The next day, I was permitted to travel the estate grounds with an armed guard.

  He was a burly man, wearing the buttoned-up white uniform of the Kholodian military—fur cape, saber at his side, and a tall fox-fur hat. An elaborate mustache of the Eastern style only added to his swagger as I walked beside him in the crisp morning air; the estate revealed its grandeur with each step we took.

  The estate’s main house was a staggering tower of dark stone and wood, surrounded by expansive gardens that seemed to fight against the cold with bursts of color from hardy winter blooms. Beyond the gardens were the fields of the serfs, stretching out for many miles. And beyond that—in the distance—seemed to be a city.

  My guard, Mikhail, whose name I learned, spoke little but observed much. His eyes constantly roamed the perimeter, and his hand rested near his saber, always on alert. As we walked, the gravel crunched under our boots, breaking the morning silence with each step.

  “Do you speak Valtorean?” I asked—after a few minutes of wandering the grounds.

  Mikhail glanced at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing my intent behind the question.

  “A little,” he replied curtly, his voice tinged with a noticeable accent. “Enough to understand plotting or pleading.” He grinned.

  His response elicited a small chuckle from me despite the seriousness of his demeanor.

  “I suppose that’s as much as you need,” I acknowledged, watching a pair of crows take flight from the nearby trees, their caws echoing eerily across the fields. “Where are you from?”

  “Zheltokholodia,” Mikhail confirmed, his gaze following the birds momentarily before returning to scan the horizon. “The new, Eastern territories.”

  We continued our walk in silence for a few moments, the only sounds being our footsteps and the distant calls of working serfs in the fields. The stark contrast between the lush gardens of the estate and the somber, utilitarian fields where the Kholodian serfs labored was striking—and then I turned back to him.

  As I studied Mikhail’s features more closely, I noticed subtle details hinting at his true heritage. The slight curve of his nose, the shape of his eyes, and the way he carried himself with a proud, almost defiant bearing—these were all hallmarks of the southward Cossack people, the fierce horsemen who had once roamed the steppes between Arkanthia and Kholodia.

  “You’re not just from Zheltokholodia, are you?” I ventured, my curiosity piqued. “You have the look of a Cossack about you—and I’d wager, likely from one of the Hetmanates?”

  Mikhail’s steps faltered momentarily, and he turned to face me, his eyes widening in surprise.

  “You have a keen eye, Valtorean,” he acknowledged, a hint of respect creeping into his voice. “Though, those days are long past. Now—we are all Kholods.”

  A silence settled over us as I gazed outward. I wondered how to respond—I did not wish to challenge his notion openly—and yet, I felt fascinated.

  “It would be a shame to extinguish the flame of the East. The Cossacks have always been something of a romantic tale back in Valtorea,” I said.

  Mikhail grunted, his expression clouding momentarily as if the weight of those memories pressed down upon him.

  “Romantic, perhaps, to those who haven’t lived it,” he said slowly, his eyes distant. “But there’s little romance on the steppes, trapped between Empires, playing you for their Great Game.”

  We resumed our walk, the estate’s vastness enveloping us in its quiet majesty.

  “The Great Game,” I said, sighing. The tremendous political project of our era was wrapped around Aurorientalis.

  “The all-mighty interplay of empires, each hungry for land and power, makes pawns of us all,” Mikhail spoke with bitterness. “Arkanthia, Kholodia, and Arlenian—mighty titans are encircling a board of infinite complexity.”

  His words lingered in the frosty air, resonating with a truth I had often contemplated in quieter, more reflective moments. These thoughts led my gaze back to the horizon, where the gray outlines of distant mountains marked the borders of empires and the boundaries of man’s ambition.

  “I wonder,” I began, pausing to choose my words carefully, “if there will ever come a day when men will tire of this game—when the map’s lines cease to dictate who must be enemy and who ally.”

  Mikhail looked at me, his expression softening slightly.

  “In a world driven by hunger—for power, land, resources—peace is but a fleeting dream,” he said. “It is the nature of empires to expand; stagnation is decay.”

  His perspective was jaded, yet there was wisdom in his resignation. Walking alongside him, I felt the weight of centuries of conflict and strategy that defined our lands. Each step seemed to echo with the silent screams of those who had fallen victim to this never-ending struggle.

  We approached a part of the garden where the path wound beside a frozen pond. The crispness of the air seemed to sharpen every detail around us—from the delicate frost on the shrubs to the stark nakedness of the trees.

  “It seems a cruel fate,” I remarked softly, “to be born into such a world.”

  Mikhail stopped and faced me again, his eyes intense.

  “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But there is glory in it. There is glory in the challenge, in the rise and fall of nations, in the clashing of empires that sculpt the destiny of millions.”

