Beneath the white linen tablecloth, Ambassador Petrov wiped his damp palms against the burgundy velvet of his trousers, his mind scrambling to find an escape hatch from the corner Prince Roland and Count Arthur had just backed him into.
When you couldn't win an argument on moral grounds or accounting numbers, the first rule of Longsong diplomacy was simple: change the subject and dangle a fresh piece of bait.
Forcing a look of deep, sympathetic sorrow onto his face, Petrov placed his right hand over his chest and bowed his head slightly toward the head of the table.
— "Your Royal Highness, please accept my deepest personal condolences regarding the tragic cave-in at the North Slope Mine," — Petrov said, smoothing his voice into a warm, reasonable purr. — "Allow me to assure you right now that the Merchant Council has no desire to see a repeat of the horrific winter famine of two years ago. As a gesture of good faith and solidarity from Longsong Stronghold, I am prepared to authorize an emergency loan of winter grain and salted meat sufficient to feed your entire town for the next thirty days. Once spring arrives and your miners clear the collapsed shafts, Border Town can simply repay the loan plus a modest administrative interest directly out of your first shipments of iron ore."
Petrov leaned back slightly, waiting for the prince to sigh in relief and grab the lifeline.
He didn't even get to enjoy the silence for two seconds.
— "With all due respect to your sudden burst of charity, Ambassador, the window for predatory food loans has already closed," — Arthur's calm, razor-sharp voice sliced cleanly through Petrov's offer, a faint, almost pitying smile resting on the scholar's lips. — "Three days ago, His Highness officially authorized the direct sale of our remaining low-grade surface ore and cut timber to the independent merchant caravans operating out of Willow Town. We have found that dealing in immediate cash flow—without the chains of an exclusive monopoly—yields a vastly superior return for the royal treasury."
Petrov's smile froze on his face, his fingers twitching against his teacup.
— "Wait a moment, Count Arthur, our commercial convention clearly states—" — Petrov started to object.
— "There is no room for 'buts' or outdated conventions in my new administration, Petrov," — Roland cut in with icy finality, leaning forward and locking his gray eyes onto the envoy so he couldn't regain control of the room. — "Unlike the rigged price-fixing board in your stronghold, the river merchants of Willow Town operate in a genuine free market. They are more than happy to purchase our rough minerals and furs using heavy, honest gold royals and silver coins. And in that exact same market, my quartermasters can buy boatloads of clean winter wheat, wheels of hard cheese, jars of wild honey, and barrels of dried meat at fair, competitive prices—paying for them on the spot with the gold we just earned. It is a clean, transparent cycle."
Roland tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing straight through Petrov's diplomatic mask:
— "Besides, Petrov... let us stop pretending among adults," — the prince added dryly. — "Even if you were magically struck by a bolt of divine generosity today and promised to lend us ten thousand sacks of wheat out of your own pocket, do you really expect me to believe that the other five ruling families of Longsong Stronghold would passively rubber-stamp your private promise? Based on the political intelligence Count Arthur compiled for me this week, not even your mighty Duke Ryan has the absolute authority to force a bad financial deal down the throats of the other five families without triggering a revolt in his own courtyard."
Gulp.
Petrov swallowed hard against a completely dry throat, sitting in stunned silence.
Every single word the Fourth Prince had just spoken—guided by that terrifyingly sharp foreign advisor sitting beside him—had dissected the internal political rot of Longsong Stronghold with surgical precision.
Roland was one hundred percent right.
Forget convincing the other five noble houses; Petrov knew for a fact that his own father, the patriarch of the Petrov family, would skin him alive if he signed a grain loan that reduced their seasonal profit margin by a single silver royal!
If Border Town wanted to break the stranglehold of the old treaty, the entire commercial framework of the western region would have to be renegotiated from scratch—and despite his fancy velvet clothes and his pompous title of "Ambassador," Petrov possessed neither the political capital nor the authority to change a single comma on his own.
In the ruthless feudal hierarchy of Longsong Stronghold, Petrov was nothing more than an errand boy—a glorified mouthpiece sent upriver by a committee of six greedy vultures who didn't trust each other. In fact, back during the corrupt days of Governor Reynold and the old Fourth Prince, the Six Great Families had deliberately rotated a different junior envoy every season just to make sure no single family could cut a secret side deal with the royal mines.
Yet regardless of the political swamp back home, one brutal truth remained: Petrov could not sail back down the Redwater River tomorrow morning with empty barges and a torn-up treaty.
If he returned to Longsong and told Duke Ryan and his father that the "idiot Fourth Prince" had kicked them out of the North Slope Mine and switched trade to Willow Town, Petrov's political career—and possibly his neck—would be finished before sunset.
