Day 190. The Southern Gate of Blackiron City.
Weather: Heavy Snowfall (Visibility < 50 meters).
The Blackiron Territory looked dead.
To any observer approaching from the South, the city appeared to be nothing more than a cluster of rotting wooden shacks huddled against the mountain for warmth. The massive concrete walls Rian had built were draped in camouflage nets woven from white pine branches and covered in thick layers of snow.
The Gas Lamps were extinguished. The Biogas Flame was hidden inside the brick dome.
The chimneys of the glass factory were capped, holding their smoke.
Rian stood at the wooden outer gate. He wasn't wearing his fine black wool coat or the lavender scarf. He wore a ragged bear-fur cloak, patched with rough leather. His face was smeared with soot to look gaunt and overworked.
"Turn off the heating in the reception hall," Rian whispered to Varg, who was standing beside him, also dressed in "serf" rags. "Open the windows. Let the draft in. If he feels warmth, he will suspect wealth."
"Boss," Varg grumbled, shivering theatrically. "Do we have to look this pathetic? We have Storm-Caller Crossbows. We could shoot him from a mile away."
"He is a Royal Messenger, Varg," Rian hissed. "He represents the King. If we shoot him, an army of Griffon Riders descends on us next week. We are not ready for the Kingdom yet."
"We play the game. We are the poor, freezing exiles. Remember that."
The Golden Hoof
A shape emerged from the blizzard.
It wasn't a sled. It was a beast.
A Spirit Horse. It stood eighteen hands high, its coat a shimmering palomino that seemed to repel the snowflakes. Its hooves glowed with a faint, golden light—a permanent enchantment of [Haste].
Riding it was a man wrapped in a cloak of crimson velvet, lined with expensive Silver-Fox fur. On his chest, he wore the Golden Quill badge of the Royal Herald.
Sir Eryk of the Inner Court.
The horse snorted, breathing out a cloud of steam that smelled of sweet oats and magic. It stepped gingerly onto the muddy road, lifting its glowing hooves as if afraid of getting dirty.
Sir Eryk pulled on the reins. He looked at the gate.
He saw the "rotting" wood (artificially aged by Rian's chemists). He saw the "starving" guards (actors selected for their skinny frames).
He wrinkled his nose.
"By the Mana-Well," Eryk muttered to himself, though the wind carried his voice. "The rumors were true. It is a rat's nest."
Rian stepped forward, bowing low—too low, like a desperate peasant.
"Welcome to Blackiron, My Lord," Rian rasped, pitching his voice to sound weak. "We... we did not expect visitors. The winter has been hard."
Eryk looked down at Rian. He didn't recognize the proud son of Duke Thorne. He saw a broken man covered in soot.
Disdain washed over the Herald's face. He didn't even dismount.
"I am Sir Eryk, Royal Herald to King Aric. I bear a summons for the Viscount Rian Thorne."
"I am he," Rian said, coughing into his hand.
Eryk raised an eyebrow. "You? The Viscount?" He scanned Rian's ragged furs. "The Gods have truly frowned upon this House."
The Cold Reception
"Please, My Lord," Rian gestured to the drafty wooden guardhouse. "Come inside. We have... turnip water. It is warm."
Eryk looked at the dark, cold guardhouse. He looked at the mud on his boots.
He imagined sitting on a rough wooden stool, drinking boiled root water with a dirty exile.
He shuddered.
He was used to the Mana-Heated salons of the Capital. He was used to wine served in crystal goblets.
"That will not be necessary, Viscount," Eryk said quickly, putting on a fake, polite smile. "My schedule is... tight. The Griffon Corps awaits my report at the Southern Outpost. I cannot delay."
"Are you sure?" Rian pressed, making his eyes wide and desperate. "We have a spare bed. The straw is fresh. We picked the lice out yesterday."
Eryk recoiled physically. "Lice? Ah... no. Absolutely not. The King's business waits for no man."
He reached into his saddlebag.
He pulled out a scroll case made of polished ivory, capped with gold. It looked alien in this gray, miserable landscape.
"I am here only to deliver the Edict."
Eryk handed the scroll to Rian. He didn't want his gloves to touch Rian's dirty hands, so he dropped it slightly.
Rian caught it.
"Read it, Viscount," Eryk commanded. "And know that the King's word is absolute."
Rian broke the wax seal.
He unrolled the Vellum.
He pretended to read it slowly, moving his lips like a man who had forgotten his letters. In reality, he scanned the text in seconds.
[The Feast of Swords]
[Mandatory Attendance]
[Penalty: Treason]
"The Capital?" Rian whispered, his voice trembling. "But... My Lord... look at us. We have no horses. We have no gold. How can I travel two thousand miles?"
"That is not the Crown's concern," Eryk sniffed, adjusting his fur collar. "Beg, borrow, or walk. But if you are not at the Royal Palace in thirty days... the executioner will come to you."
Eryk gathered his reins. He turned his Spirit Horse around, desperate to leave this depressing hole.
"Do not fail, Viscount. For your father's sake. The Duke still has some honor left; try not to stain it further."