  As he spoke, his demeanor changed. The usual hardness in his posture softened into something more contemplative and profound—as if he were about to reveal a part of his rarely shared philosophy.

  “Yes, the Tzars—they sought expansion, dominion over lands and peoples, a mere extension of power for power’s sake—both of themselves and to protect Kholodia. But see…” He gestured broadly with a sweep of his arm toward the horizon, where the land stretched out beneath the heavy sky. “Soon, that will all change. The Grand Prince will make sure of it.”

  Mikhail paused, letting the gravity of his statement settle between us before he continued. His voice grew soft, almost conspiratorial, as if the frost-laden branches might overhear and whisper secrets to the wind.

  “The Grand Prince, you see, has visions beyond conquests and crowns. He dreams of a Kholodia reborn—a realm where its people are liberated from the yoke of serfdom that has bound them for generations.”

  He began walking again, slowly, as his words painted a picture of a future unlike any told in the tales of old Tzars and their iron-fisted rule.

  “Imagine a Kholodia where each man’s worth is determined not by the blood or soil of his birth, but by his grit and mind. Where serfs are not chattel to be traded and toiled, but citizens with rights to hold and horizons to chase.”

  Arlenian Empire’s shimmering ideals of liberal governance seemed to linger around us as Mikhail spoke, yet he quickly delineated his vision from theirs.

  “Do not mistake me—I speak not of adopting foreign decadences, but forging our path. Away from the Western powers of Aurisca. A new covenant between Tzar and subjects where power is respected but checked by duty and the welfare of the common man… led by one—ruled by one.”

  The realization that such thoughts were brewing in the heart of Kholodia’s prospective ruler struck me profoundly. It was an audacious hope that seemed almost too fragile for the harsh realities of our world—one so steeped in blood-soaked soil, relentless ambition, and age-old enmities.

  Yet despite the stirring portrayal of a future Mikhail envisioned, my thoughts kept returning to the palpable ideology that permeated the chilly air—an almost tangible essence that filled every corner of this expansive territory. Each person, from the humblest serf to the highest noble, seemed a staunch believer in some grand idea or another. It was as if ideology itself was the lifeblood of Kholodian society—a contrast stark against the practical and often cynically motivated politics of a Valtorean mind.

  “Everyone seems the ideologue here in Kholodia,” I remarked, the observation escaping my lips more pointedly than intended.

  Mikhail paused mid-step, his large, wolfish form casting a long shadow on the frost-covered ground. A frown briefly crossed his features before he turned to face me with a sarcastic half-smile—an expression not entirely devoid of warmth.

  “Apologies, Captain,” he said with a slight incline of his head. “It is true that we are perhaps overly passionate about our convictions here. It is both our strength and our ailment. We Kholodians will talk about change—and yet, nothing will change. Such is the way of things.”

  “It sounds awfully like Valtorea when put like that.” I grinned.

  Mikhail smiled back, sly.

  “Or perhaps, more like Arlenia.”

  “God damn you—don’t mention them,” I said, laughing. “Those bastards have more debates than decisions, and their parliament’s a circus.”

  Mikhail chuckled, a deep rumbling sound emanating from the soil we stood upon.

  “I can agree with you on that.”

  We continued the stroll for a few more minutes, in silence—before my mind turned elsewhere… toward Rottmann.

  “My companion. Rottmann. Could I visit his chambers?”

  Mikhail paused, his expression unreadable momentarily, before giving a slight nod.

  “You can,” he said gruffly, “but I will be with you. Of course.”

  I nodded in understanding, appreciating at least that small mercy. Following Mikhail, we veered off from the serene path through the gardens, taking a more secluded route to the servant quarters situated behind the main building.

  The quarters were a stark contrast to the estate’s opulent facade. The buildings here were built from more straightforward materials—wood mostly grayed with age, and stone blocks that had seen better days. There was a sad pragmatism to their construction, reflecting perhaps the lives of those who resided within.

  As we approached what I assumed was Rottmann’s chamber, Mikhail stopped and gestured toward a small, sturdy door.

  “Wait here,” he instructed, before stepping forward and knocking sharply twice.

  A moment passed before the door creaked open, revealing Rottmann lying in the bed. He looked somewhat surprised but quickly masked it with a formal nod.

  “Sir,” he greeted Mikhail first—and then turned toward me.

  I immediately noticed—his arm was gone.

  The old soldier had grown thinner, his face drawn tight with fatigue.

  “I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said, his voice husky, probably from lack of use.

  Mikhail stepped aside to let me in.

  The room was spartan, with minimal furniture and a small window that let in only a sliver of light. It brought out the lines of hardship etched deeply into Rottmann’s features.

