The heavy, iron-studded hall door swung shut with a thud that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the castle, echoing the profound silence that followed Ambassador Petrov's departure. Roland stood by the tall, narrow window of the Great Hall, his hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creak of wooden wheels signaled the nobleman's retreat toward Longsong Stronghold.
Petrov had arrived that morning with the swagger of a man holding all the cards, but he had left with an expression that was a volatile mix of disbelief, wounded pride, and genuine dread. The turning point had been simple: Roland had "kindly" invited him for a stroll along the North Slope to show him the progress of the "Border Town project." There, rising like a grey, seamless monolith against the rugged landscape, was the first 100 meters of the cement wall. To Petrov, it looked like sorcery—a stone fortress birthed from the mud in a matter of weeks. To Roland, it was merely the first physical manifestation of an industrial revolution.
Arthur, now perfectly adjusted to his new noble attire—an impeccably cut charcoal-gray wool tunic that camouflaged his "outsider" nature—remained seated at the long oak table. He was leaning over a series of ledgers and maps that Petrov had brought as part of the "negotiations." Arthur's posture was that of a focused scholar, but his eyes were constantly darting toward the periphery of the room.
— "He didn't expect that, Your Highness," Arthur commented, his voice low and steady, breaking the heavy silence. — "Petrov came here today to negotiate for our iron ore as if we were starving beggars pleading for a handful of grain. He expected to walk away with a contract that would keep us subservient to Duke Ryan for another decade. Instead, he left realizing that the Stronghold's monopoly is effectively over."
Roland turned away from the window, a small, pragmatic smile touching his lips—the smile of an engineer who had just seen a complex machine click into gear.
— "Having other trading partners along the Redwater River was the icing on the cake," Roland said, walking back toward the table. — "By selling our high-grade ore for actual gold and immediate supplies to the merchant fleets from other cities, we've cut the Duke out of the loop. He's used to being the only buyer in the region. Now, Duke Ryan is going to lose a lot of sleep trying to figure out who these 'invisible allies' are and how we managed to bypass his blockade."
— "And the wall served as the final exclamation point," Arthur added, his fingers tracing the line of the river on the map. — "It proved to him that you aren't joking about staying here for the winter. No one builds a structure like that if they intend to flee at the first sign of snow. You've just signaled to the entire region that Border Town is no longer a temporary mining camp—it's a sovereign territory."
Arthur's mind, however, was elsewhere. While the economic victory was significant, he was far more concerned with the supernatural implications of the day. According to the "script" of the story he knew so well, the timeline was reaching a critical juncture. The diplomatic visit from Longsong was the classic herald for the arrival of the story's most important observer.
Petrov is gone. The ambassador has played his part, Arthur thought, his eyes discreetly scanning the shadowed corners behind the heavy tapestries and the dark recesses of the ceiling beams. That means she could already be here. Nightingale. Veronica Gilen. She has certainly crossed the Impassable Mountain Range by now. She's likely standing right here, watching us from the monochrome stillness of the Mist World at this very moment.
Arthur felt a slight, involuntary chill crawl down his spine. He remembered with vivid clarity that in the original narrative, Nightingale appeared in Roland's private chambers just a few days—or even that very same night—after the diplomatic visit. She was sent to verify if this "mad prince" was truly a friend to witches or merely another exploiter looking for a magical tool.
— "You seem tense, Arthur," Roland noted, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. He reached for a carafe of water, his brow furrowed in concern. — "Is there an error in the cement calculations? Or are the logistics for the next grain shipment bothering you?"
— "There are no technical errors, Your Highness," Arthur replied, choosing his words with extreme care. He knew he was likely being overheard by a woman who could kill him before he could draw breath if she perceived him as a threat. — "The math is sound. I just feel that by challenging the Duke and the Church so openly, we are going to attract visitors who don't bother knocking on the front door. We are building a beacon of stability in a world of chaos. Naturally, people will come seeking the 'Holy Mountain'—or at least, a place where the shadow of the gallows doesn't reach."
Roland arched an eyebrow, catching the deliberate allusion. He set his glass down, looking at Arthur with a newfound intensity.
— "You think the Witch Cooperation Association that Barov speaks of will actually take notice? That they would send someone to a place as desolate as this?"
— "I think some alliances begin in the deep shadows before they are ever sealed in the light of day," Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave. — "We should be prepared for the fact that we are being judged by more than just the Duke. There are eyes in the mist, Your Highness, and they are looking for a reason to trust us."
Roland sighed, leaning back in his chair. — "If they come, we will show them what we showed Anna. That science doesn't care about 'sin' or 'curses.' It only cares about results and the truth."
Arthur nodded, though he remained hyper-aware of the space around them. He didn't want to alert Roland to his specific knowledge yet—it would be too hard to explain—but he needed to ensure the environment was welcoming for the invisible sentinel.
Meanwhile, somewhere between the layers of reality, a cloaked figure with sharp, watchful eyes observed the two men. From within the silent, grey-scale world of the Mist, Nightingale stood barely three feet from the table. She adjusted the brim of her hat, her hand resting habitually on the hilt of her dagger.
She was deeply intrigued. This Prince did not smell of the stagnant lies she was used to hearing from nobility; his scent was of sweat, ink, and a strange, burning ambition. But it was the advisor, the one called Arthur, who truly fascinated her. He spoke in riddles that seemed to pierce right through her veil. He was looking at the shadows as if he could see her, and his words were a direct invitation.
A place where the shadow of the gallows doesn't reach... she repeated to herself.
She would continue to watch for a while longer. If this was a trap, it was the most elaborate and expensive one she had ever seen. But if it was the truth... then the search for the Holy Mountain might finally be over.