The great hall was barely larger than the bedroom upstairs.
The walls were crude, unhewn stone; the floor was packed earth strewn with dry straw. A fire roared in the hearth, crackling with a ferocity that made the room uncomfortably warm, yet the damp chill seeping from the stone crevices still managed to find its way into one's marrow.
When Kyle stepped into the hall, the first thing he saw wasn't a man, but the fire.
Then, the light.
The hearthfire illuminated the center of the hall, where a long table stood. It was fashioned from rough pine planks, the knots in the wood resembling a row of silent, staring eyes. A tin pot and two cups sat on the table, steam curling lazily from the spout.
On the far side of the table stood a man.
He appeared to be in his fifties, his graying hair combed back with surgical precision. He wore a charcoal-grey silk coat, pinned at the collar with a silver brooch—a soaring falcon, the crest of House Washburn. Beneath the coat was a crisp white linen shirt, its collar starched stiff and its ivory buttons gleaming softly in the firelight.
He stood perfectly upright, hands folded before him, his posture so deliberate it felt measured by a ruler.
From his attire to his stance, everything was exactly as it should be.
Not a hair out of place. Not a second of hesitation.
This perfect composure was a silent declaration in itself:
*This is the North, and I am its master.*
**Sir Edward.**
The moment Kyle entered, the envoy's gaze locked onto him.
It wasn't a glance of curiosity, nor was it the heavy scrutiny of a superior. It was a look of "confirmation." He was gauging exactly what kind of man this Fourth Prince from the capital truly was.
Kyle took a seat at the far end of the long table.
He didn't take the head—that seat remained empty, and he didn't even acknowledge it. He simply sat at the side, as if the seat of honor didn't exist.
Renard stood behind him, a silent bulwark of shadow.
"Your Highness," Edward said, offering a practiced, shallow bow. "Earl Raymond Washburn sends his most sincere greetings."
His voice was clear and clipped. Every word was enunciated with the clinical precision of an official report.
Kyle nodded but remained silent.
He rested his fingers on the edge of the table, feeling the rough grain of the pine. The fire flickered, dancing across Edward's well-groomed face, making him look like a moving waxwork.
"The Earl intended to welcome you in person," Edward continued, "but the North is a restless place. The defenses of the Three Holds demand constant vigilance. He has dispatched me to convey a few essential words to you."
Kyle still said nothing.
He reached for the tin pot and poured himself a cup of hot water. The metal was scalding, turning his fingertips a faint red. He gripped the cup but didn't drink, simply holding it as the warmth bled into his palms.
Edward's eyes flickered toward Kyle's hands for a fraction of a second.
"Your Highness," Edward went on, his tone as flat as a ledger. "The Earl wishes for you to understand that the Wind-Snow Ridge lies north of our defensive lines. It is a unique situation, and there are certain rules you must know."
"First: **Taxation.**"
Edward drew a neatly folded piece of parchment from his sleeve and smoothed it out on the table.
"All territories in the North, whether they be sovereign fiefs or direct crown lands, must pay a Defense Tax to the Northern Province. The rate is fifteen percent of annual output, collected biannually."
*Fifteen percent.*
Kyle did the math. The standard rate in the Kingdom of Leon was ten percent, and frontier regions usually received tax breaks to encourage development.
The Northern Province was demanding fifteen. And they made no distinction between a Royal Prince's fief and a commoner's farm.
The message was clear: To them, his royal blood was worth nothing.
Kyle took a sip of the hot water. It burned his tongue, but he didn't flinch.
"Second: **Security.**"
Edward's voice remained steady.
"The Three Keys—Maple Hold, Ox Hold, and Star-Night Hold—are responsible for the safety of the Northern Line. The Wind-Snow Ridge lies *beyond* that line. The Earl understands your plight, but our forces are stretched thin. We cannot spare soldiers to garrison your territory."
*Beyond the line.*
Translation: If the Aberrants attack, the Earl's legions won't lift a finger to help you.
Kyle set his cup down, tracing the rim with his thumb.
"Third: **Supplies.**"
Edward paused for a beat before continuing.
"The Ridge is desolate. Resources are scarce. However, the Northern Administration is willing to provide you with essential support—grain, weaponry, and magi-crystals. All can be provided at cost."
*At cost.*
The phrase was weighted with hidden meaning. Who determined the "cost"? The Earl did.
Kyle looked up, meeting Edward's gaze for the first time.
"What is the 'cost'?" Kyle asked.