  “Sit,” Rottmann gestured to a wooden chair beside the bed.

  As I sat, he looked at me with an intensity that felt like he was assessing my soul.

  “You’re the only other bloody Valtorean here,” he said. “And one who’s not a fluffball.” He grinned. “I trust the wolves have been circling you—more than they have me.”

  His laughter was dry, almost hollow.

  I nodded slowly.

  “Yes, it feels that way,” I admitted, trying to find comfort in the shared hardship, though his situation seemed far graver than mine. “Your arm…?” I asked cautiously, my eye flicking to the bandaged stump where his left arm should have been.

  Rottmann’s face stiffened momentarily, a shadow passing over his features.

  “Frostbite,” he said grimly, the word weighed down with a gravity that filled the small room. “And then gangrene set in. They cut it off not two weeks past.”

  His gaze drifted to the window, pinched with pain—or perhaps memory.

  “At least it wasn’t the leg. And—I’ve still got one good arm.”

  His frankness was unsettling, yet oddly comforting; it was a truth laid bare, unembellished, and stark as the walls around us.

  “How are you managing?” I inquired, my voice low, respecting the gravity of his loss.

  Rottmann chuckled dryly, the sound rasping from his throat like gravel.

  “Like any soldier would. Hardly the end of the world—one arm,” he replied, as he blinked and sighed…

  “Did you grab breakfast for me, by any chance? I’m starved.”

  His sudden shift from solemnity to mundane matters was jarring, yet it gave me a faint smile.

  “I didn’t, I’m afraid,” I confessed. “But I can certainly fetch something for you.”

  “Would you?” Rottmann’s eyes brightened slightly, a spark of life flickering within. “Just some bread and cheese will do. Oh, and if they have any of that stew that lady made last night…”

  “Mmmh. So you had the pleasure to meet the lady as well, then?” I asked, as he grinned.

  “Aye,” he said. “Y’know, for being a lad with one arm and halfway in the grave, she treats me decent enough. The Kholodians don’t know what gems they have for women if they’re all like her.” His tone lightened. “Brings me my meals, and sometimes we share a word or two. Doesn’t nag. Honest.”

  He grinned wider.

  “Aye, now that—that’s something worth keeping around. Hopefully, I don’t recover too fast now.”

  His eyes twinkled with a mischievous light that momentarily dispelled his condition’s gloom.

  I couldn’t help but grin, a retort—as filthy as it was—settling in on my mind.

  “So what—are you some kind of wolf-fucker now?”

  Rottmann burst into laughter—unexpected, unprepared. His joy, so raw and hearty, filled the space between the cold stone walls, echoing off them as if to defy the somberness that had settled in our hearts.

  “Kaelitz,” he gasped between fits of laughter, his remaining hand clutching his side as if to hold himself together. “You’d make a sailor blush with that tongue! Lord help us!”

  He made the sign of protection with his one good arm.

  I leaned back against my chair, allowing a smug smile to curl at the edges of my mouth.

  “Well, when you’re in the service of scoundrels, miscreants—and more…” I started, my voice dripping with mock solemnity. “You learn a few things about colorful conversation.”

  His laughter subsided into a series of chuckles, and he shook his head in disbelief.

  “Never thought I’d hear such crude jesting from you, Kaelitz.”

  His assertion sparked a playful glint in my eye.

  “Well, Rottmann, war changes many things: our limbs, souls, and evidently, sense of humor.”

  He nodded sagely, then his gaze shifted slightly, softening as he looked past me toward the small window.

  There was a brief silence—a rare pause in the constant rhythm of jest and retort.

  “It does at that,” Rottmann murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s taken more than it’s given, I reckon.”

  His eyes held a distant look that spoke of too many battles, too much lost.

  “But anyways—as I was saying… That last—”

  “Lord forgive you,” I sighed, as he grinned. “I’ll fetch your breakfast then; perhaps some fresh air might do you good later.”

  Rottmann nodded appreciatively.

  “Maybe a little stroll would do these old bones some good. You’re right.” He leaned against his pillow, contemplative. “It’s easy to forget there’s a world outside these four walls when cooped up like this.”

  As I exited the door, Mikhail was waiting outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He followed me—as I went to the kitchens—his heavy boots thudding softly against the dirt path.

  “Sweet Lord,” Rottmann grumbled in awe. “They have gravy.”

  The old soldier let out a mumbled prayer of thanks—practically ravenously devouring the biscuit in one go as the two of us sat, devouring our meal.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  I couldn’t lie—I hadn’t eaten gravy or a real bite in nearly a year. Sausage and meat were mixed in—hearty and delicious. I couldn’t help but thank God at least twice for it. Both of us ate ravenously, strength returning.

