty-two free beastmen. You have food—we will leave the bulk of the stores here. You have the walls. And you have the spirits."
She handed him a small pouch. Inside were five seeds—Iron-Bark seeds she had bought from Renard but hadn't used yet.
"Plant these at the gate," she instructed. "They grow fast. They will seal the entrance better than any portcullis. Stay inside. Keep the spirits calm. Wait for us."
Thorne took the pouch. He stood up and placed a fist over his heart.
"We will hold the fort, Lady," Thorne rumbled. "If the Guild comes back, they will find only stone and teeth."
The preparations for the journey took two days.
They couldn't take the sleigh; the snow was melting as spring approached on the lower plains. They needed a carriage.
They took the Duke's black iron carriage. Kael and Silas would ride the horses as outriders. Ignis would drive. Caspian and Lucian would be inside with Valeria and the invalid Duke.
And Varg.
The Houndmaster was still paralyzed, wrapped in chains, and shoved into the luggage compartment under the seat. He was their cargo. Their ticking time bomb.
On the morning of their departure, Valeria walked to the sapling one last time.
It looked weak, its light dim, the scar where she had cut the root oozing faintly.
"I'll bring you back the best soil in the world," Valeria promised. "Just hold on."
She climbed into the carriage. She wore a new outfit she had stitched herself—black wool lined with Stalker fur, practical but elegant. On her finger, the Duke's ring glinted heavily.
"Ready?" Ignis called from the driver's seat.
Valeria looked back at the farmhouse. At the smoke rising from the chimney. At the home she had built from nothing.
"Drive," Valeria said.
The carriage rolled forward, the iron wheels crunching on the gravel. They passed through the gate, past the field of frozen zombies, past the cratered canyon, and onto the King's Road.
They were leaving the wilderness. They were heading to the Capital—a city of marble, silk, and vipers.
As the carriage picked up speed, Valeria opened her Library. She didn't look at the agricultural section. She didn't look at engineering.
She walked to the section labeled [Political Science & Law].
She pulled a book titled Imperial Court Etiquette and How to Weaponize It.
"Time to study," she whispered.