The streets of Middenland's main avenue were quiet at night. The chivalric army was taking a rest here.
For any expeditionary force, fatigue inevitably accumulates. After clashing with the enemy again today, it was reasonable to set up camp and take a break.
Soldiers gathered in small groups around campfires, warming themselves while complaining about the empire's poor logistical support and the unpalatable rations. Such complaints were more instinctive than genuine, considering how quickly they devoured their meals.
The knights, too, congregated, grumbling about Middenland's cursed weather. In January, the region's winter was harsh, with average daytime temperatures ranging from -5°C to -10°C, dropping to as low as -30°C at night. Many knights hunched their bodies to shield themselves from the biting cold.
Inside the king's grand red-and-blue tent adorned with golden trim, the atmosphere was far more comfortable. Thick bear hides and imported rugs from Tyrell covered the ground, and Veronica's magical fireplace ensured the temperature was pleasant. The tent's furnishings, featuring the heraldry of Ryan's family, were top-notch, all handpicked by Queen Sulia herself. A gentle firelight bathed the space in a cozy glow, while snow fell quietly outside, creating a tranquil and warm ambiance.
Ryan, dressed in his royal regalia, held a letter from Bertrand as he paced back and forth, deep in thought. His appointed private secretary, Teresa, sat at a nearby desk, organizing and processing an influx of intelligence reports.
Though Teresa remained stuck at the legendary peak without progressing further, she had demonstrated remarkable talent in intelligence work. She meticulously organized vast amounts of information, always managing to extract the most crucial pieces for Ryan's review. Over the years, the development of the Military Intelligence Division had established more than a dozen branches throughout the Old World, providing Ryan with valuable intelligence and enhancing his influence in subtle but significant ways.
Seated at her desk, Teresa wore a standard secretary's uniform: a white shirt adorned with daffodil patterns beneath a dark robe. Her figure filled out the shirt snugly, the buttons fastened with heart-shaped aquamarine clasps. A black pencil skirt accentuated her shapely legs—long, smooth, and maturely curvaceous. Her flawless, smooth skin was encased in semi-transparent patterned stockings, her feet bare and soft, toes polished with peach-colored nail polish. Her violet peep-toe heels lay neatly beside her, their glossy finish reflecting the firelight.
"Sir Bertrand is someone you personally appointed as the commander of the Old Guard. How could you not know him well?" Teresa remarked, holding a document. Her incredulous tone matched her exasperated expression as she looked at her lover, who occasionally displayed bouts of eccentricity.
"Not to mention, back in the Chalon Forest, Bertrand was famously known as the Green Arrow, renowned for his archery. How could such a skilled marksman possibly be blind?"
"Reality sometimes feels too fantastical," Ryan replied hesitantly, holding a report jointly signed by Bertrand and Davout. "Teresa, do you think Bertrand and his team can actually pull this off?"
"You've already entrusted three regiments of the Old Guard to them, haven't you?" Teresa stood up after some hesitation. Sliding her petite feet into her heels with a delicate flick of her lace-gloved finger, she approached Ryan. "Besides, Mother is accompanying them. You shouldn't underestimate her power."
Ryan's tense demeanor eased as he took her hand, leading her to sit by the desk. "You must be exhausted from the long march."
"Not really," Teresa replied. "Thanks to the Frostwind magical chariot you gifted us, Mother and I have been quite comfortable during the journey."
Ryan chuckled slyly. Teresa and her mother had indeed traveled in relative comfort, unlike Morgiana, who bore the responsibility of guiding prayers and administering blessings, or Veronica, who managed an entire wizard corps. Apart from intelligence work, the sorceress duo had little else to worry about.
As Ryan held his secretary close, basking in her lavender scent, he asked, "Any noteworthy intelligence recently? Not military news—what's the public sentiment in the empire regarding this invasion?"
"Actually, something has come up in Brunswick," Teresa began, visibly nervous at Ryan's proximity. She quickly elaborated to avoid further teasing. "Do you recall the Squire Countess from the empire? Her remarks caused a stir in the imperial court not long ago."
"Yes, I heard about it."
"She recently published a book titled The Squire's Journal, documenting alleged imperial misconduct during the war. It includes hearsay accusations like 'the emperor is forcibly conscripting men,' 'nine new taxes have been levied,' and 'independent farmers are being driven to bankruptcy.' The book has sparked outrage among citizens and minor nobles, fueling protests against conscription, grain levies, and tax hikes."
"The Imperial Guard will handle it," Ryan said with a nod. "There's always someone like that."
"No, this time is different," Teresa insisted. "Publishing a book of this magnitude—from writing to market release—usually takes a year. The Squire's Journal was completed and distributed in just thirteen days. There's clearly a powerful organization backing her with immense resources and connections."
"Chaos cultists," Ryan muttered, shaking his head. "Two millennia of infiltration can't be undone overnight. They're emboldened now, sensing their time has come with the arrival of their dark masters. Chaos never ceases its schemes."
Their conversation was interrupted as the tent's flap was thrown open, letting snowflakes drift inside.
Teresa quickly composed herself, standing up in embarrassment. Ryan didn't even glance up, knowing who it must be. Only Morgiana or Veronica would barge in unannounced, given the unspoken permissions they had.
As expected, it was both Morgiana and Veronica. Snow dusted their hair as they entered, dressed elegantly despite the cold. Morgiana wore a strapless gown with delicate ruffles, paired with a white fur cloak, her legs encased in sheer stockings. Veronica donned a red lace dress under her magical robe, complete with fine high heels and honey-colored tights. She greeted Ryan with a mischievous smile, holding a thick document behind her back.
"Guess what we've got, my dear?" Veronica teased.
"What is it?" Ryan asked, gesturing for Morgiana to sit while approaching Veronica.
"It's an official letter from Tsarina Katarin!" Veronica revealed. "She's requesting financial aid to organize a new army from Kislevite refugees."
"Shouldn't weapons and supplies take precedence over gold?" Ryan remarked.
"True, but money is still indispensable," Veronica countered, wrapping her arms around him. "She's planning something bigger, you know. She even handed over her ancestral Frost Blade to Oleg von Zhukov, the current Ostland regent and commander."
Ryan smirked. "If Katarin wants funds, she'd better offer collateral. Tell her to list the Romanov family treasures. Pick whatever you like, my dear."
"Don't mind if I do," Veronica replied with a grin, retreating to prepare.
Meanwhile, Morgiana made herself at home in the main seat, subtly dismissing Teresa. Ryan noticed her unspoken cue as Teresa tidied up her work and excused herself to her nearby tent.
Tonight, it seemed, Morgiana and Veronica had already claimed his time. Ryan resigned himself to their arrangement, inwardly amused by their silent coordination.
By midnight, as chaos loomed just thirty kilometers away, Ryan prepared for yet another sleepless night in a kingdom entwined with duty, strategy, and personal entanglements.
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