  After a few moments, Rottmann wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at me with renewed energy.

  “Tell me,” he began, his tone shifting toward something more serious. “…Did any of them tell you what has happened to our forces in Baltiva? Anything at all?”

  I shook my head, swallowing the last bite of sausage before speaking.

  “No, I’ve heard nothing.”

  My brow furrowed with concern.

  “I’m sure we’ll learn soon enough,” Rottmann grumbled. “Hopefully, that bastard Von Lowe has his head on a pike.”

  Rottmann’s expression turned dark, his single fist clenching visibly at the mention of Von Lowe.

  “That man has cost us much… too much.”

  His voice was a low growl, filled with a venom that surprised me, given his earlier levity.

  We fell into a momentary silence.

  Mikhail—the guard—coughed.

  “To answer the question—nothing. It has been a stalemate,” Mikhail said. His voice cut through the thick atmosphere, providing a grim reality that neither of us wished to acknowledge. “Nobody wishes to push the other to an all-out war.”

  “That’s a relief,” Rottmann grumbled. “At least they saw reason.”

  He huffed.

  “Nothing worse than dying for a shithole in nowhere, for someone who hates you. Those Baltzers—and Von Lowe, can suck on m—”

  The door opened abruptly.

  The tall wolf lady entered—her eyes scanning the room with a stern efficiency that momentarily halted Rottmann’s tirade. Her presence filled the space, commanding and formidable, yet there was a gentleness in her gaze when it finally rested on Rottmann.

  “Good morning,” she said, her voice carrying a firm but soothing timbre. “I see our guests are in good spirits today.”

  Rottmann’s gruff exterior softened ever so slightly, a half-grin breaking through his usual scowl.

  “Thanks for your cooking, ma’am,” he replied, gesturing toward the remnants of our hearty breakfast.

  She grinned—or smiled; honestly, I couldn’t tell which, as she seemed to appreciate the compliment at most minor.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she responded, sternness still present, yet now mixed with a touch of warmth.

  “Now—you…” She looked at me. “Captain—my brother wishes to see you.”

  She nodded toward the door.

  “He’s in the council room waiting… and I’d wipe some of those crumbs off if I was you.”

  She stared over at Rottmann, who sighed.

  “Go on then,” Rottmann urged, waving a dismissive hand as I hesitated. “Don’t keep the man waiting.”

  Grand Prince Michaelovich awaited me in his study.

  Judging from it, he seemed to be a worldly man. An entire parchment of Aurisca hung on his wall like a tapestry, alongside maps of several disputed territories and drawings of various military fortifications. The room was dimly lit, the faint scent of incense mingling with the musty odor of old books and parchment. His desk was an organized chaos of scrolls and papers, over which leaned the Grand Prince himself—glaring at me.

  “Captain,” he greeted, his voice neither warm nor cold, but commanding respect by its sheer firmness.

  “Your lordship,” I replied, bowing slightly.

  “I trust the accommodations have been satisfactory?” he asked, gesturing for me to sit opposite him.

  “Very much so, sir,” I replied, settling into the chair. The air in the room felt heavy with anticipation of the conversation.

  “I see. Have you decided about my offer?” He raised an eyebrow. “I hope I will not have to rely upon more…”

  His claws gleamed sharply.

  “Persuasive measures,” he concluded.

  I shifted in my seat, acutely aware of the delicate situation I found myself in.

  “Sir,” I began cautiously, “I don’t believe I have much choice. My honor as a gentleman—and a nobleman… or my life. I think you very well know which one I favor.”

  Grand Prince Michaelovich steepled his fingers, considering my words.

  “I understand your predicament, Captain. I would likely agree if I were in your place.”

  He paused, his gaze piercing through the dim light as if he could unearth my deepest thoughts.

  “Yet,” he continued, his voice a low rumble, “I hardly have the time—or the care—to play at games like this about honor and chivalry.”

  “I suppose you don’t,” I said.

  “But I have nothing to lose myself,” I added, gazing at him.

  For a second, the wolfman concealed a grin.

  He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and his eyes—sharp and discerning—continued to study me.

  “I see,” he said finally, a tinge of respect coloring his tone. “I admire your honesty and your spirit, Captain. It reminds me of… old times. Times when such virtues were commonplace among men of action, such as ourselves.”

  He paused, gazing toward the window where the early morning light began sifting through.

  “From my understanding—you came from a rural village outside Strossburg.” He took a document in hand. “Rural nobility. Little of note. Prior military service—minimal.”

  He looked at me.

  “Usually a man of your caliber would remain in your little demi-lancer corps or advance to a low-ranking officer rank. But instead of that…”

  He tapped the paper.

  “They put you in charge of a battalion and name you Captain. After only a year’s worth of service.”

