– Imperial Carriage, Approaching Valene –
Vincent and Kieran sat opposite the third prince in a lavish imperial carriage, and neither man looked pleased about it. Their silence was tense, only occasionally interrupted by the creaking of fine leather and the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the frostbitten road.
Joining them was the appointed captain of the escort: a nobleman rather than a soldier.
Baron Valerie.
An older man with a rotund frame and strangely powerful posture, Valerie exuded the unsettling cheer of one who smiled too easily. His cheeks were perpetually flushed, his eyes beaming with self-satisfaction. It was clear he intended to wring every ounce of prestige from escorting royal blood—especially the third prince. As a lower-ranking noble, he knew little of the court's whispers. Much like the common people, he believed Darius was destined to inherit the throne.
His toothy smile could give even Kieran a run for his money.
The carriage was, naturally, built for royalty—polished leather seats, velvet-lined walls, and thick, fur-trimmed blankets that spilled over Darius's lap. Yet despite the comfort, the bitter air seeped in. Without the enchanted hearths of the palace, the cold of Elicia clawed into his bones.
"Tell me, Baron," Darius said, his tone distant. "How do the people keep warm in winters such as these?"
Valerie lit up as though the prince had gifted him a crown. He straightened with an eager gleam in his eyes.
"Why~ they gather great stacks of firewood, Your Highness!" he chirped.
"Every day?" Darius asked, quietly unsettled.
"Oh yes, of course," Valerie nodded enthusiastically. "But rest assured—we've made certain none of those dirty savages will cloud your view from the window."
The baron folded his hands and smiled as if he'd just presented a flawless report.
Darius did not smile. His frown was swift and unmistakable.
Valerie's own grin faltered, replaced by a sheen of sweat. "A-Ah! Your Highness, is the heating perhaps inadequate? I shall have the servant who prepared your carriage flogged—"
"That won't be necessary," Vincent cut in coolly. He glanced toward Darius, who had already gone quiet, his mind elsewhere.
The carriage had heating?
The prince had been given hot tea, the thickest coats, the softest furs… and still he had felt the cold. Now he imagined peasants in threadbare cloaks, children huddling around dying embers.
A wave of nausea climbed his throat.
He hated himself for daring to feel discomfort.
Seeing the prince so absorbed, even Baron Valerie held his tongue. He seemed too afraid to speak further, perhaps haunted by rumors of the infamous third prince—the cursed one, the silent one, the monster in black and red.
Darius closed his eyes. He could stall no longer. The horrors of his father's empire would soon greet him face-to-face.
The purpose of his mission was no mystery. Elicia needed weapons, armor, and siegecraft—every last bolt of iron—to survive the coming wars. His father would rather strip Valene bare than risk losing an ounce of military strength. The people? They were traitors in the emperor's eyes. Let the mist claim them. It was a convenient purge.
Any general could've handled this assignment.
But the emperor hadn't sent a general.
He had sent him.
Not for his ability. Not for his strategy.
But for his signet. For his eyes—those red imperial eyes that no one could mistake. Darius was a walking decree. A living symbol. A threat made flesh.
A cursed banner come to collect.
He would be hated.
But maybe, just maybe… he could use that hatred.
The moment Valerie stepped out for an inspection, Darius moved. With deliberate care, he unfolded parchment and began writing. His fingers trembled as he shaped each letter, choosing a style far removed from his usual hand. The message was brief but harrowing: a supposed warning that the imperial family would soon launch a purge of Valene, beginning with the arrival of its blood-stained prince.
It was partially true. He was coming. He would demand supplies. He would make a scene.
And he would give them a reason to flee.
He folded the letter into a crisp square and pressed it to his chest. This was treason. But it was also hope. A monster in name, he thought, but not in action.
Now he only needed one thing: a way to deliver it.
The lord of Valene wasn't a fool. If the letter reached the wrong hands, the town might not stand a chance.
Time was running out.
"Your Highness, your genius is astounding!" Kieran blurted, beaming.
"I advise you to lower your voice," Vincent muttered, cold steel already at Kieran's throat before the sentence finished.
Darius raised a hand to speak, but a sharp horn blared from beyond the carriage. The door flung open.
"Ah! My radiant prince! Whom I wish a long and prosperous—"
Vincent's glare made Valerie stumble to his point.
"Aha… I-It seems the troops at Valene have spotted our approach. We shall arrive shortly. And rest assured, they will be punished for disturbing your repose with such a horrid racket!"
Darius nodded stiffly. "Very well."
He hated the performance. But he played his part.
Valerie beamed. "Hehe… Of course, my prince. It is my honor to serve you."
Valene stood like a colossus, its stone walls sheathed in frost, its high towers crowned with snow. The cold bit deep, even through layers of fur and steel. Pine scent lingered in the air—almost nostalgic, though Darius had no memory to pin it to.
Elician warhorses neighed in protest, their blood-red capes snapping in the wind. Knights in black and scarlet lined the walls, motionless as statues. On their breastplates, the moonlight shimmered like fire—godly, blue-white, and merciless.
Above them flew the banner of Elicia: a waning sun on black, torn and ever-falling.
Valene had once been a proud stronghold on Elicia's eastern frontier. Under its late lord, it had thrived—not in splendor, but in unity. The people saw themselves as guardians of the border, not pawns of the empire. Their lord had been eccentric, frugal, and fiercely beloved. But his loyalty was not to the imperial court—it was to the people.
He had kept the empire's claws at bay for decades.
Until the knights uncovered his defiance.
He was dragged from his home, hung from the battlements, his head displayed for all to see. His blood stained the walls that had once protected the town. His people—his family—were silenced with blades.
Now, imperial knights patrolled the streets. Eyes sharp. Fingers on hilts. Watching for rebellion.
Watching his successor.
The town was quiet.
No music. No laughter. No fig-sellers or street bards. Just a silence so thick it seemed to choke the air.
The current lord had once cowered before the empire's wrath. But with the demonic mist growing ever closer, so too had Valene's resolve.
Their poverty had hardened into defiance. Their fear into hatred.
Even now, their hearts burned against all logic—burned for a freedom long denied.