Chapter 199: VOICES FROM ACROSS THE NORTH
Morning in Iron Hearth arrived earlier than usual.
The sun had not yet fully crested the horizon when the lights in the Grand Corridor of Iron Hearth Castle flared to life. Servants hurried along, carrying trays of steaming coffee and tea toward the east wing—to a room rarely used except for meetings that would determine the fate of the entire province.
Room 302.
The room was neither large nor ostentatious. Its walls were lined with the same grey stone as the rest of the castle, adorned with nothing but a massive map of Northreach on one side and rows of mana-electric lights on the ceiling. An oval blackwood table occupied most of the space, surrounded by fifteen high-backed leather chairs. In the center of the table, a large communication crystal pulsed with a faint glow—ready to connect the voices of those who could not attend in person.
Duke Lucian Sudrath was already standing before the map when the attendees began to arrive.
He wore a dark grey military suit with the Sudrath Wolf insignia on the collar—not a grand ceremonial robe, but a uniform sufficient to remind everyone present: today was not about protocol. Today was about war.
One by one, they entered.
Sir Riven Sudrath came first, his footsteps heavy and steady. He wore light armor beneath a black wool coat—not for combat, but to signal his constant readiness. Behind him, Sir Rianor entered in his grey work suit, grease stains still visible on his sleeves. He carried a crystal tablet displaying complex diagrams only he could decipher.
Sir Roland followed, as immaculate as ever in a navy blue suit and silk tie. He carried a leather folder containing the intelligence reports he had compiled throughout the night. Behind him, Commander Thorne entered with precise military steps, followed by Commander Borch, who moved almost soundlessly—like a shadow that happened to possess a body.
Commander Kaelen came next, bringing notes on his own crystal tablet. And finally, Commander Leofric entered, his left arm still neatly bandaged—yet he walked upright, refusing the offer of a more comfortable chair and choosing to stand near the wall, his right hand resting on his hip.
Lucian glanced briefly at Leofric’s arm but said nothing. He knew his cavalry commander was stubborn enough to attend even if his wounds hadn’t fully healed.
Then, the lords of the cities began to arrive.
Count Hektor Torricelli of Northveil was the first among them. His face still bore signs of exhaustion—fine lines around his eyes and a trace of ash on his cloak, likely from the ruins he was still clearing. But he walked with his back straight, and when his eyes met Lucian’s, he gave a firm nod of respect.
Behind him, Count Lionel Andreas of Isafjord entered. The man in his forties still carried a scar on his temple—a memento from the battle against the Brakkar and the barbarian horde. But the faint smile on his face showed that he did not regret a single drop of blood spilled in defense of his land.
Baron Aldric Varn of Varnhold followed. The burly man with a grey beard was an old-school soldier who preferred fighting to talking. He gave Lucian a short salute and took his seat in silence.
Countess Mira Frost of Frostmere entered with grace. Her silver hair was tied back neatly, and though she was past fifty, her eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s. She was the only woman among the city lords present, and she showed no sign of being intimidated.
Baron Gerold Holloway of Hollowford came next. The stout man with a friendly face was Northreach’s primary agricultural logistics supplier. He looked nervous—his hands constantly wringing the edge of his cloak—but his presence proved he was no coward.
Baron Corvin Salt of Saltspire entered with quick steps. The thin man with neatly combed black hair was a master merchant who controlled Northreach’s secondary fishing port. He carried a small notebook—likely filled with figures he intended to report.
Viscount Alden Oak of Oakhaven followed. The clean-shaven young man was the youngest ruler in the room—perhaps not yet thirty. But he had already proven his loyalty when Oakhaven became a key defensive point against the previous incursions.
Viscount Roderick Qan of Qaqortoq entered in his mining robes, still dusted with grit. The mana crystal mining town in the eastern mountains was a vital resource, and Roderick was a man who spent more time underground than above it. He looked uncomfortable in the formal setting but sat quietly.
And finally, Count Merrick East of East-Port. A man in his mid-thirties with dull blonde hair and weary eyes. East-Port was a port city that dealt most frequently with smugglers and pirates. Merrick might not be the best fighter, but he knew how to read people—and today, his eyes moved quickly, observing every face in the room.
Once all were seated, Lucian remained standing. He looked at the empty chair near the end of the table—the seat that should have been occupied by Count Eddard Torsen.
"Count Eddard," Lucian called out.
The crystal in the center of the table vibrated gently, then Eddard’s voice crackled through, slightly distorted by interference but still clear. "Present, Your Grace. Forgive me for not being there in person. Torshavn is still..."
"I know." Lucian cut in, his voice firm though not loud. "You are there, defending your city. That is more than enough. Listen to this meeting. Your voice still counts."
"My respect, Your Grace."
Lucian nodded, then surveyed the room. Fifteen pairs of eyes stared back at him.
"You all know why we are here." Lucian’s voice was low, yet every word resonated. "The Kingdom of Aethelgard has declared war upon us. The Church is involved. Highgarden is involved. In one month, their armies will march north."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"I will not lie to you. Our enemy numbers fifty thousand. They have cavalry, they have mages, and they have Church Paladins trained since childhood to kill. And they all believe that we are a nest of demons that must be purged."
The city lords exchanged glances. Baron Holloway grew more visibly nervous. Countess Mira Frost remained calm, though her fingers drummed lightly on the table.
"But I will not let you fear without reason." Lucian turned to Riven. "Riven. Report our strength."
Riven stood up. No notes, no tablets. He had memorized it all.