  He placed the document back on his desk, deliberately emphasizing his words’ gravity.

  “This is highly unusual in Valtorea. I’m sure you’re aware of that. Tell me—what about you warranted such a rapid promotion?”

  I felt my throat tighten under his scrutinizing gaze.

  “I believe it was due to a demonstration of loyalty to the Empire at Castelon,” I replied, my voice steady despite the undercurrent of anxiety. “It was a foolish thing. But romantic, I suppose.”

  “Romantical, indeed.” Grand Prince Michaelovich nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’ve heard of young noblemen jumping to the front—getting themselves killed. But rarely have I heard them coming back alive. Let alone doing it again—and again.”

  He adjusted the papers.

  “Not to mention—advancing in rank without bribes, without title… you know what that leads me to conclude?”

  “…What?” I asked.

  “Perhaps the fools in the Imperial Army are starting to learn something.” He grinned. “Cultivating a new officer class—a remarkable thing. Yet I cannot simply let that happen as a foe of Valtorea.”

  His expression shifted, the grin fading into a more contemplative frown.

  “A weak Valtorea means a strong Kholodia,” he continued thoughtfully, fingers tapping the polished surface of his desk. “You see, Captain, the existence of men like you complicates my plans. Men who rise through merit rather than money or birthright.”

  “A pity,” I stated ironically. I held back a smirk—perhaps enjoying the compliments a bit.

  Grand Prince Michaelovich let out a low, appreciative chuckle.

  “Indeed, Captain. A pity for me but perhaps a stroke of fortune for your Empire.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as if reassessing me through a new lens.

  “Tell me—what drives a man like you?”

  It was a question I had often posed to myself during the lonely, cold nights at camp when my only company was the thoughts swirling in my mind.

  “Duty,” I responded, my voice firm, reflecting the conviction that had anchored me throughout the trials of battle and beyond. “Duty to my comrades, my family, and the Empire.”

  The Grand Prince listened intently, sighed, and threw the document aside.

  “Utter nonsense,” he said. “You preach these romantical notions—but what have your eyes—or rather, eye—told you about how war is conducted now?”

  He waved toward the maps and papers on his desk, each depicting strategic points and battle lines.

  “Look at these, Captain. This is no longer the age of gallant knights riding into battle for honor and glory. It’s an era of strategy, geopolitical maneuvering, and realism.”

  With my remaining eye, I followed his gaze, tracing the intricate lines and markers that defined territories and troop movements—a stark reminder of the cost of such ‘romantic’ notions.

  “War has indeed changed, Your Highness,” I conceded, my voice tinged with bitterness honed by experience. “Perhaps I’ve questioned an order or two about Baltiva. But regardless—we were sent there. It’s of importance to the Empire…”

  He laughed boisterously. The cynical wolfman slammed his fist on the table—practically crying.

  “You poor, deluded fool. What purpose do those lands serve for your people?” he smirked.

  “Perhaps none to you, sir,” I replied, maintaining my composure despite the heat of his scorn. “But every inch of soil under Valtorea’s flag is sacred to us. Every field and river we claim holds the blood and sweat of those who believe in what our Empire stands for.”

  His laughter subsided as he leaned back in his chair, the amusement fading into a grudging acknowledgment.

  “And therein lies your strength—and your weakness, Captain. Your fervent loyalty blinds you to the larger picture.”

  He tapped a clawed finger against the map.

  “These lands, as you call sacred, are merely pawns in a much larger game. The Baltzers use the Empire and their vainglorious notions of conversion to keep in power. I’m sure you’re very aware of that.”

  “The Baltzers are of the same blood,” I said, my chest tightening. “And does it matter who rules who?”

  The wolfman grinned.

  “Yes. It does.”

  He leaned forward.

  “Your people claim monsters rule over the Kholodians like tyrants—I’m very aware of this. But is it not true that the highest ranks of your nobility are, indeed, old Valtorean blood from the first Empire? Nobles like you, tied to the land, hail from Volkia. Not from Valtorea.”

  The Grand Prince’s words struck a chord—unsettling, yet undeniable.

  “True,” I admitted reluctantly, shifting in my seat. “Many of the upper nobles hail from Valtorea, and few are Volkian by descent. But our allegiance…”

  “Your allegiance?” The Grand Prince leaned forward; his interest piqued as if he sensed the wavering in my voice.

  “Is to Valtorea—to the Empire we serve,” I declared, reinforcing my loyalty with a sterner tone. “We may come from varied ancestries, but the banner we fight under unites us.”

  “My people rule over a vast Empire of at least eighty different cultures,” he stated. “We know who we are and who our people are. Unlike with you humans—there’s no way for the Dvoryanstvo to hide themselves.”

