Cedric was working on the Outpost's inventory ledgers, meticulously cross-referencing the consumption rates of salted pork and firewood against the current garrison numbers—a meaningless administrative task—when the communication slate on his desk pulsed with a soft, persistent glow. It was Lysandra's signal.
He dismissed the ledgers, the sight of the dwindling resources momentarily replaced by the singular focus of a strategist receiving crucial field intelligence. He activated the slate, pulling the brief, coded message from the mountains.
[Lysandra Log Entry 7-1. Barbarian skirmish confirmed in Sector Beta-Nine. Enemy sustained heavy casualties and are temporarily retreating South. Source: Wandering Dwarves. Tracking Dwarves now. Heading toward Black Scar Pass. Estimated contact window: 24 hours. The situation is stable but time-sensitive. Awaiting contact window for transmission.]
Cedric leaned back, a genuine, though cold, sense of satisfaction settling in his gut. The report confirmed two critical factors: the Dwarves were not just elusive, they were aggressively capable, and they had just, unwittingly, bought the outpost a precious window of time. The Barbarians would need days to regroup, tend to their wounded, and determine if the cost of engaging this new, unexpected mountain force was worth the meager reward of the outpost.
The Dwarves are a force multiplier before I've even met them, he analyzed. Their actions had reinforced the outpost's defenses better than any freshly built palisade.
He checked his own status, the Cryo-Mage class humming beneath his skin, the ambient cold of the outpost now feeling like a comfortable cloak.
[Cryo-Mage Passive Ability: Frost Attunement]
[Description: Due to integration with Chaos Core, the caster's body is increasingly attuned to cold environments. All actions performed in temperatures below freezing gain a marginal increase in effectiveness (+1% to all actions, doubling efficiency of Mana regeneration).]
The system was literally rewarding him for being in the North, feeding directly into his goal of enduring the harsh conditions.
His planning immediately shifted. Lysandra had narrowed the contact window to twenty-four hours. He could not afford to wait. The logistical preparations for the Dwarf meeting—the selection of the most magnificent Drake Mother materials—had to be finalized, and his personal absence from the outpost had to be carefully masked. A Lord's sudden vanishing act was a recipe for suspicion, especially when his puppet-master wife had eyes everywhere.
As if summoned by the thought of his Queen, a new entry was logged in the outpost's garrison ledger, slipped in by a weary sentry.
Arrival of Lord Verian, Logistics Overseer from Veridia. Bearing official dispatch from the capital regarding supply replenishment and inspection of Northern Outpost readiness.
Cedric's hand stilled. Lord Verian. A known sycophant, a man whose ambition was dwarfed only by his cowardice, and a deeply loyal, if dim-witted, servant of Valerica. This was not a supply run; this was the Queen's Eye, sent to confirm his expected failure and provide the political justification for abandoning the North.
The timing was either catastrophic bad luck or, more likely, perfectly calculated malice from the Queen. She had expected the Barbarians and the cold to deal with him, and now she sent a witness to document the final, frozen breath.
Cedric stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his plain, heavy tunic. This was a battle of Cunning fought with paperwork and posture, a performance necessary to guarantee his long-term survival. He needed to fail just enough to be ignored, but not so much that the Queen deemed the entire outpost worthless and sent an assassination party.
He descended to the main hall, where Lord Verian, a plump man clad in expensive, inappropriate velvet robes, was shivering visibly next to the small hearth, sipping wine from a silver flask.
"Lord Verian," Cedric said, his voice measured and weary. He allowed a subtle slump to his shoulders, projecting the image of a man defeated by circumstance. "A true surprise. I had not expected such concern from the capital."
Verian managed a weak smile, his teeth chattering slightly. "Lord Cedric. Such… robust accommodations. I bring the Queen's deepest concern. She worries that the harsh conditions are… proving too much for a nobleman of your refined sensibilities." He glanced around the sparse, drafty hall with undisguised distaste. "Indeed, the reports of the lack of success in subjugating the Barbarians are most troubling."
