Chapter 184: BUSINESS TRIP
The dense forest near Torshavn felt different than usual.
Black pines towered high, their lush branches interlocking to veil the darkening sky. A thin mist crept between the wooden trunks, creating shifting shadows. The cold air was biting, though not as severe as in Iron Hearth. Here, the chill was still manageable with a thick jacket and a well-tended campfire.
Fifty men had gathered amidst the trees.
Their weaponry was diverse—swords at their hips, bows strapped to their backs, axes in hand, and small daggers tucked into their boots. Some carried rolled tents and sleeping bags fastened to their rucksacks. Judging by their appearance and gear, they looked like seasoned adventurers from a guild—a large party on a major expedition.
A campfire crackled in the center of the camp. It was kept small, just enough to provide warmth without drawing attention from afar. The smoke was thin, nearly invisible against the fog and darkness.
Some sat cross-legged near the flames, thawing their frozen hands. Others leaned against trees, eyes constantly scanning the perimeter, ears straining for every sound. Occasionally, someone would toss a dry twig into the fire, making it snap softly.
At the center of this gathering stood a man.
He was sturdily built, not particularly tall but solid. His shoulders were broad, his hands large. Hanging from his waist was a longsword with a plain black hilt.
His gaze was sharp, cold, and unblinking.
Gunnar.
He held a worn map in his hands. The parchment was yellowed, its folds nearly tearing in several places. The brown ink traced upon it had begun to fade, yet the lines remained legible—paths, rivers, and small hills that served as landmarks.
His eyes tracked those lines rapidly. From Torshavn, north. From the north, into the forest. From the forest, to... he stopped.
"We wait until midnight," he said.
His voice was low. He didn’t need to shout. Everyone around him was accustomed to that voice—calm, firm, and devoid of pleasantries.
"Then, we move north."
A man near the fire looked up. His brown hair was a mess, his beard unshaven, and his eyes weary from a lack of sleep. He was warming his hands over the embers, his rough, calloused fingers rubbing together slowly.
"North?" His voice was hoarse. "What’s in the north?"
Gunnar didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the map.
Another person sitting on a large rock—a woman with short-cropped hair and a longbow on her back—spoke up. Her face wasn’t particularly beautiful, but her eyes were piercing. A thin scar marked her left cheek—a memento from an old battle.
"We were given coordinates to a dungeon with high-purity materials," she stated flatly, as if reciting a fact. "No need to know more than that."
The bearded man snorted. "I was just asking."
"Don’t."
This time, it wasn’t the woman who answered. It was Gunnar. His eyes now settled on the bearded man. They weren’t sharp or angry—just flat. Yet, for some reason, the bearded man immediately averted his gaze.
"Follow orders," Gunnar said. "That is all."
Silence fell over the camp.
The campfire hissed. The wind whistled through the pines, causing the needles to rustle against one another. In the distance, an owl hooted.
The bearded man said no more.
Gunnar folded the map and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He walked toward a large tree at the edge of the camp, sat back against it, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sleeping—merely resting.
The others followed suit. Some began prepping their gear—checking tent lines, filling water skins, and dividing rations. Others silently inspected their weapons, honing blade edges with small whetstones or tightening bowstrings.
A young man with a clean face—unmarked by the scars of battle—sat near Gunnar. He opened his pack, pulled out a piece of hardtack, and began to chew slowly.
"Gunnar," he whispered, barely audible. "Are we truly going in there?"
Gunnar didn’t open his eyes. "Eat. Don’t talk."
The young man fell silent, continuing to gnaw on his dry bread.
In the distance, a crow took flight from a branch, disturbed by their presence. Its wings flapped softly before it vanished into the fog.
No one saw them.
In Sol-Regis, within a luxurious suite on the upper floor of a high-end inn, the atmosphere was a world apart.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling in two rows of three. The warm light they emitted danced against teak-paneled stone walls, creating soft shadows that moved with the breeze from a slightly ajar window.
