Chương 126: 01. Sudden Crisis 2

I exhaled slowly and placed my palm flat on Typhon Fortress.

"Split the column." Julian's eyes sharpened. Alvira simply watched me, as though she'd expected this answer long ago.

"Main column holds pace and route—no changes. Hans takes the official documents, Letter of Credence, treasury, and full escort south on schedule. We cannot compromise the appearance of proper authority; if we arrive looking like refugees, every negotiation starts from the wrong position. As for me—" I looked at Julian.

"You, me, Alvira, and a select cavalry unit. Small, fast, and capable of holding ground. We take the old military road at first light and go stamp out Frank's fire before it spreads." Julian nodded without further questions.

"I'll select the riders."

"One more thing," I stopped him. He turned back.

"Include Jessi and Matthews in the count." Julian raised an eyebrow.

"You're certain?"

"Not remotely," I said with complete honesty.

"But if I leave Jessi with the rear column and she discovers I rode ahead without her, she will personally engineer a method to catch up and spend the entire journey preparing exactly how to verbally eviscerate me upon arrival. Better to incorporate the natural disaster into our formation from the start than allow her creative freedom." Alvira actually laughed at that—barely there, like a hairline crack opening across packed snow and letting through a sliver of light.

"Your assessment of your own people is remarkably accurate."

"I've always been most honest when my survival depends on it." Julian found no reason to argue, gave a single nod, and turned toward the tent entrance. But he paused just before the flap.

"Lord Cedric." The first time tonight he'd used that formal address. I met his eyes.

"Yes?"

"If Frank has already pushed his forces out, you won't be going there to persuade him." Julian's voice dropped.

"You'll be going to physically stop him. And if you can't—you'll have to choose a side." The lamplight held half his face, and those words moved slower than any intelligence briefing—the way a blade does when it's being pressed in rather than swung. I smiled, though it probably read colder than the flame.

"Don't worry," I said.

"The place I know best in this world is exactly where neither side particularly hopes I survive." Julian held my gaze for a long moment, as if he had more to say. In the end, he simply lifted the tent flap and stepped back into the darkness. The tent went quiet. Just me and Alvira. A map, several roads leading straight into disaster's heart, and the Empire performing with its characteristic and entirely reliable malice. I pressed fingers to my temple. A headache was forming—low, patient, already familiar.

"I had genuinely imagined that becoming an envoy would at least guarantee a full night's sleep first." Alvira stood in the lamplight, watching me with unhurried eyes.

"You've survived the royal capital this long and still harbor such almost endearing optimism about fate?"

"That sounds like a compliment but feels like an insult."

"More the latter than the former." I sighed.

"I'm genuinely moved by how our trust has progressed to the point where we can dispense with polite pretenses entirely." She didn't respond. Instead, she reached out and smoothed the map flat—pressing down corners where it had begun to curl. Her fingers were pale, joints precise and clean, and where they rested near Typhon Fortress, even the inked lines seemed to settle into stillness.

"Cedric." She rarely said my name like that—without the cool edge, without irony's careful architecture underneath. I looked up.

"Yes?"

"When you're standing in front of Frank—don't try to out-muscle him first."

"... Are you perhaps crediting me with more hot-blooded heroics than I actually possess?"

"No." She looked at me, expression perfectly steady.

"I'm concerned that when you're pushed far enough, you really will dig in." I didn't answer immediately. That was the most infuriating thing about her sometimes. Most days she spoke like she was casually shaving thin strips off people, one precise slice at a time. But at certain moments, she would drive the blade straight through to places I didn't want to acknowledge even to myself. I leaned against the campaign table and let out a somewhat helpless laugh.

"Does this count as you caring about me?" Alvira studied me for two full seconds and, remarkably, didn't deny it immediately.

"Something like that," she said.

"After all, if you die too quickly, the subsequent complications will be considerably inconvenient."... Right. Still her, then. I nodded.

"How incredibly reassuring."

"You should feel reassured." She drew her hand back.

"Starting tomorrow, we'll likely be standing much closer to the fire than originally planned." She lifted the tent flap slightly. Night wind rushed back in. I was awake before dawn fully broke. Awake was generous—more accurate to say I had never truly fallen asleep. That midnight communication sat lodged in my throat like a fishbone, impossible to swallow, impossible to cough up. Outside, wind scraped against the canvas in long, dry drags, like someone slowly drawing a blade's spine across whetstone.