"Combat-ready tanks: seven hundred units. Consisting of four hundred Wolf-Tusk MBTs and three hundred Titan MK-1s. Sky-Hunters: fifty units ready for flight, with twenty in reserve that can be activated within two days. Infantry: ten thousand trained soldiers, armed with Sudrath Spears. Ghost Squad: two hundred snipers, scattered across the territory."
Riven sat back down. The room fell silent for a moment—the lords processed those numbers.
Lucian turned to Roland. "The enemy?"
Roland stood, opening his leather folder. "The royal army is led personally by Prince Leonardo. Totaling forty-five thousand. Thirty-one thousand infantry, approximately seven thousand archers and snipers, three thousand two hundred Church forces, and about five hundred mages. The rest are engineers, medical personnel, and logistics."
He flipped a page. "This does not include Highgarden’s cavalry. Duke Alistair Solari brings five thousand heavy cavalry. They move fast, not for trench warfare. Their strategy: hit, burn, and vanish."
Roland closed his folder but remained standing. "And one more thing." His voice dropped an octave, turning sharper. "Reports from the Ghost Squad in Sol-Regis: the populace there fully believes Northreach is a den of demons. The Church spreads propaganda daily. They call us demon-worshippers, rejectors of the Goddess’s grace. This is not just a political war. This is a holy war. They will fight without hesitation or fear, for they are convinced they stand on the side of righteousness."
A heavier silence descended. Viscount Alden Oak swallowed hard. Lord Merrick East rubbed his chin.
Lucian showed no reaction. He turned to Rianor.
Rianor stood, activating his crystal tablet. Complex diagrams appeared on the screen—lines and circles that most in the room couldn’t comprehend.
"I am working on something. It’s based on a magical theory developed by Raveena. She calls it the Mana Laser. A focused beam of mana that can pierce steel armor from a great distance. Raveena taught her theory to the Northreach mages, and I am converting it into a Weapon."
Count Hektor asked, "Can it be produced for all soldiers?"
"No. The materials are too expensive. Pure mana crystals, precision lenses, cooling circuits—a single unit costs as much as five tanks. But we don’t need thousands. We need a few dozen, mounted at strategic points or carried by elite units. That will be enough to change the battlefield."
"Exactly." Lucian straightened his back. "We will not wait for them to come. We will be ready to welcome them."
He looked at each city lord in turn.
"Hektor. Northveil is still under reconstruction, but your factories are operational. I want you to focus on producing components for Rianor’s new weapon."
Hektor nodded. "I will see to it, Your Grace."
"Lionel. Isafjord is our primary port. Guard the sea logistics routes. No enemy ship must approach without our knowledge."
"Understood."
"Aldric Varn. Varnhold is the first defensive garrison if the enemy comes from Ironhold. Fortify your walls. Increase patrols."
Baron Varn gave a short nod. "Understood."
"Mira Frost. Frostmere produces our mana crystals. Ramp up production. We will need an immense amount for the new weapons."
Countess Mira offered a thin smile. "I shall provide."
"Gerold Holloway. Hollowford is the granary of Northreach. Stockpile wheat, meat, and vegetables for a three-month siege. I will not have a single soldier go hungry."
Baron Holloway nodded quickly, his face still nervous but his eyes shining. "Y-yes, Your Grace."
"Corvin Salt. Saltspire will serve as the backup port if Isafjord is blockaded. Prepare your warehouses for emergency logistics."
"I have had them ready since the first rumors of war," Salt replied proudly.
"Alden Oak. Oakhaven is the town nearest the southern border. You will be our first observation post. Report every suspicious enemy movement."
Viscount Oak nodded. "I will station scouts on every hill."
"Roderick Qan. Qaqortoq is our only other source of mana crystals besides Frostmere. Dig deeper. Produce more."
Roderick brushed the dust from his robes. "It shall be done, Your Grace."
"Merrick East. East-Port is our most... flexible port city." Lucian looked Lord East directly in the eye. "I know you have connections with smugglers. I do not care. Use them. If the official routes are blockaded, you will be our alternative path."
Merrick East smiled thinly—the smile of a man who understood the games played behind the scenes. "I understand, Your Grace."
Lucian finally turned to the crystal in the center of the table. "Eddard."
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Torshavn has suffered enough. Focus on recovery. But guard your southern gate. If the enemy comes, you will be the first to know."
"Torshavn is ready, Your Grace. We will not fall again."
Lucian nodded, then surveyed the room once more.
"One month." His voice echoed. "That is the time we have. I will not ask you not to be afraid—because I am afraid myself. But fear must not paralyze us. Fear must become our fuel. Use this time wisely. Fortify. Stockpile. Train."
He placed both hands on the table.
"We did not choose this war. But we will not run from it. Northreach is our home. And a home is not surrendered to anyone without a fight."
One by one, the lords nodded. Count Hektor slammed his fist onto the table. Count Lionel took a long breath and smiled faintly. Baron Varn crossed his arms, his eyes burning with resolve.
The meeting was adjourned.
As the lords began to leave the room, Rianor approached Lucian, who was still standing before the map.
"Father."
Lucian turned. "Something to add?"
Rianor hesitated for a moment. "This new technology... the Mana Laser. It’s based on Raveena’s theory. Without her, I couldn’t have built it."
Lucian nodded slowly. "You are proud of her."
"Yes." Rianor stared at the map. "And I’m afraid of losing her."
Lucian didn’t answer. He simply placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, gripping it firmly.
"We are all afraid, Rianor. But we are not alone. That is what sets us apart from them."
Outside the window, the sun had risen higher. The factory chimneys were still billowing smoke. The trains were still passing. The city was still alive.
And in Room 302, a promise had been made.
One month.
Northreach would be ready.