Chương 125: 01. Sudden Crisis 1

When we reached the command tent, Julian stepped ahead of me, lifted the flap, and gestured me inside with a subtle tilt of his body.

"What happened?" That was me asking. Inside stood a soldier—young, with dust from a desperate ride still caked on his armor plates. His entire body shook like someone who had just crawled out of a nightmare, his soul still frantically trying to catch up with his body. It wasn't ordinary nervousness. It was the particular tremor of a man who had seen something fundamentally wrong, something no one was supposed to witness, and whose eyes hadn't quite finished trying to forget it. Julian let the tent flap fall.

The night wind cut off instantly, leaving only the weak flutter of an oil lamp and the soldier's rapid, unsteady breathing.

"Report," Julian said. Just that one word, sharp as a blade. The soldier swallowed hard before managing to rasp:"The Southern Wall... has been struck by debris from the Dragon Kingdom." I frowned.

"Be specific." He nodded so frantically it looked like he feared someone would strangle him if he hesitated even a second longer.

"Several days ago, Black Dragon Pass in the Dragon Kingdom suffered an explosion of unknown origin. The entire city caught fire afterward—the scale was terrifying. Then came massive fireballs raining from the sky. Most landed within Dragon Kingdom territory, but the ones that crossed our border fell into the Pyre River." His voice caught there, like even he hadn't fully processed what he'd witnessed.

"But yesterday at dawn, a piece of burning structural debris flew across the border and crashed near Typhon Fortress on our Southern Wall. It was still ablaze when it landed." The tent went dead silent. The oil lamp's wick gave a small, trembling flutter, casting the soldier's pale face in stark relief. I watched him.

"What does Margrave Frank say?" The soldier lowered his head.

"Margrave Frank is... extremely furious. He insists this is an act of war and has already begun mobilizing his forces." I remained silent for a moment. Wonderful. I hadn't even arrived yet, and the south had already helpfully set the entire situation ablaze for me.

"So he sent you?"

"N-no, my lord." He shook his head quickly.

"I heard from the brothers at the forward outpost that the envoy delegation was nearby, so I rode out immediately. If this continues... it's really going to turn into war." He said that last part quietly, yet it sounded more honest than any intelligence he'd delivered so far. Because what truly destroys a political landscape isn't fireballs or burning rooftops crossing borders. It's a border marquis in the full heat of his rage, utterly convinced he understands preemptive strikes better than anyone else alive.

I walked to the campaign table, grabbed the quill, and spread a sheet of parchment. As I began writing, I asked without looking up:"Your name?"

"I am Duha, a garrison soldier of the Southern Wall, my lord."

"Good, Duha." The quill scratched rapidly across the paper.

"From this moment on, you work for me." He stared, clearly not expecting that his desperate sprint to deliver urgent news would end with him being conscripted on the spot. I scanned the letter quickly, folded it, sealed it with wax, then held it out to him.

"Take this letter back to Margrave Frank. Put it in his hands yourself." Duha took it with both hands, like he was grasping red-hot iron. I pulled out a family crest from my coat and pressed it into his palm.

"Tell him I am Cedric Rosa, son of Northeast Border Marquis Akros Rosa, and the mediating envoy appointed by His Majesty." Duha looked up at me, his throat working. I slowed my words, making each syllable crystal clear.

"And deliver one more message from me—until I arrive, all acts of aggression and provocation are strictly forbidden. No border crossings. No warning shots. No lighting any fire he won't be able to extinguish." The tent held only the faint sound of burning oil. I looked at Duha's face—still not entirely recovered from whatever horror had sent him riding—and kept my tone almost courteous.

"If he doubts my authority, show him the crest." Duha gripped the medallion carefully, like he was holding his own life.

"And... if Lord Frank still refuses to listen?" I paused. Then answered with absolute calm:"Then you deliver one final message for me." Duha straightened without thinking.

"Tell him that if I arrive at the Southern Wall and find you never delivered my letter, or that he has already made this situation irreversible—" Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. I looked at the lamp flame on the table. My voice wasn't loud, but it possessed the steady coldness of winter steel.