When I sat up, the magic pendant rested quietly against my chest, as though last night's tremor had been nothing more than an exhaustion-induced nightmare. It wasn't. I pushed through the tent flap. The horizon had just begun to bleed a pale, cold blue. The camp was already moving—ashes raked back to life, horses breathing white plumes, soldiers moving with hushed voices, everyone's pace half a beat faster than usual. This was the truly insidious thing about bad news.

It didn't need to spread through the ranks first. The air already knew. The command tent was lit. Julian stood at the table, one hand pressing down the map, the other gripping his gloves like even putting them on was wasted time. Alvira leaned nearby, cloak fastened with precise perfection, expression colder than the morning sky.

Hans stood across from them, registry, seal-box, and route records spread before him, his demeanor as composed as ever—as though this weren't a dawn that might drag the entire delegation into war, but merely an administrative scheduling adjustment. The moment I stepped inside, Julian looked up.

"My lord, light cavalry is ready to move." No preamble.

"If we intend to reach Typhon Fortress before Margrave Frank completes his mobilization, we have at most fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?" I tossed my gloves onto the table.

"You're feeling optimistic."

"I originally considered seven," Julian replied without changing expression.

"I feared you might find me heartless."

"This version isn't notably more humane."

"Thank you." I gave him a look and decided argument wasn't worth the energy. This was exactly Julian's method: when you were already bending under pressure, he would helpfully shovel another load of bad news onto your head, ensuring you stayed completely lucid. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Hans slid a document scroll toward me.

"Lord Cedric, per last night's decision, the delegation divides into two columns." His voice carried the steady rhythm of someone reading pre-approved procedure.

"The main column retains official banners, ceremonial carriages, supplies, and most of the escort, continuing south at established pace. I will manage checkpoints, supply stations, and reception protocols along the route—maintaining the appearance of a standard mission to prevent local lords from detecting changes prematurely."

"And the advance unit?" I asked. Hans looked to Julian. Julian traced the diagonal southwest line across the map.

"Old military road. We bypass major towns and unnecessary courtesies. The road is terrible, horses will suffer, riders will suffer, but we move fast." He paused, then added: "Assuming the advance unit remains only the advance unit, and no one decides at the last moment to bring half the camp." I was about to respond when a soft, unmistakably deliberate sneer sounded outside. The next second, the flap flew open. Jessi stood in the entrance, one hand still on the canvas.

Her face was almost expressionless, but her eyes held that particular brightness that never meant anything good.

"I see," she said, drawing it out with deliberate leisure.

"I was wondering why the command tent was so lively at this hour, yet somehow no one thought to wake me. Turns out the young master was quietly arranging to detach himself and rush ahead to his death." I closed my eyes briefly. Here we go. The thing more troublesome than bad news: Jessi discovering you planned to keep bad news from her before it fully detonated.

"Not quietly," I said.

"The decision was made quickly—""Quickly?" She stepped inside, letting the flap drop behind her. Her voice wasn't loud, but every word carried lethal precision.

"So quickly there wasn't even time to inform me? Or did the young master decide that having me drift along with the main column was somehow more appropriate than watching you personally ram your life into the border wall?"

"Jessi—""Present." She answered before I finished her name, with the speed of someone who had been waiting for exactly that cue to officially open fire. For a moment I genuinely didn't know which trap to step into first. Tell her she's safer with the main column? She'd shred that line on the spot. Explain that we need light gear and pure combat capability? Worse—she'd dissect every detail of how I made this decision and why I excluded her, then charge me interest on the entire mistake.

Alvira spoke from the side, tone perfectly flat.

"If you'd told her last night, this would be considerably simpler." I turned to her.

"Does that observation improve our current situation in any way?"

"Yes." She folded her arms, voice carrying the particular cruelty of simple accuracy.

"It clarifies that the error didn't originate this morning." Jessi made a quiet sound of approval—apparently finding that assessment quite satisfying. Julian glanced at her without particular impatience and simply asked me: "So, my lord—is she accompanying us?" The most irritating thing about this man: his ability to compress any emotional hurricane into a single logistical question requiring immediate response. I looked at Jessi. She held my gaze.

No theatrical grievance there—just very direct, cleanly burning anger. Not because I was riding into danger. Because I had tried to leave her out of it. That was far more complicated than a simple tantrum. Because she genuinely believed she belonged wherever this was heading.