Driven into a corner with no way out, Petrov decided to throw down his final, desperate bluff.
Straightening his spine in the oak chair, Petrov raised his right hand and held up three trembling fingers toward the head of the table.
— "Thirty percent," — Petrov announced, his voice strained as he tried to project confidence. — "If Your Highness agrees to cancel this side arrangement with Willow Town and maintain Longsong's exclusive purchasing rights when the shafts reopen, I will personally guarantee that the Stronghold Council buys all your extracted iron ore, raw gemstones, and quarry stone at a rate thirty percent above the previous market valuation! That is an unprecedented jump in revenue, Your Highness! In terms of sheer shipping volume and military security along the river, Longsong's fleet can offer you a long-term guarantee that those small peddler barges from Willow Town could never match!"
Sitting to Roland's right, Arthur glanced down at the calculation parchment in front of him for two seconds before raising his calm dark eyes back to the envoy.
— "Your basic arithmetic is sound, Ambassador," — Arthur said smoothly, resting his folded hands on the wood. — "In terms of raw long-term volume, a thirty-percent price increase from a major stronghold would indeed outweigh small merchant contracts. However, your entire equation fails at its foundation, which brings us right back to His Highness's previous question: do you actually possess the military seal and legal authority in your pocket right now to bind all Six Great Families to that thirty-percent rate today?"
— "I—I will depart for Longsong Stronghold at the first light of dawn tomorrow!" — Petrov replied quickly, leaning halfway across the table. — "With a wind behind my sails, I can present the new terms to the Council in two days! As soon as the assembly reaches a consensus, I will turn the fleet around and return immediately with the re-sealed contract and the winter grain barges!"
At the head of the table, Roland rested his chin on his palm, looking at Petrov as if he were watching a terrible stage actor forget his lines.
— "How touching," — Roland said dryly. — "Unfortunately, Ambassador, the empty stomachs of my two thousand citizens cannot hibernate like cave bears while your noble fathers spend the next six weeks arguing over profit shares in a warm parlor. We both know how aristocrats work when dividing a pie: by the time your six families finish fighting over the commas in that contract, the snow will be four feet deep on my roads."
Seeing the prince about to wave his hand and end the audience entirely, pure panic finally shattered the last layer of Petrov's courtly composure.
He had played every card he had, and he had lost them all. In his desperation not to go home a failure, the young nobleman made the fatal mistake of reaching for a threat.
— "Your Royal Highness... I urge you to think very carefully before severing your ties with Longsong Stronghold," — Petrov said, his voice dropping to a low, trembling pitch as his throat went bone-dry. — "Willow Town lies much farther to the west along the winding river bends. And as Your Highness surely knows... the first snow of the Months of Demons is only weeks away."
Petrov swallowed hard, the silence in the stone hall pressing against his eardrums like deep water as he forced the next words out:
— "Supposing that, when the demonic hordes pour down from the mountains this winter, Your Highness and the townsfolk attempt to evacuate all the way to Willow Town through the deep snow instead of seeking shelter behind Longsong's gates..." — Petrov's voice shook visibly. — "The forest trail to the west is full of narrow ravines, blinding blizzards, and roaming packs of beasts. Without Duke Ryan's patrols clearing the eastern road for you... I fear such a long winter march would prove... quite lethal for a royal prince."
The instant the word "lethal" echoed off the stone walls of the dining hall, a silence as cold as a tomb dropped over the room.
Standing three paces behind the prince, Chief Knight Carter Lannis narrowed his eyes into razor slits, his gloved thumb pushing the steel crossguard of his longsword half an inch out of its scabbard with an audible shing. Beside him, Commander William didn't reach for a weapon; he simply uncrossed his arms and took half a step forward, cracking his neck with a slow, wicked grin.
Sitting in his chair, Petrov felt all the blood drain from his face, his heart hammering against his ribs at two hundred beats a minute.
My God... by the seven hells, what did I just say?!, Petrov screamed inside his own head, cold sweat soaking the back of his velvet collar. Have I completely lost my mind?! I am the second son of a mere viscount, and I just sat inside a royal castle and threatened a direct blood prince of the Wimbledon family with death in the snow—right in front of his Chief Knight and two powerful allies from the Kingdom of Dawn! If Roland calls his guards to drag me out to the courtyard chopping block for high treason right now, not even Duke Ryan could blame him!
Petrov gripped the edges of his chair under the table, bracing himself for the prince to slam his fist down and shout for his head.
One second passed.
Two seconds passed.