"—then I will no longer address him as Margrave Frank." Duha froze.

"Then... what will you call him, my lord?" I set the quill back on the table.

"A traitor." After that word fell, no one in the tent spoke. Even Julian only stood at the edge of the lamplight, quietly watching me, as though he was recalculating exactly what kind of weapon His Majesty had sent down this road. After Duha retreated with the letter and crest, the tent flap dropped, and it felt like half the oxygen had been sucked out with him. Only the lamp remained, burning steadily with its thin, constant sound. I looked down at the map spread across the table.

In the firelight, the southern territories were creased and wrinkled like a face about to be crumpled entirely. What had been mere lines on paper, ink-drawn fortifications, and a border lord's name in someone else's report had suddenly acquired personalities—and every single one had a terrible temper. Julian spoke first.

"If Frank has genuinely begun mobilizing forces, the letter Duha carries might slow him down. It won't necessarily stop him."

"That depends on whether he's angry or stupid," I said. Alvira stood on the opposite side of the table, eyes down on the map, her voice carrying the particular flatness of someone casually selecting coffin wood for a stranger.

"In my experience, those two conditions tend to arrive together." I glanced at her.

"Your assessment of Imperial nobility remains as warm and generous as ever."

"I'm exercising considerable restraint." She didn't even look up.

"If Jessi were here, she'd already be helping you decide which soil composition is most suitable for burial." That was entirely accurate.

If Jessi were present, she'd currently be wearing that particular smile of hers—the one that looks pleasant until you notice it's been sharpened—asking whether I wanted my will divided into three copies: one for my sister, one for Olivia, and one for the fire dragon princess I hadn't met yet, with a postscript reading: "If I die in a sufficiently pathetic fashion, please try not to laugh too loudly." The fact that I was still standing here in relative composure already felt like a monumental service to the Empire.

Julian reached out and pushed one of the wooden route markers south on the map.

"The original route is no longer viable without significant adjustment." He looked up at me.

"If Frank moves first—even a warning shot, border crossing, or seizing a minor outpost—everything changes."

"Into a border skirmish?" I asked.

"No." Julian's voice stayed level.

"Into the kind of situation where everyone scrambles to assign blame, but the people dying do so right on schedule." Wonderful. Thank you, Captain of the Guard. What an inspiring vision of Imperial military efficiency you've painted. I pressed my fingertip to our planned southward route and traced it slowly downward.

"Give me specifics." Julian nodded, as if he'd been waiting for exactly that command.

"Three problems." He raised his fingers, deliberate and precise.

"First: the cause of the Black Dragon Pass explosion is unknown. Second: Frank may open fire before you reach him. Third: if Dragon Kingdom debris has already struck the vicinity of the Southern Wall, the situation is far more chaotic than we anticipated."

"Those aren't three problems," I said.

"Those are three blades."

"Yes," he agreed without shame.

"All pointed directly at you." Truly the finest bodyguard a man could ask for. Other guards take the blade for their lord. Mine stands beside me and counts how many are incoming. Only then did Alvira move—reaching up to tuck a strand of pale gold hair behind her ear before leaning over the map. The motion brought her closer, and with it came that faint, clean scent of hers—too precise and cold for a military camp, like someone had placed a freshly honed razor inside a bouquet and called it subtle.

"If we continue on the current route," she said, "we pass two relay stations and a supply town before cutting toward Typhon Fortress. Stable, but slow."

"Slow enough for Frank to make His Majesty's decisions before we arrive," I finished.

"Correct." She glanced at me.

"And I don't like other people making decisions for you." She said it with that characteristic flatness, like noting tonight's soup had too much salt. Yet for reasons I declined to examine during a military briefing, those words landed with enough weight to make my fingers pause for exactly one beat. I elected to pretend I hadn't noticed. This was not the appropriate venue for a diplomatic envoy to experience cardiovascular irregularities over map tables and noble ladies.