"The advance unit needs speed," I said finally.

"Few people, light equipment, rough roads. We're not going to show off—we're racing the clock."

"So?" she countered immediately, tone almost calm.

"Have I ever slowed you down?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then does the young master think I can't keep pace, or that I can't follow orders?" Two seconds of silence. Unfortunately, she failed both excuses. Jessi stepped closer, eyes fixed on mine, voice dropping lower—which only made it sharper.

"You were called out in the middle of the night and came back without a word. Before dawn you're here dividing personnel, horses, and routes—and somehow I didn't make any of those lists." She smiled, thin as light caught on a blade's edge.

"Young master, if you genuinely intended to leave me behind, at least have the decency to invent a respectable excuse." The tent fell quiet. I found myself thinking, with the weary clarity of someone who'd been awake too long, that if the Empire ever collapsed, at least half the blame wouldn't belong to dragons or border wars—it would be the daily administrative burden of managing these people, each requiring completely different handling methods, none of them willing to make my life easier. Matthews entered then.

He had presumably caught the latter half from outside, yet his bearing remained perfectly composed—the kind of man who could walk into a tent mid-explosion and still maintain proper protocol.

"Lord Cedric." He offered a formal bow, voice low and steady.

"If you've decided to ride ahead, I request permission to accompany as escort." I looked at him.

"You as well?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

"In pure marching speed, I may not match the Captain's expertise. But if you require close protection and field negotiation capability, I don't believe my place is with the rear column." Jessi immediately chimed in: "See? Even Matthews has more sense than the young master."

"This isn't the appropriate venue for stepping on me."

"On the contrary, it's ideal." I sighed. Julian nodded at the table, mentally revising his roster.

"Then the advance unit: myself, Lord Cedric, Lady Alvira, Jessi, Matthews, plus six experienced light cavalry." He looked at me.

"I can work with this configuration."

"You accepted that rather quickly," I noted.

"Because leaving Jessi with the main column means she'll engineer a method to catch up," Julian stated, tone as neutral as a weather report.

"That creates more complications." Alvira delivered a precise follow-up.

"And she's correct. Excluding her isn't protection—it's poor planning." She looked at me, eyes almost devoid of inflection.

"You need someone who will bite you before you say something irredeemably foolish. In that capacity, she is more motivated than any of us." Jessi's mouth curved slightly.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"What a shame." I pressed fingers to my temple, recognizing that negotiation time had officially ended. Not because I couldn't out-argue them. Because they were right. If I was truly riding toward Typhon Fortress—wedging myself between Margrave Frank's fury and whatever unidentified disaster was brewing in the south—I couldn't surround myself solely with people who followed orders cleanly. I needed Julian to put worst-case scenarios directly on the table.

I needed Alvira to cut through my delusions before my head got too warm. And I needed Jessi to drag me back to reality whenever I tried shouldering everything alone. Understanding this didn't improve my mood. It just made stubbornness feel like wasted time.

"Fine." I looked up.

"Jessi, Matthews—advance unit. Travel light. Weapons, rations, waterskins, essential medicine only. Everything else stays." Jessi didn't look triumphant. She simply made a quiet sound, treating this as the inevitable conclusion.

"See, young master? Wasn't that easier?"

"If you'd said two fewer sentences, I might actually feel appreciated."

"That would be tragic." She reached up and straightened my collar—the motion so practiced it was almost unconscious, though her voice still carried its edge.

"Giving you that particular illusion is the absolute last thing I intend to do." Her hands withdrew quickly, as though nothing had happened. That brief gesture landed heavier than all her previous anger. Because it wasn't theatrics. It was confirmation. Confirmation that she was coming. Confirmation that even if I wanted to exclude her, I couldn't. Hans cleared his throat, expertly pulling the atmosphere back toward operational reality.

"Lord Cedric, the main column's final arrangements require your confirmation." I turned to him. Hans detailed the organized registers and sealed documents methodically. Which knights transferred to the advance unit, which supply wagons remained, which relay stations could provide fresh mounts, what diplomatic explanations would be offered if local lords questioned the envoy's absence from the column center.