  He spoke proudly.

  “We hail from one blood—one people. We rule as one entity under a clear vision. And you, Captain, are caught in an Empire of divided ethnic loyalties and shadowed truths.”

  “And yet, Grand Prince,” I responded, “diversity within an empire can also be a source of strength. It brings different perspectives, different strengths.”

  “A foolish notion,” he snickered. “What value does a woodsman have to say to a leader of man? Such notions are Eclairean in thought. Erudite, bold—and foolish, utterly.”

  I paused, considering his point, but unwilling to concede entirely.

  “Yet the very woodsman knows the forest’s secrets—can navigate its mysteries and utilize its resources.”

  I leaned slightly forward, my eye fierce and unyielding.

  “Each person, regardless of station or origin, holds knowledge that can benefit the whole. An Empire that listens only to the voices of its highest nobles risks overlooking the wisdom found in quieter corners.”

  Grand Prince Michaelovich smiled.

  “And that’s exactly true with both Empires, right?”

  He leaned back, smile lingering with an edge of irony.

  “A question to ponder. Autocracy—or democracy. The voice of one—or the voice of all.”

  He stood, pacing slowly around the room, his heavy steps resonant in the silence.

  “You see, Captain, while you speak of duty and loyalty as if they are unshakeable pillars, I find them more fluid. They shift and adapt according to the needs and survival of the people—as a whole.”

  He stopped by the window, gazing out at the bustling city below.

  “Perhaps it is time you consider that what binds an empire is not just loyalty to a flag or a piece of land, but loyalty to its people. The voice of the Dvoryanstvo speaks for all Kholodians—and thus, our great Tzardom will outlive yours.”

  I blinked.

  “From what you would say—the state would hardly matter at all.”

  “Oh, but the state does matter—the people who rule the state. Us—the Dvoryanstvo—we rule with an iron fist, but we are fair. Just. Prone to romanticism, sure—but at least not subservient to mercantile powers or foreign influences that dilute the essence of governance.”

  I sighed wearily.

  “Grand Prince—I find it hard to believe you brought me here to discuss the very notions of governance.”

  “You are right,” he said, hands clasping behind his back. “But how could I resist? Rarely do I get to discuss my ideas.”

  He enunciated each word distinctly, as if tasting the flavor of his ideals.

  “Autocracy. Orthodoxy. Nationalism.”

  He paused, letting the words hang in the air between us.

  “National identity is not just something made up in a Perusian coffee house by radicals, Captain. They are the embodiment of what it means to be Kholodian. Or—what it will mean once I become Tzar.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Once that happens—old Kholodia will finally become a nation-state. No longer bound by the whims of lesser nobility, of those who don’t see the future.”

  Then, with a sudden shift in his demeanor, he approached me briskly.

  “Such a notion in Valtorea would be impossible. Forty different nations, subjugated by the whims of an Emperor who must placate every dissenting voice to maintain a fragile peace.”

  Conviction burned in his eyes.

  “In Kholodia, there will be unity—absolute and unyielding under my rule. A counter-balance to the centuries of Valtorea’s domination of the continent. A clash of our empires is inevitable.”

  I swallowed hard, feeling like I was trapped in the presence of a madman.

  Yet there was a compelling truth to his words that gnawed at the edges of my loyalty. How many times had I complained about the Baltzers myself? Or a disaffected nobility—seemingly impartial to the struggles of their people?

  Though extreme, the Grand Prince’s vision was rooted in a desire for profound unity and strength—an appeal that resonated with my deepest fears and aspirations.

  “I can’t say I agree,” I said. “But… I suppose you are right on some matters. Valtorea is…”

  I bit my tongue.

  “It is a good land. But there are flaws. Like any other land.”

  The Grand Prince grinned—a fanged, predatory grin that sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Indeed, Captain,” he murmured. “I reasoned that the only reason your little Empire had stuck around for so long was from the Iron Church’s doctrines alone. Though… I suppose now I see a new reason.”

  That grin never left his face as we delved deeper into conversation.

  Shadows danced across his study—the long shadows of evening. This meeting with the Grand Prince resembled more of a political debate than an interrogation of military maneuvers—or perhaps political maneuvering. I couldn’t tell the difference. As we discussed and postured, my brain was exhausted.

  “I tire of this,” he stated, before ringing a bell.

  A kholop came forward.

  “…Wine?” he asked, in the bit of Kholdish I knew.

  Of course, I nodded. The wine would offer little respite from the intensity of the conversation, but it was a necessary pause—a momentary truce in a battle of ideals and convictions.

  The kholop poured the crimson liquid into two glasses with a practiced hand, then quietly exited the room, leaving us again in our secluded arena.

