The next seventy-two hours weren't a blur; they were a calculated explosion of coordinated chaos, fueled by the unforgiving countdown of Riven's demanding deadline. Mira Lune's diplomatic challenge—the "Pre-Marital Loyalty Test"—had landed on the desks of the Western Lords not just as a demand, but as a strategic insult, a direct question aimed at their lineage and pride.
The response was immediate, yet predictably spiteful. Riven's own father, was the first to react. His logistics manager, Master Thomas, sent a terse, furious message back to Mira Lune, a document bristling with injured dignity. But the supplies, that was the key, they started moving within twelve hours.
Riven stood over Willow and Barron in the war room, where the table was now dominated by a giant, stress-etched map. They were frantically tracing routes, calculating cargo weight against mountain gradients, and converting political resentment into kilometers per hour.
"The Duke is sending the first loads of wheat from the Western silos," Willow reported, circling a cluster of ports with an impatient marker. "But the movement is so slow, Riven. His official estimate is four days to the Breadbasket site. That's two full days past the delivery date Anya announced to the locals."
Riven's jaw tightened. He knew this game. "He's punishing me for the ambush," he muttered, running a hand over the map. "But he also wants to save face by showing the 'difficulty' of the task. He's doing this on purpose."
Barron pointed a finger at a thin, rugged line cutting across the eastern mountains. "We'll use the Iron-Spine mountain routes, Riven. My house has the fastest military transports, but those roads are treacherous, nothing but switchbacks and loose shale. We'll have to sacrifice all security and risk wrecking the specialized seed."
"We honestly don't have a choice right now. The most important thing is getting the wheat there," Riven stated, his decision immediate and cold. "Mira Lune, contact House Durnhall."
"Don't ask for one of those slow, heavily-armored transports," Riven continued. "That will only delay us further. Ask for light, high-speed cavalry escorts—the kind they use for border emergencies. Tell their commanders that failure to deliver on time proves their military transportation is too slow to support the Crown in a crisis. Frame it as a matter of military pride and national security."
Mira Lune nodded, a predatory smile touching her lips as she glided toward the communication desk. "Attacking House Durnhall's speed and competency? Perfect. They won't risk that rumor spreading through the Officer Corps."
"No they won't!" Barron repeated, looking at Riven with a knowing smile.
While the diplomatic war raged, Anya was running a far more sensitive ground operation. She had sent trusted couriers deep into the Southern Territory, not just relaying the deadline, but painting a clear picture of what the incoming convoy meant.
Anya walked over to Riven, holding a small, chipped ceramic bowl—a symbol of the poverty they were fighting to eradicate. "The locals are ready, Riven. I told them this isn't just food or seeds; it's the Crown Prince's first promise for a better future, arriving on that specific date. We have local groups clearing the final access roads near Torvin's site right now. They've already invested their labor and their hopes."
She met his gaze, her expression solemn. "If we miss this delivery, we don't just fail to feed them. We break their trust in the Crown's ability to keep a simple vow. It will take years to recover that credibility."
Riven took the ceramic bowl, turning the rough clay in his hands. It felt lighter than it should, yet heavier than gold.
"Then we won't miss it."
He turned to Barron, his command sharp. "Barron, you'll ride out at dawn. Take a handful of the fastest Knights. Meet my father's convoy two days into their journey. Do not leave their side. If they refuse the mountain route, you tell them this is a direct order from the Crown Prince. You are going to be more than just an escort; you're in charge of the whole operation now. Speed is paramount."
Barron's face broke into the wide, eager grin of a man who loved an impossible challenge. "Understood! I'll make sure those slowpokes get a taste of speed for once in their lives."
The night before Barron left, Riven was bone-deep exhausted, but he sought out Vaelorian in his private chambers. Vaelorian, having finally finished his daily Senate torture session, was reviewing dry ledgers, yet he looked utterly relaxed.
"You look like you've been in a war front, my love," Vaelorian said, setting aside a scroll immediately and pulling Riven onto his lap with a gentle firmness.
Riven leaned back into the familiar, safe warmth of the Prince, closing his eyes against the day's stress. "I am. But it's a war against logistics, vanity, and some really stubborn old men. My father is making me sweat over every sack of grain. He's not happy with me ambushing him."
"He's testing you, my love," Vaelorian murmured, kissing Riven's temple. "He wants to see that you can get the job done without relying on the crown's treasury or authority. And you're passing with flying colors. The Senate is too busy arguing over latrine dimensions to even notice the Western Lords are shipping hundreds of tons of their own private assets to the Southern border."
Riven opened his eyes, looking at Vaelorian, the weight of their scheme suddenly pressing down. "I'm actually a bit scared, Your Highness. I've never done anything this big before. We're using the people's hope as leverage against the nobles' pride. If Barron doesn't make that deadline, we'll lose everything we just gained on that tour."
Vaelorian held him tighter, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "You won't fail. Do you know why? Because you understand something the Senate doesn't: you know how the common folks live and what they need, and that genuine passion is worth more than all the gold in the empire. You have skin in the game, Riven. Your friends have skin in the game. That passion is what makes you the perfect person for this job."
Riven turned, facing Vaelorian, the full gravity of the mission settling in his expression. "I don't want to get this wrong, Your Highness. I made a vow. We promised them food on that day."
"Then we'll deliver," Vaelorian confirmed, his voice low, his intention absolute. He kissed Riven—a long, slow kiss that was full of shared purpose and affection, a silent promise of everything they were building together. "You are doing a perfect job already. Go get some rest. Barron moves at dawn, and you need to be ready for the next round of chaos."
Riven left the Prince's chambers that night with a renewed sense of purpose. The hope of the Breadbasket movement, and the very credibility of their new partnership, rode with Barron at dawn.