He had even drafted contingency procedures for yielding road space to northbound refugees without sparking conflict. This was why Hans mattered. Some people are like swords—you see their edge the moment they're drawn. Some are like armor—you only realize their value when blows start landing. Hans was like the wooden wedges and iron nails beneath carriage wheels: completely unremarkable until one goes missing and the entire vehicle disintegrates mid-journey.

After the full briefing, I pressed my seal onto the final route authorization.

"The main column is yours," I said. Hans accepted it with a slight bow, no superfluous words.

"Understood. I will maintain the delegation's advance, control information flow, and ensure our rear remains stable." Simple words. Heavy meaning. If we were riding to extinguish a fire at the front, he was making sure the rest of the house didn't catch behind us. I looked at him, lowering my voice slightly.

"If conditions deteriorate along the route, don't sacrifice personnel for protocol. People first, then documents and seals. The necessary ceremony—""—can be discussed once you've stabilized the south," Hans finished, tone unchanged. I nodded. Sometimes this man was so reliably competent it almost made me want to curse him for always seeming to know exactly how badly things might go. Outside, the sky had finally begun to lighten.

Someone led horses forward; the sharp clink of saddles and metal buckles cut through the cold air. When we stepped out of the command tent, the entire delegation was caught in that suspended moment before movement. Everyone knew orders had changed; not everyone knew how much. Banners still flew, carriages still waited in formation, fires still burned, soup pots still steamed—but the actual journey had been torn in half this morning.

Julian swung into the saddle without ceremony, jerking his chin toward the southwest.

"Advance unit—with me." Alvira mounted cleanly, cloak sweeping back, somehow looking even colder than usual. Matthews checked my saddle buckles and sword placement before mounting his own. Jessi paused with one foot in the stirrup, glancing back at the main column—verifying, it seemed, that someone was indeed holding our rear—then vaulted up in one easy motion. I looked at Hans one last time. He stood at the formation's head, document case in hand, the full southbound column arrayed behind him.

In that moment, I saw with unusual clarity that the "Imperial machine" wasn't some grand abstraction suspended above human concerns. It was these people. Some riding forward, some holding the line behind. Some going to reason with half-drawn swords, others ensuring that grain, orders, seals, and roads didn't collapse in the process. And I, with characteristic misfortune, had been placed at the very front.

"Move out," I said. Hooves struck damp earth—organized at first, then quickly scattering as we pulled away from camp, dissolving into southern mist and cold wind. The delegation didn't follow. We had actually split. The sensation was worse than anticipated. Not loneliness—nothing so literary. More like staring at a road you know will be terrible, while also knowing that if you don't ride it first, by the time everyone else sees how bad it is, there won't be anything left to do about it.

The old military road was uglier than Julian had described. Calling it a "road" was charitable. The ground was frozen and cracked, wheel ruts chewed to pieces by rainy seasons and years of neglect. The moment horses stepped onto it, the jarring began. On both sides stretched low dead woods and barren slopes; occasionally, ruined watchtower foundations appeared in the distance like a row of rotting teeth. Wind blew from the south, carrying something faint within it. Not campfire smoke.

Something from much further away. I adjusted my reins, guiding my horse around a jagged stone ridge, and muttered: "If this is the fast route, I'm beginning to understand why Imperial border guards are perpetually irritable." Jessi's voice came from my left flank: "If the young master can maintain this attitude for the entire journey, at least he won't fall off his horse too early."

"Is that supposed to be encouraging?"

"It's a reminder." Alvira, riding on my other side, scanned the terrain ahead and spoke without warning.

"You should start adjusting now."

"To what?"

"When people see you, they won't be looking at a bastard son or the smooth-talking envoy from state banquets." Her voice was perfectly even, stating simple fact.

"When we reach Typhon Fortress, they'll only be measuring one thing—whether you can hold the line." I let out a small, humorless laugh.

"Thank you. My spirits are considerably lifted."

"You're welcome." Ahead, Julian didn't look back, only pushed our pace slightly higher. Staring at his back, jolted in the saddle on a road that seemed personally committed to rattling every bone I owned, I understood something with sudden clarity. The second act was definitely no longer a journey. From the moment we left camp, the road stopped being a road and became a countdown.

Every step south brought Black Dragon Pass's burning ruins, Typhon Fortress's mobilization, Margrave Frank's fury, and that presence not yet formally revealed—the one that had already begun warping the entire map before showing its face—all of it converging toward me simultaneously. And I had no right to be slower than any of it.