Cedric poured himself a cup of lukewarm water. "The Barbarians are elusive bandits, not an army, Lord Verian. They strike, they flee. We are managing, of course, but the supply lines are proving the true enemy. The logistics report you have been sent to verify is accurate: We are dangerously low on specialized healing reagents and, truthfully, the garrison's morale is… taxed."
He was feeding him truths, laced with the required failures. Healing reagents—a subtle admission of being wounded. Morale taxed—an admission of poor leadership. All perfectly within the bounds of expected failure for a disgraced Lord.
"And the beasts, Lord Cedric?" Verian prodded, his eyes sharp for the first time. "Rumours reached the capital of a great beast that terrorized your perimeter. A monster of great size. Was this dealt with?"
This was the trap. Cedric's mind raced, his Intelligence calculating the optimal lie. The Drake Mother's carcass was currently being haphazardly salted a quarter mile away. Verian couldn't be allowed to see the materials, let alone the sheer scale of the beast.
"Ah, the beast," Cedric sighed, rubbing his temples, playing the role of the overwhelmed administrator. "A massive winter bear, Lord Verian. Savage. It cost us two good men, but we dispatched it. The carcass was… unfortunately, too badly mauled to be of any value. We had to dispose of it quickly before it drew scavengers. A massive waste of resources, but sometimes, survival demands such sacrifices."
He watched Verian's face. The lie was simple, believable, and, crucially, confirmed incompetence. He couldn't even salvage the pelt of a bear. Perfect.
Verian nodded, pulling out a fresh scroll and dipping his quill into ink. He was documenting the failure, confirming the Queen's narrative. "Quite. A pity about the men. And the outpost's defenses? Are they prepared for the spring thaw and the inevitable movement of the Barbarian hordes?"
"My plan, which I was about to dispatch to the capital," Cedric said, adopting a tone of noble desperation, "is to personally undertake a perilous journey to the most remote part of the territory. I have heard faint, desperate rumors of a small, isolated trapper community nestled deep in the mountains. Their knowledge of survival and their winter supplies are vital. I intend to try and secure a small, emergency cache from them, myself. It's a long shot, but I must try."
This was the calculated lie that allowed him to vanish. He was not abandoning his post to forge a powerful alliance; he was risking his life on a fool's errand for a few bags of beans. A heroic, yet utterly incompetent, move that would make the Queen pity his misplaced sense of duty.
"Perilous indeed," Verian murmured, scribbling furiously. "A most… valiant, if perhaps reckless, endeavor. I shall include your noble efforts in my report."
Cedric watched the ink dry. The report heading back to Veridia would confirm that Lord Cedric was a desperate, well-meaning idiot who had failed to secure his perimeter, had failed to salvage valuable materials, and was now abandoning his post on a pointless, likely suicidal mission. This was the exact narrative he needed to buy time and distraction for the real work.
"Lord Verian, I trust you will use your considerable influence to ensure the capital understands the urgency of our supply needs, despite the… setbacks," Cedric said, offering a curt, tired nod.
"Of course, Lord Verian. I shall depart at first light to bring the Queen your… troubling report." Verian shivered again, clearly eager to exchange the desolate North for the comfort of the capital.
As Verian retreated to a small, cold room, Cedric allowed the weariness to drop away. He walked to the fire, the internal chill of his new magic keeping him perfectly comfortable.
He spoke to the empty room, a final self-confirmation. "The Queen's Eye has seen exactly what I wanted her to see."
He summoned Steven, who entered the room with a look of grim anticipation.
"Steven, Lord Verian departs at dawn. He is a spy, so ensure he sees nothing but cold, despair, and poorly salted bear hides."
"Bear hides, Commander?" Steven asked, a rare, sly grin touching his lips.
"The hide of a great winter bear, Steven. Utterly worthless. And Steven, I will leave for the mountains before dawn. The moment Verian is out of sight, I will follow Lysandra's trail. You are in command. Maintain the illusion of total failure. I will return with the blacksmiths who will forge our survival."
The war was a performance, and the first act of deception was complete. Cedric had given his enemy the perfect ammunition: the lie that confirmed her expectations. Now, he would use the resulting window of security to acquire the power she never expected him to find.