  The Grand Prince handed me a glass; his movements were deliberate, as if each motion was another move in a grander strategy.

  The Grand Prince’s demeanor softened as we sipped the rich, velvety wine.

  “You must understand, Captain, that all this talk of governance and philosophical ideals isn’t merely academic for me. It is a career,” he said, voice now a blend of weariness and passion. “This is the fabric of our future—the narrative that will define the Kholodian Tzardom under my rule. The consolidation of power, the unification of our diverse regions into a single, indomitable force. It is to be my legacy.”

  His eyes flickered with a hint of vulnerability as he stared into his wine glass, watching the light play in the deep red liquid.

  “It is an obsession. Something I can hardly escape from, myself.”

  He drank down his goblet in one fell swoop.

  “Obsession is a dangerous bedfellow,” I murmured, my gaze fixed on the swirling depths of my glass.

  The wine was excellent—no doubt a product of the southern vineyards of Eclair.

  The Grand Prince nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth in my words.

  “Indeed, it can consume a man whole if he is not careful. But what is a ruler if not one who dares to dream dangerously?”

  He set his glass down with a soft click.

  “To achieve greatness, one must dream. Dream relentlessly. I have no faith in the Eclaireans or the Arlenians—Their new little republic.”

  Disdain dripped from his voice.

  “It will not be a peasant who becomes elected or a common man who dreams of tilling his fields and waking the next morning to a full harvest. It will be nothing more than professional con artists and thieves.”

  He paused.

  “They play at democracy—an illusion to appease the masses—while they’ll steal and plunder, and the people will long for an autocrat. A great man.”

  We sat silently for a moment, the only sound being the soft clink of our glasses as we set them down on the table.

  “And you, Captain,” he began anew, leaning forward slightly, his gaze piercing into mine, “your empire—stuck in the middle of new ideas. Of autocracy and democracy.”

  He smiled.

  “Liberalism—and reactionism.”

  Then he asked it plainly, like a blade drawn from its sheath.

  “Where do you see your allegiance?”

  The question hung between us like a drawn sword.

  “With those who dream of democracies—or with those who envision consolidated power?”

  “…Why would I care?” I said. “It is not I who decides the fate of nations. Though, for that matter, I wouldn’t know who does, ultimately—beyond the will of God.”

  “A reactionary viewpoint—and true,” he said. “God does will the fate of nations and empires. Though we don’t know His divine plan.”

  He sighed, stroking his lupine muzzle.

  “But your voice does mean something, Captain. Every man’s voice contributes to the chorus that builds or destroys empires.”

  He leaned in.

  “You wield influence, whether you accept it or not. The actions of a single soldier can turn the tide of battle; so too can the beliefs of a single officer sway the hearts of his men.”

  His eyes narrowed—predatory, intent.

  “And I wish to see where my foe’s heart lies.”

  A beat.

  “Whether you like it or not—you have conceded one thing to me this afternoon.”

  “And what’s that?” I asked.

  “Valtorea will fall.”

  The statement hung in the air, dark and potent as the wine we had just consumed.

  I felt a chill—not from the cool stone walls of the chamber, but from the implications of his words.

  The Grand Prince looked at me, his eyes shining with triumph.

  Weeks passed by.

  My containment in the estate became more tolerable as my verbal jousting with the prince continued. He seemed to delight in having someone to spar with intellectually—someone who could challenge his assertions and provide a different perspective.

  Clearly, he respected my mind, if not my allegiances—and this bizarre camaraderie became an odd comfort in my isolation. I even began to pick up a hint of Kholodian from the books he had allowed me access to—and Mikhail’s limited tutelage.

  Occasionally, the Grand Prince would press on me with questions, perhaps testing himself against a Valtorean strategy game.

  “Hypothetically—while Freydich’s Pass is quite defensible—what about the Baltivan Sea?” he remarked, a claw pointing toward it. “Valtorea has never had a formidable navy.”

  “Neither has Kholodia,” I countered, glancing at the map sprawled between us. “But the potential for naval power exists as much in your realm as in any coastal nation. It merely requires the will to harness it.”

  The Grand Prince stroked his muzzle, deep in thought.

  “Indeed, Captain, indeed. Though—what about the Scandiarians?”

  “And what about them?” I said. “They’re irrelevant. They keep to themselves, away from continental matters.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But say the Svendish fleet took a side. Valtorea—or Kholodia—would be blockaded.”

  Prince Michaelovich’s fingers tapped a rhythmic beat on the hardwood table, eyes narrowing slightly as he thought.

  Then the doors to the chamber opened.

  A courier entered, holding a letter, and handed it over. The Prince blinked.

  “Mmh,” he murmured, reading.

  His eyes shifted to me, and he grinned.