It was the first time he had spoken since entering the room.
Edward's expression didn't change; he had clearly expected the question.
"Grain is twice the market rate," he said, as if commenting on the weather. "Weaponry and magi-crystals are subject to separate negotiation."
*Twice the market rate.*
Behind Kyle, Renard's jaw tightened. This wasn't trade; it was highway robbery.
But Kyle remained unreadable. He looked at Edward like a man listening to a series of inconsequential numbers.
"Go on," Kyle said.
Edward blinked. It was a tiny crack in his mask—a flicker of genuine surprise.
"Your Highness does not wish to ask *why* the price is so high?" Edward asked.
"You're about to explain it anyway," Kyle replied. "Aren't you?"
Edward fell silent for a second. Then, he smiled. It wasn't a warm smile, nor a mockery. it was a purely professional acknowledgement.
"You are correct, Your Highness," he said. "The Ashwood to your north is infested with Aberrants. Any trade route south must pass through House Washburn's lands. The security of the caravans, the maintenance of the roads, the staffing of the checkpoints—all of this incurs a cost."
Edward paused, his gaze intensifying.
"High risk means high prices. That is the Rule of the North."
Kyle took another sip of water. It had cooled enough to swallow easily.
"Is that all?" he asked.
Edward seemed to be searching Kyle's face for a sign of anger or despair. He found neither.
"Your Highness refers to...?"
"The rules," Kyle said. "You've given me three. Are there more?"
Edward hesitated. "There is one more thing. Not an order from the Earl, but a personal observation."
"Speak."
"Your Riverbend Town is only eighty miles from the ruins of Isenpore. Fifty years ago, the Breath of Ruin claimed that city. It is now a graveyard."
Edward's voice dropped an octave, turning grave.
"Once winter truly settles in, the Aberrants in the Ashwood become... restless. Their hunting grounds expand south, sometimes reaching as far as the Dragonbone Mountains."
He let the implication hang in the air.
"I suggest Your Highness makes the... necessary preparations."
*Necessary preparations.*
In other words: *Get ready to run.*
Kyle looked at Edward and allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smile to touch his lips.
"I understand," he said. "Convey my thanks to Earl Washburn. His greetings have been received. And the Rules of the North? I have committed them to memory."
He placed the cup on the table with a soft *clink*.
"Is there anything else?"
Edward stared at him. The silence stretched.
"Does Your Highness have no further questions?"
"Not for now," Kyle said. "If I find I have a problem, I'll send someone to find you."
His tone was dismissive, casual—the way a master might address a clerk.
Edward's mask didn't break, but his folded hands tightened.
"Very well," he said. "If you require anything, do not hesitate to send word to the holds. The Earl has promised to help where he can."
Kyle nodded. "Show him out."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
Renard stepped forward, gesturing toward the door. Edward bowed again, turned, and walked out with the same rhythmic, measured pace he had arrived with.
The door closed.
The fire hissed.
Kyle sat at the long table, staring at the parchment Edward had left behind. Taxation, security, supplies. Every line was a cage. Every word was meant to tell him: *You are a prince in the capital, but in the North, you are nothing.*
"Your Highness," Renard's voice broke the silence. The old knight's face was dark. "About the grain... what we brought from the capital will only last two months."
Two months. Riverbend Town had its own farms, but the yield was pathetic—blighted soil produced half of what a normal farm would. Two thousand mouths to feed, and only sixty days of food left in the middle of a looming winter.
"And weapons?" Kyle asked.
"Twelve magi-rifles. Fewer than three hundred rounds of ammunition," Renard said, his voice grim. "The rest is cold steel—mostly old, rusted blades in need of a blacksmith."
Twelve rifles. Three hundred rounds. A low-tier Aberrant was roughly as strong as a mage apprentice. One well-placed shot could kill one. But there were thousands of them in the Ashwood.
Kyle stood up and walked to the hearth. The firelight cast his shadow long and thin against the stone wall. He didn't speak; he was calculating.
Renard watched him. He had known Kyle for years, from the glittering halls of the capital to this frozen hell. He thought he knew the boy. But today, the way Kyle had handled Edward... it was unsettling.
No anger. No pleading. No futile posturing.
He looked less like a twenty-two-year-old boy and more like... something else.
"Renard."
"Yes, Highness."
"How many people in Riverbend?"
"Twelve hundred locals. Plus our eight hundred followers. Two thousand in total."
"How many can fight?"
