Location: The Royal Palace, Great Hall of Oland.
Event: The Feast of Swords.
The Great Hall did not glow with magical light. Mana Stones were far too precious to waste on illumination; the King himself possessed fewer than thirty thousand in the Royal Treasury. Instead, the vast cavern of the hall was lit by thousands of thick tallow candles and massive iron chandeliers dripping with burning oil. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke, roasted meat, and the sweat of five hundred nervous nobles.
Viscount Rian Thorne sat at a low table near the drafty entrance, far from the King's dais. Beside him, Livia sat stiffly in her midnight-blue dress, her hands clutching a goblet of watered wine.
"They are staring," Livia whispered, keeping her head down. "Baron Joffrey just pointed at us and laughed."
"Let him laugh," Rian said quietly, cutting a piece of tough venison. "Laughter makes men careless. Fear makes them sharp. I prefer them careless."
To the rest of the room, Rian was a curiosity, a joke. The "Exile" who had survived the winter by luck. His gift to the King—a crate of Northern Spirit (Vodka)—had been accepted, but it had cemented his reputation.
They didn't call him the Industrialist. They called him the "Tavern Lord."
A harmless noble who brewed strong drink in the snow to keep warm.
Cassius Thorne sat at the High Table with Duchess Lydia, basking in the glow of the Royal favor. He wore gilded armor, looking every inch the warrior. He glanced back at Rian with a sneer.
He brought alcohol, Cassius thought with disdain. While the Great Houses brought stallions and steel. He has truly become a peasant.
The King's Silence
The feasting stopped abruptly.
The heavy iron doors of the hall were barred by the Royal Guard.
The music died.
King Aric the Iron-Handed stood up from his throne.
He was a giant man, scarred and graying, wearing a crown of simple iron. He didn't need gold to show power; his presence was heavy enough to silence five hundred egos.
He looked out over the hall. His eyes were hard, scanning the faces of his vassals.
"You eat my meat," the King's voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls without the aid of magic. "You drink my wine. You wear your silks and your jewels."
He paused. The silence was suffocating.
"But the meat is running out. And the wolves are scratching at the door."
He gestured to the massive map hanging behind the throne.
A steward unrolled it. It showed the Western Border.
Red flags marked the line.
"The Orc Tribes have united," King Aric announced grimly. "For ten years, they raided in small bands. We ignored them. Now, a Warlord has risen among them. He has gathered a horde of fifty thousand."
"They are burning the border villages. They are slaughtering your people."
A murmur of fear rippled through the hall. Fifty thousand Orcs. That was an extinction-level threat.
"The Kingdom needs steel," the King roared, slamming his fist on the table. "Not gifts! Not perfumes! Not flatteries!"
"I invoked the Feast of Swords not to celebrate, but to Mobilize."
The Edict of Blood
The King pulled a heavy iron sword from its scabbard and drove the tip into the wooden floor.
"The Edict is given!"
"Every Vassal, from the highest Duke to the lowest Baron, must answer the call."
"You have Three Months."
"In three months, the Royal Army marches to the Western Front. You will meet us there. You will bring your levies. You will bring your knights. You will bring your grain."
The King's eyes burned with a blue flicker of Qi—the mark of a Grand Knight.
"Those who fight well will be rewarded. I will open the Royal Vault."
"Land. Titles. And Mana Stones."
The room gasped.
Mana Stones were the lifeblood of power. A single stone could power a Mage's tower for a month or enhance a sword to cut through rock. To offer them as a reward meant the King was desperate.
"But," the King's voice dropped to a growl. "Those who fail... those who arrive late... or those who bring weakness to my line..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
The penalty for failing a War Edict was the stripping of titles.
The Mockery of the Wolf
The tension in the room broke as the King sat down, signaling the start of the "War Council" discussions among the nobles.
Viscount Joffrey (the Copper Mine owner) leaned over to Rian's table, his face flushed with wine and arrogance.
"Three months, Thorne," Joffrey snickered. "Did you hear? You have to bring an army."
Rian looked up calmly. "I heard."
"What will you bring?" Joffrey mocked loudly, attracting an audience. "A squad of snowmen? Or maybe you'll arm your serfs with icicles?"
"The Orcs wear iron, boy. They don't get drunk on your potato water and fall over."
Cassius walked over, his golden armor clinking. He placed a hand on Joffrey's shoulder but looked at Rian.
"Easy, Joffrey. My brother will do his best," Cassius said with fake pity. "Perhaps he can serve in the baggage train? The army needs cooks. And someone needs to brew the ale."
The surrounding nobles laughed.
"The Baggage Viscount!"
"Don't worry, Thorne. We will protect you while you peel the turnips."
Livia gripped Rian's sleeve, her knuckles white. She wanted to scream at them. She wanted to tell them about the Star-Metal. About the Oil.
But Rian placed a hand over hers. His touch was warm and steady.
"I will serve as the King commands," Rian said, lowering his head in a gesture of submission. "My territory is poor. We have few men. But we will bring what we can."
"Just don't get in the way," Cassius sneered. "The Thorne Army will lead the vanguard. Try not to trip over our glory."
The Secret Calculation
Rian watched them strut away.
He kept his face mask of "humble incompetence" perfectly in place.
But inside, his mind was racing.
Three months.
Ninety days.
The King wanted an army. The Nobles expected knights, swords, and shields.
They fought wars with Qi and Steel. They charged in lines. They used archers who tired after ten shots.
Rian took a sip of his water.
I don't have Knights, Rian thought. I don't have Mana Stones to enchant armor.
But I have Chemistry. I have Ballistics.
In three months, the Blackiron Foundry could be retrofitted.
He wouldn't bring five thousand men with spears.
He would bring five hundred men.
But they wouldn't be holding swords.
They would be holding Rifled Muskets.
And behind them, towed by the Steam-Crawlers he was building... would be Cannons. Not the clumsy, bronze bombards of the Empire, but rifled, breech-loading artillery.
Let them laugh at the Tavern Lord, Rian thought, watching the King dispense orders.
When the Orcs charge, Joffrey's knights will tire. Cassius's armor will dent.
My line will not move.
The Departure
The feast ended late.
Rian and Livia walked out into the cold night air. The Mana-less darkness of the capital streets felt welcoming to Rian.
"Rian," Livia whispered as they climbed into their carriage. "Are we really going to war? We don't have an army. The Wolf Riders are only fifty men."
"Wars are not won by numbers, Livia," Rian signaled the driver. "They are won by Logistics and Range."
He looked back at the Palace.
He saw Princess Isabella standing on a balcony, watching the nobles depart. She caught his eye.
She knew he was hiding something. She just didn't know what.
"We have ninety days," Rian said, closing the carriage curtains. "We are going home."
"And when we return... we won't be bringing vodka."
"We'll be bringing Thunder."
The carriage rolled away into the night.
To the world, Rian Thorne was a minor inconvenience, a poor relative who would likely die in the first skirmish.
And that was exactly where he wanted to be.
End of Chapter 67