  “On behalf of the Lord-Commander… a generous ransom of nine thousand Castelorian gold denarios…”

  The prince’s smile widened as he folded the letter delicately, placing it on the table beside the map.

  “It appears your value is finally recognized, Captain. Not just by me, but also by your people.”

  His tone was teasing.

  “Some part of me wishes to contain you—I know you’ll prove to be a threat. But alas… I do need the funds. The campaign has been taxing.”

  He leaned back and surveyed me with a look that mingled admiration with a trace of regret.

  “I suppose this means our discussions will soon end, Captain. It is a pity. I have grown rather fond of our exchanges. And the break from the frontline.”

  Indeed, the notion of leaving this gilded cage stirred within me a mixture of relief—and an unexpected pang of loss. It was comfortable.

  Unknowingly, I took a deep breath.

  “I dare say I do not wish to return,” I grumbled. “I know there’s bound to be a disaster awaiting me back.”

  “You are quite right in that,” he said, smiling. “All of my strategic goals have been accomplished. Valtorea—for now, at least—will not be a threat.”

  “Mmh,” I said. “Another attempt to demoralize me?”

  “You’ll hardly need that. But for now, at least, we are unlikely to be foes.”

  The Grand Prince stood, his towering figure casting a long shadow across the chamber.

  “Come, Captain,” he said, with an uncharacteristic warmth. “I’ll have the servants pack you and ready to go.”

  When Rottmann discovered we were to be freed, he was amid drink—lecherously in the soldiers’ barracks.

  He had picked up a rustic form of Kholodian, enjoying himself, telling stories to the younger soldiers here, and drinking heavily.

  Upon hearing of our imminent release, Rottmann’s expression transformed from jovial amusement to stark realization. He slammed his mug on the wooden table, ale splashing over the brim.

  “Freed, are we?” he barked, tone laced with bitter irony. “Back to the grinding wheels of war?!”

  The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the soldiers around us fell silent, the rowdy atmosphere dissipating like smoke.

  I touched his shoulder, feeling the tension knotted in his muscles.

  “Yes, back to it,” I replied solemnly. “It’s our duty.”

  Rottmann looked up at me—bloodshot eyes, but sharp with a piercing clarity.

  “And what’s that, Captain? What have we gained besides a delay in our inevitable end?” He spat the words. “I’ll not go back.”

  “Rottmann,” I began, voice steady, “you know as well that abandonment of our post would mean more than just our lives at stake. It would betray everything we’ve fought for—every sacrifice made in the name of Valtorea.”

  He scoffed, the hollow sound echoing in the now-quiet barracks.

  “What of it? Our lives were chewed up and spit out for what? For honor? For duty?”

  Rottmann shook his head, gaze turning toward the distant walls where twilight cast long shadows across cold stone.

  “I spent too damned long on the front. Fifteen damned years.”

  His voice trailed off into a weary grunt, and he turned away to pick up his mug again, taking a harsh swig of the remaining ale.

  The bitterness lingered—not just on his tongue, but in the air between us.

  I sighed—and left alone.

  I continued down the Kholodian road the following day: a dirt road headed toward Baltiva.

  Mikhail rode beside me, escorting me to the border—which was a week’s travel from the estate.

  “Your friend did not come,” Mikhail remarked, an undercurrent of curiosity weaving through his usual stoic demeanor. His eyes—constantly scanning the horizon for unseen threats—flicked momentarily toward me.

  “No, he did not,” I admitted quietly, gaze fixed on the winding path that cut through the dense forest. “Though, I can’t say I blame him any.”

  Mikhail nodded slowly, processing this with a measure of respect.

  “It is a hard thing,” he said at last, “to receive comfort—and then be told to march back into hell.”

  “Indeed,” I replied. “I wonder what will become of him now.”

  “Likely mercenary work,” Mikhail grunted. Then, after a pause: “Or the bottle. Perhaps both.”

  I nodded, understanding the truth in his words. The road ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, and I gazed back longingly at the estate.

  The sole friend I had found in this war—left behind.

  We reached the border at long last, under a sky heavy with the threat of rain. Mikhail reined in his horse, and I followed suit, staring at the river Benoltz that marked the end of his domain and the beginning of Valtorea.

  “You’ve been a worthy adversary, Captain,” Mikhail said, extending his hand toward me.

  I took his hand, the clasp of our gloves marking a formal farewell.

  “And you, sir,” I replied. “May I see you again.”

  He nodded, a brief downturn of his lips betraying his skepticism.

  “One can hope,” he murmured.

  With a final nod, Mikhail turned his horse around and rode back toward his lands.

  I watched him disappear into the distance before urging my horse forward into Baltiva.

  Lord only knew what awaited me—back home.