And then—
— "Pffft... Hahahahahaha!"
An explosive, genuine burst of clear laughter erupted from the head of the oak table, bouncing brightly off the high stone ceiling.
To Petrov's utter bewilderment, Prince Roland wasn't purple with rage, nor was he signaling Carter Lannis to draw his blade. Instead, the young prince was leaning back against his chair, shaking his head with pure, unadulterated amusement as he wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye.
Even Count Arthur, sitting to the prince's right, was shaking his head with a quiet, mocking chuckle, while Commander William behind them let out a loud snort.
— "Oh, Ambassador Petrov... forgive me, truly," — Roland said, catching his breath as his smile sharpened into something far more intimidating than anger. — "It appears you have been operating under a tragic and rather hilarious geographical misunderstanding since the moment you stepped off your boat."
Petrov blinked twice, completely lost.
— "What... what exactly does Your Highness mean by that?" — Petrov stammered.
— "I mean that never once—not for a single fraction of a second—have I considered the humiliating idea of packing up my castle and running away through the snow toward Willow Town," — Roland stated, his voice ringing clear and cold across the hall. — "And to make things even clearer for your masters back home: I also have zero intention of marching my people to the gates of Longsong Stronghold this winter to beg Duke Ryan for roof space while surrendering my sovereignty over this border."
Roland leaned both elbows on the oak table, looking straight into Petrov's stunned eyes:
— "I am not fleeing anywhere, Petrov."
For three seconds, Petrov stared blankly at the prince, genuinely wondering if the stress of the trip was making him hallucinate.
Not evacuating to Willow Town... and not evacuating to Longsong Stronghold?!, Petrov thought wildly. Is he planning to die in this open valley?!
Before the silence could turn even more awkward for the frozen envoy, Roland spoke again, using the patient, slow tone of a teacher explaining basic arithmetic to a slow child:
— "Listen closely so you can repeat this word for word to the Six Great Families," — Roland said. — "Throughout the entirety of the coming Months of Demons, and for every single winter that follows, my administration and my people will remain right here inside Border Town. Starting this year, this territory ceases to be a seasonal refugee camp; it is now the permanent, impenetrable frontier fortress of Graycastle."
Seeing the look of pure, bug-eyed disbelief on Petrov's face, Roland gestured casually toward Arthur sitting beside him:
— "Do not look at me with that gaping mouth, my skeptical friend; these are not the drunken boasts of a prince who has had too much wine," — Roland smirked. — "If you do not trust my word, as soon as we finish our tea, I will gladly have Count Arthur and Commander William escort you down to the southern edge of town so you can touch our new masonry and cement ramparts rising between the North Slope and the river with your own hands."
Petrov's jaw dropped open, his voice failing him completely on the first try.
— "The... the town built its own fortress wall?!" — Petrov croaked out.
— "Designed from the ground up under His Highness's specifications and supervised by my partner and me," — Arthur replied smoothly, speaking with the calm pride of an architect unveiling a cathedral. — "It is an unbroken defensive line stretching from the sheer cliff face of the North Slope Mine straight into the deep channel of the Redwater River. Standing nearly twelve feet high and four feet thick of solid, impact-resistant hydraulic stone, it has no seams for claws to pry open. We have no need to run through the snow, Ambassador—because when the Demonic Beasts come down from the peaks this winter, we are going to slaughter every last one of them right outside our front door."
Inside Petrov's skull, every gear of logical reasoning ground to a screeching halt.
That is completely impossible! It's sheer lunacy!, Petrov screamed internally, his fingers digging into his knees.
Just two months ago, right before the autumn winds started, Longsong's previous tax collector had returned from Border Town. In that man's detailed report to Duke Ryan, there hadn't been a single mention, not even a rumor, of a wall project—only the same rotting mud shacks and broken wooden fences that had stood here for fifty years!
More than that, during the previous winter, the coward Reynold and the entire population had fled to Longsong just like every other year.
That meant that even if the Fourth Prince had jumped out of his royal carriage on his very first day in Border Town three months ago and started digging trenches that same afternoon without sleeping... how in the name of the gods could a half-starved, illiterate population of two thousand peasants erect a continuous twelve-foot-high stone rampart from the mountain to the river in ninety days?!
Petrov knew enough about fortress construction from Longsong's military engineers to do the math in his head.
To quarry, cut, haul, and lay enough granite blocks to span the gap between the North Slope and the Redwater River—at twelve feet high and four feet thick—would require at least three to five years of brutal, non-stop slave labor, tens of thousands of gold royals, and an army of master stonecutters that simply did not exist in this miserable mining village!