Thick maroon carpets blanketed the floor, muffling every footstep. In the corner, two guards stood tall, hands on their sword hilts, eyes fixed forward. They didn’t move. They didn’t blink.
In the center of the room sat a dark wooden table with a polished surface. Upon it sat a silver teapot and two small porcelain cups filled with warm tea. Thin wisps of steam still rose from the surface—it was still hot.
Alistair Solari sat in a plush crimson chair. His clothes were immaculate, without a speck of dust. His white collar was folded to perfection, and his hair was combed back neatly.
His face was cold. As usual.
He held a small porcelain cup, sipping the tea slowly, letting the bitterness linger on his tongue before swallowing. He showed no expression.
Opposite him, a hooded woman sat with poise.
Her face was obscured. Black fabric covered her hair, her forehead, and part of her cheeks. Only her eyes were visible—but even they were difficult to read. Dark. Deep. Void of light.
Yet her posture—straight-backed, not leaning—the way her hands rested on the table with long, slender fingers, and the way her head bowed slightly as she listened, all suggested she was no ordinary woman.
Miria.
She didn’t touch her tea.
Alistair set his cup down. The sound of ceramic meeting wood was sharp in the silent room.
"The group is in position," he said.
His voice was steady, unhurried. He sounded like a man reading a financial report, not someone plotting something that could kill thousands.
Miria nodded, a movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. "You wish to see their reaction."
"And how swiftly they move." Alistair allowed a thin smile—one that didn’t reach his eyes. His lips curled slightly, but his gaze remained frigid. "Sudrath is famous for its rapid response. But are they fast enough for something they cannot see?"
"We will know soon enough," Miria replied.
Alistair leaned back in his chair, his eyes lingering on Miria for a heartbeat before he took another sip of his tea.
"Any word from the palace?"
Miria withdrew a small scroll from beneath her cloak. The paper was white, folded neatly, and sealed with black wax—a color never used for ordinary correspondence. She placed it in the center of the table.
Alistair took the scroll. His long fingers broke the wax seal with practiced care. He read it, his eyes darting quickly from the first line to the last.
His expression did not change.
He rolled the paper back up and set it aside.
"Queen Eleanor agrees with your plan," he said, his voice remaining calm. "But she demands swift results. Her patience is wearing thin."
"Understandable," Miria remarked. "A mother who lost her child."
Alistair looked at her. "Marcus," he said softly. The name left his mouth like a whisper. "He still cannot forget his son."
"Can you?" Miria asked.
Alistair didn’t answer. He took his cup again. Sipped. Set it down.
"Tell her that everything is proceeding according to plan," he said finally. "Sudrath will not have a moment to breathe."
Miria nodded. "The propaganda in Sol-Regis has begun. Several nobles are starting to wonder why Northreach is building such a massive force." She paused, her eyes locking onto Alistair’s. "Small questions. But enough to make King Edward think."
Alistair smiled again. The same smile. Cold. "Good. Let them be busy with their own fears."
A guard in the corner shifted slightly, adjusting his stance. No one spoke. There was only an awkward silence between two people who never truly trusted each other.
Alistair picked up his cup again. The tea had gone cold. He drank it anyway.
"Let’s see how long they can endure," he said.
Miria offered no reply.
Inside the Alpha Building, the vibe was entirely different.
Rianor sat at his desk, besieged by stacks of papers and notebooks. Several rolled blueprints occupied a corner of the desk, tied with leather cords. On the wall behind him, a large wooden board was covered in scribbled formulas and architectural sketches.
The pen in his hand moved rapidly. Sometimes writing, sometimes crossing out. Sometimes he would stop, staring at the ceiling, before diving back into his work.
Before him, the list of subjects for the academy was nearly complete.
Basic Mathematics. Physics. Chemistry. Reading. Writing. History. Ethics. Fundamental Engineering.
He re-read the list once. Then again.
"What’s missing?" Elara asked.
She sat beside him in her wheelchair, her eyes also scanning the list. Her red hair was tied back, unlike its usual flowing state.
"Magic," Rianor said without looking up. "But that’s a specialty. Raveena has already agreed."