With a flash of golden hooves, the Spirit Horse bolted. The Herald didn't look back. He rode South, fleeing the poverty of the North as fast as his magic mount could carry him.
The Mask Drops
Rian watched the Herald disappear into the blizzard.
He stood there for a full minute, holding the scroll.
The wind howled.
Then, Rian straightened his back.
The slouch vanished. The "weak" cough stopped.
He wiped the soot from his face with a clean handkerchief he pulled from his inner pocket.
"Varg," Rian said, his voice cold and steady. "Close the gate. Turn the gas lamps back on. I'm freezing."
Varg kicked the wooden prop holding the gate open. "He bought it, Boss. He looked at us like we were manure."
"Good," Rian walked toward the inner sanctum, where the concrete walls and radiant heating awaited. "Arrogance makes people blind. He saw what he wanted to see—a failure."
Rian entered his private study. It was warm here. The Biogas Lamp burned with a clean, blue light on his desk.
He placed the Royal Edict on the table.
The gold leaf shimmered mockingly.
"Thirty days," Rian muttered. "A death march."
Ding.
The sound echoed in his mind.
Rian sat down. This wasn't the usual "Daily Resource Report." The tone was different. Urgent.
[Ding! Special Intelligence Report Triggered]
[Source: The "Aurora" Network / Noble Gossip Analysis]
[Subject: The Thorne Family Conspiracy]
Rian narrowed his eyes. "System, show me."
Text scrolled across his retina, glowing in blue light.
[1. The Father's Stance]
Target: Duke Valerius Thorne.
Action: Refused to sign your Death Certificate. Tore the document in the presence of witnesses.
Reason: He recognized the "Snowflake Design" on the Aurora Bottle. He suspects you are the creator. He has refused to declare you dead until he sees a body.
Current Status: Deployed to the Southern Front. He is unavailable to help you.
Rian felt a lump in his throat.
The Old Man recognized the carving? Rian looked at his hands. He remembered.
The Duke wasn't the villain. He was just a soldier following orders, hoping his son was tough enough to survive.
[2. The Stepmother's Scheme]
Target: Duchess Lydia & Cassius Thorne.
Plot: They engineered the timing of this Summons. They know you cannot travel fast enough.
Contingency: They assume you will die on the road.
Active Threat: They have hired the Shadowblades.
Enemy Unit: Three (3) Assassins of the 4th Circle (Mana Users).
Orders: Intercept and kill Rian Thorne on the Southern Road. Make it look like a bandit attack.
Rian's fist clenched.
"Shadowblades," he whispered. "Mercenaries who use Magic."
Assassins with Invisibility or Shadow-Step.
His wolf riders were tough, but against magic users? It would be a slaughter.
[3. The Strategic Dilemma]
Option A (Stay): You are declared a Traitor. The King sends an Army. You lose your Title and your Land.
Option B (Go): You face a 2,000-mile journey through the blizzard, hunted by magical assassins, with a deadline of 30 days.
The Choice of Iron
Rian stood up. He walked to the window looking West, toward the Silent Reach where the Oil Rigs were pumping.
He had Oil. He had Steel. He had Gas.
But he didn't have Speed.
Oxen moved at 2 miles per hour. Sleds were slow.
To make it to the Capital in 30 days, he needed to move at 70 miles per day, every day, through snow.
No horse could do that. Even a Spirit Horse would die of exhaustion.
"They think it's impossible," Rian murmured. "Lydia thinks physics is a limitation."
He turned back to the desk. He picked up a piece of charcoal.
He drew a circle on the slate.
Then a piston.
Then a crankshaft.
"Borin!" Rian shouted, his voice echoing through the Keep.
The Dwarf Thane, who was drinking rum by the fire in the hall, stomped in. "What is it, Human? Is the beer gone?"
"We are leaving, Borin," Rian said, his eyes burning with a manic intensity.
"The King has called for a feast. And I hate being late."
"We can't walk to the Capital in a month," Borin scoffed. "Not in this snow. Unless you grow wings."
"We aren't walking," Rian slammed his hand on the drawing.
"We are going to ride."
He pointed to the diagram.
It wasn't a sled. It wasn't a wagon.
It was a Steam-Powered Snow-Crawler.
The Mark I: "The Iron-Tusk."
"We have the Oil from the Silent Reach," Rian spoke fast. "We have the Steel from the Orc Armor. We have the Dwarves to cast the engine block."
"I don't need a refinery. I can run a Steam Engine on crude oil if I build a heavy boiler."
"Borin," Rian looked at the Dwarf. "Can you cast a cylinder that can hold 500 PSI of pressure?"
Borin looked at the drawing. He looked at the complexity of the gears.
He grinned, showing his gold tooth.
"If you provide the fire, Human... I will cast you a demon."
Rian turned to the window, looking South.
"Lydia wants to play with Assassins? Fine."
"I'm bringing a Tank to a knife fight."
Rian grabbed his lavender scarf—the one Livia had knitted—and tied it tight.
"Prepare the forge," Rian ordered Varg and Borin. "We work double shifts. Nobody sleeps until the engine screams."
End of Chapter 63