And yet, before Petrov's reeling brain could even process how they could tell such a monumental lie when he could literally walk outside and look in ten minutes, Roland leaned back in his chair and dropped the final financial guillotine on Longsong's neck.
— "Ah, and regarding our humble iron trade with your beloved Stronghold once spring arrives," — Roland added, resting his elbow on the armrest with the relaxed smile of a shark who smelled blood in the water. — "Tell your Council that starting next season, I will happily cut the volume of raw iron ore we ship to Longsong by half—In fact, we won't be selling you raw iron ore at all."
Petrov's eyes bulged so wide they looked ready to pop out of his sockets.
— "Not... selling raw ore?!" — Petrov gasped.
— "The rules of the game have changed, Ambassador," — Roland said coolly. — "Why should Border Town dig up the wealth of our mountain and sell it to Duke Ryan for pennies like dirt? Following Count Arthur's industrial transition plan, instead of making pathetic profits selling unrefined rock to ungrateful middlemen, your noble families will soon have the privilege of spending their gold royals to import our finished metal goods—with a very healthy profit margin built in for my treasury, of course. Civilized, high-grade products: tempered steel hoes, reinforced mining shovels, standardized plate armor, high-carbon tools, and mechanical parts that your primitive blacksmiths in Longsong couldn't forge in their wildest dreams."
Roland paused for two seconds, letting the complete inversion of their colonial relationship sink into Petrov's skull before continuing:
— "And as for the high-clarity gemstones dug up from the deeper veins..." — Roland waved a dismissive hand. — "We will no longer accept your Council's fixed bulk rates. Starting in spring, Count Arthur will organize open quarterly auctions right here in Border Town, inviting wealthy merchants from Willow Town, Redwater City, and King's City alike. Whichever noble or merchant shouts the highest bid in pure gold takes the stones. Frankly, once my new cutting and polishing workshops are finished this winter, we will only sell finished jewelry anyway, multiplying the price tenfold."
Sitting in his chair, Ambassador Petrov felt as though his aristocratic heart were about to explode from sheer, suffocating rage and humiliation.
Look at the way they are mocking me!, Petrov seethed, his ears burning bright red beneath his feathered cap. First this arrogant boy-prince and his shady foreign alchemist claim they built a cyclopean fortress wall out of thin air in a few weeks, and now they have the audacity to tell me that a dirt-poor mining camp lacks the time to sell us raw rocks because they're going to become a master manufacturing hub?!
Even if Border Town magically doubled its iron output and opened new gem veins, Longsong Stronghold was the industrial and military giant of the western region! For Roland to sit there and claim that the Six Great Families would have to beg to buy forged shovels from Border Town wasn't just diplomatic arrogance—it was a calculated slap across Duke Ryan's face!
Beneath the tablecloth, Petrov clenched both fists so hard his fingernails drew tiny crescents of blood from his palms, using the sharp pain to force his noble training back in control of his tongue.
He couldn't scream here. He needed to see their bluff fail with his own eyes first.
Taking a deep, shaky breath through his nose, Petrov stood up stiffly from his chair and bowed from the waist.
— "Every single word Your Highness has spoken at this table today has been engraved into my memory," — Petrov said, his voice tight and mechanical as he fought to keep it level. — "I shall return to the river pier immediately, set sail at dawn, and relay your... revolutionary commercial policies directly to the Council of the Six Families."
Petrov raised his head, shooting a cold, suspicious glare at Arthur before looking back at Roland:
— "However, Your Highness, if it is not asking too much of your hospitality..." — Petrov added, his lip curling slightly. — "As the official envoy of Longsong Stronghold, before I board my vessel, I would very much like to take you up on your offer and inspect this miraculous twelve-foot wall that Count Arthur described with such confidence—with my own two eyes."
At the head of the table, Roland smiled broadly—the blinding, effortless smile of a card player holding four aces against a pair of twos.
— "Of course you may, young ambassador. In fact, I insist on it," — Roland said, gesturing gracefully toward Arthur and William. — "Count Arthur, Commander William—since our guest is in such a hurry to verify our construction before the sun goes down, please escort Ambassador Petrov to the southern perimeter on his way back to the pier. Make sure he gets a very close look at our masonry. After all, our wall isn't going anywhere... and at this point, even if Duke Ryan marched out tomorrow, it would be far too late to stop it from rising."
.
.
.
Fifteen minutes later, Ambassador Petrov's carriage rolled down the dirt road leading away from the castle hill, only instead of turning right toward the western river docks, the driver followed the two horsemen riding ahead of him—Arthur and William—straight toward the southern clearing of Border Town.