Elara smiled. "She is a specialist. For basic magic, we’ll need other teachers. Ones with more experience."
Rianor stopped writing and looked at his wife. "Any ideas?"
Elara snatched another pen from the table—Rianor’s pen, without permission—and began doodling in the margins. "Northreach has plenty of brilliant minds." Her pen moved swiftly, writing names without hesitation. "In this lab alone, there are dozens of researchers who could teach math or physics. In the factories, there are veteran technicians who understand engines better than any theory. In the offices, there are administrators who could teach management."
Rianor sighed. "That’s for later. For now, focus on the curriculum. Teachers can be sourced once everything is ready."
Elara laughed. "You never can just relax, can you?"
"Relax? What is that?"
"Eating well, sleeping soundly, and not obsessing over a new project for five minutes."
Rianor looked at her. "Are you describing me or yourself?"
"Both of us." Elara grinned. "But at least we have Raveena. She’s only sixteen and already a specialist teacher. That’s more than enough to be proud of."
Rianor offered a thin smile. "She is far brighter than others her age."
"Perhaps brighter than we are now."
They both laughed. The sound echoed in the quiet room, filling the gaps between the stacks of paper and blueprints.
Morning arrived.
The sky was overcast. Gray clouds hung low over Iron Hearth, moving slowly under a northern breeze. Sunlight barely pierced through, leaving a somber gray hue over the entire city.
At the eastern gate, Rumina was ready to depart.
A black SUV was parked in front of the gate. The engine had been running for a while, hot steam puffing from the exhaust and curling white in the cold air. In the trunk, travel gear was neatly arranged—folding tents, wooden crates of rations, parchment maps, and several small iron chests containing documents and gifts for the trade partners in the Emerald Union.
Aurelia stood beside the vehicle.
She wore a thick navy-blue coat with a white fur collar. Her graying hair whipped in the wind, a few strands escaping her bun. Her normally warm eyes were now grave.
Rumina was already in the front passenger seat. Raveena sat in the middle row, with Caelus beside her.
Aurelia approached Rumina’s window. Her hand reached for the door handle but didn’t open it. She simply stared at her daughter.
"Be careful," she said.
Her voice was soft, but her eyes were stern.
"Don’t cause any trouble."
From inside the car, Rumina nodded. "I know, Mother."
Aurelia turned to Raveena. "You too."
Raveena smiled. "I won’t cause any trouble."
Aurelia then looked at Caelus. Her gaze lingered on the young prince for a moment. Caelus merely nodded in silence.
Aurelia said no more. She simply nodded back and stepped away.
Ramirez, who was already in the driver’s seat, revved the engine. His hair was white, his face wrinkled—but his eyes remained as sharp as ever. He had been in Northreach for months and had mastered the art of driving.
"We’re moving," he said quietly.
The black vehicle rolled forward, slowly leaving the eastern gate behind. It passed through the elite district with its red-brick houses and small gardens. It passed office buildings starting to buzz with activity, employees in suits and cloaks beginning to arrive. It passed the factories as they hummed to life, smoke billowing from iron chimneys.
In the front seat, Rumina opened her documents, re-checking the supply list. Her finger pointed to each line as her lips moved soundlessly.
In the middle seat, Raveena stared out the window. The trees began to blur. Houses became sparse. Factories were replaced by empty fields covered in a thin layer of snow.
Caelus sat beside her in silence.
His eyes occasionally flickered toward Raveena—her calm face, her flowing black hair, her eyes fixed on the world outside.
He quickly looked away before he could be caught.
At the eastern gate, Aurelia still stood.
She watched the black car until it vanished over the southern horizon. Dust and snow kicked up behind the vehicle, slowly dissipating into the fog.
The wind blew harder, whipping the hem of her coat.
She didn’t move.
"Be careful," she whispered once more.
Then, she turned and walked back toward the castle. Her footsteps were slow on the asphalt, which was still damp from the melting snow.
In the distance, the black car continued its journey. Leaving Iron Hearth. Leaving the warmth. Heading south.