Renard hesitated. "Among our retinue, maybe a hundred and twenty are fit for duty, but fewer than forty have seen actual combat. The town has twenty or thirty hunters—good with bows, but they've never faced a Calamity beast."
Kyle nodded. "Tomorrow morning, gather everyone. I want to see this town for myself."
"As you wish."
Renard turned to leave.
"One more thing," Kyle called out. "The mage, Alice. Where is she?"
"Upstairs. She said she was organizing... something."
Kyle nodded, and Renard withdrew.
The hall fell silent. The fire was dying, the wood turning to white ash. Darkness crept in from the corners, swallowing the floor bit by bit.
Kyle stood there, his mind a whirlwind of data.
Earl Washburn wasn't just a lord; he was the King of the North in all but name. He controlled the flow of goods, the military, and the borders. He was the law. And he had made his stance clear: *Submit to my rules, or starve in the snow.*
Kyle reached out and poked the last charred log into the embers. A few sparks flew up and died instantly.
He remembered what Edward said about winter.
It was currently late autumn. The first snow was coming. And when the snow fell, the things in the Ashwood would come out to play.
His town had no walls, no reinforcements, and three hundred bullets.
Kyle wiped the soot from his fingers. He didn't sigh. He didn't frown. He simply stood in the deepening dark, watching his shadow disappear.
Soft footsteps sounded on the stairs. Alice came down, clutching a roll of parchment.
"Your Highness," she said. "I've mapped out the perimeter of the Ashwood."
Kyle turned. In the dim light, he was a silhouette.
"Show me."
She spread the map on the table. It was a crude sketch, but the vital information was there. The Graywater River snaked through the forest and curved around Riverbend. The forest edge was sixty miles away—a wasteland of abandoned farms lay between them.
Alice pointed to the zones she had marked. Pale yellow for "Low Threat," orange for "Moderate," and a dark, bloody red for the center: the ruins of Isenpore.
"The outskirts are mostly low-tier Aberrants—blighted wolves, boars, things like that. Dangerous in packs, but manageable," Alice explained.
"And the moderate zone?"
"Corrupted bears, Stalkers, things that have drifted out from the ruins. They're as strong as a junior mage."
"And the red zone?"
Alice's finger stopped on the skull-and-crossbones.
"Isenpore. They say an Aberrant Lord dwells there—something with the power of a Mid-Circle Mage. It sleeps most of the time, but if you wake it... nothing survives."
*A Mid-Circle Mage.* Kyle remembered his studies. That was the level of a professor at the Royal Academy.
"What about their behavior?" Kyle asked.
"They hunt at night. They hate the light. And when the snow falls, they get hungry. They've breached Riverbend before—ten years ago. Thirty people died before the pack retreated."
Kyle looked at the map in silence. Alice watched him, waiting for the panic to set in. It never came.
"Your Highness," she finally asked. "What is the plan?"
Kyle didn't look up from the map. "First, we look at the town."
"And then?"
Kyle straightened his back, his eyes cold and focused.
"And then, we find a way to survive the winter."
He said it so casually, as if he were discussing what to have for dinner. Alice felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Aren't you afraid?" she whispered.
Kyle looked at her. "Of what?"
"Of dying. Of the things in the forest. Of the fact that we are alone out here."
Kyle walked to the window and pushed it open. The freezing wind whipped his hair. He stared into the absolute, suffocating blackness of the northern night.
"Fear," he said softly, "is a luxury I can't afford."
Alice watched his silhouette against the wind. She realized then that the rumors were wrong. He wasn't a shadow. He was something else entirely—a man who had accepted his reality and was already building a weapon to kill it.
She rolled up her map and retreated upstairs without another word.
Kyle remained at the window. Somewhere out there in the dark, the Ashwood was waiting. Isenpore was waiting. The world was waiting for him to fail.
He closed the window and walked toward the stairs.
He remembered Edward's parting shot: *In the North, survival is the only true title.*
Kyle's lips quirked. Not a smile, but a grim line of resolve.
He climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the hollow stone house. He lay down on the creaking bed, staring at the flickering oil lamp until sleep finally claimed him.
He dreamed of his old life—the cold coffee, the glowing Excel sheets, the distant sound of an ambulance. He felt a pang of nostalgia, not for the home he never really had, but for the certainty of knowing what tomorrow would bring.
In this world, tomorrow was a blank page.
The wind howled outside, sounding like a chorus of weeping ghosts.
The snow hadn't fallen yet.
But it was coming.