Inside the bouncing cab, Petrov stared out the window with a bitter sneer on his face.
A twelve-foot stone wall spanning the entire valley in less than two months... what a pathetic joke, Petrov thought, crossing his arms as they passed the last row of wattle-and-daub peasant shacks. At best, I am going to step out of this carriage and find a chest-high pile of loose fieldstones and mud that will wash away in the first autumn rain. And the moment I see it, I'm going to laugh right in that smug Count Arthur's face!
The carriage rounded the final bend of the road, clearing the dense grove of pine trees that separated the outer town from the southern approach.
Whoa—!
Outside, the coachman pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the horses to an abrupt halt.
Before the footman even jumped down to open the door, Petrov pushed the wooden door open himself and stepped down onto the packed gravel road, raising his chin with a ready-made smirk on his lips.
— "Well then, Count Arthur, let us see this legendary—"
The words died in Petrov's throat.
His jaw unhinged, and his feet froze to the dirt as if he had been turned into a pillar of salt.
Fifty paces in front of his boots, stretching in a dead-straight, unbroken line from the sheer rock cliff of the North Slope all the way across the valley floor to the churning waters of the Redwater River, stood a colossal, monolithic barrier of seamless dark-gray stone!
It wasn't a pile of loose boulders. It wasn't a wooden palisade smeared with mud.
It was a solid, towering wall nearly four meters high, with sharply angled bastions, a wide fighting platform running along the top crest, and a surface so uniform, dense, and devoid of mortar cracks that it looked as though a giant god had taken a single mountain ridge, melted it down, and poured it across the valley in one solid piece!
— "W-what... what in the name of the gods is that thing?!" — Petrov whispered, his legs moving on their own as he stumbled forward twenty paces, completely forgetting about mud on his polished leather boots until he was standing right in the cold shadow of the central section.
Dismounting effortlessly from their horses, Arthur and William walked up behind the dazed nobleman.
Reaching out with a trembling, velvet-gloved hand, Petrov pressed his palm against the cold gray surface of the wall. He scratched at it with his fingernail, half-expecting dry clay to flake off.
Nothing came off. It was harder and colder than the ancient granite foundations of Longsong Stronghold itself!
Even more terrifying to Petrov was what was happening fifty paces to the left of the wall, inside a wide, roped-off dirt clearing.
— "FIRST RANK—KNEEL! SECOND RANK—PRESENT ARMS!"
The booming, gravelly roar of the giant Mojin officer, Iron Axe, echoed across the valley floor.
Petrov whipped his head around and saw eighty men dressed in matching leather jerkins moving with a synchronized, mechanical precision that made the Duke's personal castle guards look like clumsy children.
Thud! Clack!
Eighty boots hit the dirt in a single sound, and forty dark iron tubes leveled forward over the shoulders of the kneeling front line.
Stepping up right beside the trembling ambassador, William rested a heavy hand on the pommel of his belt and tapped his knuckles twice against the solid concrete wall.
— "Go ahead and knock on it as hard as you want, Ambassador," — William said with a wide, shark-like grin. — "Like Arthur told you at the table: twelve feet of solid hydraulic stone, four feet thick at the base, anchored straight into the bedrock. And those boys drilling over there are just our first company."
Beside him, Arthur adjusted the silver-embroidered cuffs of his dark-gray wool tunic, looking at Petrov's pale, sweat-covered face with calm, clinical detachment.
— "The river tide turns in thirty minutes, Ambassador Petrov," — Arthur said softly. — "I suggest you board your vessel before dark. And when you sit down with Duke Ryan and the Six Great Families in Longsong Stronghold... do make sure you describe the exact height of this wall. We wouldn't want any more tragic misunderstandings about who actually controls the western border."
Petrov didn't say a single word.
He couldn't.
Pulling his hand back from the freezing gray concrete as if it had burned him, the young envoy turned around on wobbling knees, practically threw himself back inside his carriage without waiting for the footman, and shouted in a cracked, terrified voice for the driver to whip the horses straight to the pier.
Watching the carriage rattle frantically down the river road in a cloud of dust, William let out a loud, satisfied laugh and clapped Arthur on the shoulder.
— "Man, did you see his knees shaking when he touched the concrete?!" — William grinned. — "Fifty copper coins says he wets his pants before that boat even reaches Longsong!"
— "Let him panic," — Arthur smiled faintly, turning his gaze back toward the castle keep rising against the afternoon sky. — "His terror just bought us the next two months of peace from Duke Ryan. Now come on, Will—now that we have Anna and little Nana under our roof, it's time to upgrade our witches' firepower before the snow starts falling."