If my heart was going to skip beats, it could schedule that for after the war—assuming I lived long enough to maintain a social calendar. Julian, unimpressed by our exchange, moved a second marker further west.

"Option two: full reroute. Break camp in the second half of tonight, abandon the main road at dawn, and take the old military track southwest. Push hard and reach Typhon Fortress before Frank loses what remains of his restraint."

"Drawbacks?" I asked.

"Rough going," Julian said.

"... Could you sound slightly more professional?"

"Certainly." He obliged without hesitation.

"Extremely rough going. The old military road hasn't been maintained in years. Taking carriages through there amounts to preemptive spinal realignment. In rain, it also provides complimentary submersion in mud, dignity included." Alvira delivered the finishing blow without looking up.

"Given your constitution, you'll spend the first half questioning your life choices and arrive looking like something bandits tried to return for a refund." I looked at her.

"You're enjoying this prospect, aren't you?"

"Somewhat."

"How touching." The corner of her mouth almost moved—nearly a smile, right up until she decided it wasn't worth completing. Julian, with the quiet professionalism of a man long accustomed to his employer's briefings resembling late-night roasting sessions, pressed on. He pointed to a third line on the map.

"Option three: don't reroute the entire delegation. Split it." I looked at him.

"You, me, and Alvira take a small, fast-moving cavalry unit. The main column continues south at current pace. Vice-envoy Hans retains the official documents, Letter of Credence, treasury, and bulk of the escort. You ride ahead and hold Frank in place—remind him that His Majesty actually sent someone."

"You want me to serve as a living wax seal," I said.

"Yes," Julian replied.

"One that looks considerably harder to break than actual wax." That was honest enough. The issue was this had the unmistakable shape of the Empire's favorite solution: detach the highest-ranking official and insert them directly into the most explosive breach. It sounds important. In practice, it means you have the biggest title, so you go die first and see what happens. I brought my gaze back to the map. Light cavalry means speed.

Speed means a chance to press Frank's hand down before his first arrow leaves the string. But speed also means no full escort, no proper supplies, and no complete dignity. And an envoy without sufficient dignity is, to most Imperial nobles, roughly equivalent to a corpse that forgot to bring enough coffins. Alvira seemed to read my hesitation. Her fingertip tapped near Typhon Fortress.

"If Frank genuinely intends to move first, what he wants right now isn't orders. It's justification."

"So my letter buys time, but not much," I said.

"Correct." She raised her eyes.

"But if you're there in person, the calculation changes entirely."

"Because I'm more persuasive?"

"No." Completely without ceremony.

"Because you're a more suitable face for His Majesty to put forward." Two seconds of silence.

"That is factually accurate, but could you possibly frame it to sound even marginally encouraging?"

"You're sufficiently presentable. That already qualifies as encouragement." I opened my mouth, then firmly closed it. There was no winning. When this woman chose to be cutting, she did it with such absolute sincerity you could never determine whether she was deliberately provoking you or delivering cruel aristocratic truth. Worse, both versions looked identical on her, and both made my rebuttals arrive half a second late. This was deeply, structurally unfair.

Imperial law should prohibit persons of exceptional beauty from maintaining perfect composure during military briefings. Julian, who had long since stopped expecting operational efficiency from this partnership, looked at me steadily.

"Your decision, Special Envoy." The tent settled into quiet. The lamplight flickered at the map's edge, casting Black Dragon Pass into alternating shadow and flame. That place was still a road's length away, the capital even farther, yet one inexplicable explosion, a burning city, and a single piece of debris crossing a border had pulled every nerve in the vicinity taut as bowstrings. I thought of Duha's pale face. I thought of his hands gripping that letter.

I thought of what would follow if Frank moved first—the dispatches, counter-dispatches, endless rounds of blame-shifting, bodies collected along the Southern Wall. I thought of the King at my departure banquet, moving pieces off the chessboard with the same idle gesture he used to reach for wine. He wants the south held in check. But if I can't even leash one rabid border marquis, I'm failing even as an expendable piece.