Chapter 84: Not a Miracle

“At first, we set out because, one night a month ago, Viking raiders invaded our village,” said Lucas. “Our homes were burned, half our people slaughtered. That night, we barely managed to drive off the pirates. Fearing they would return, we took what we could carry and set out together for Alvado Town. At that time, we did not yet know that the Icelanders had launched a war.”

A courtier whispered something to Viscount Quentin, who nodded. Someone went out and soon returned, bringing in a sword.

The long blade, engraved with runes, was laid upon the table.

“The Demonbane Sword, Radiant Edge—this is indeed the sacred sword lost three years ago,” said Viscount Quentin. “So, it was the infamous Sven Floyd who raided your village? It is said that villain could fight a hundred men alone, and with his fists dent the armor of knights, killing them with shattered organs. So, Mr. Porter, was it you who slew Sven and reclaimed this sword from him?”

“No, not so,” Lucas shook his head. “That night, I was defeated by Sven and had no strength left to fight. It was a hero from afar who bested Sven, and slew most of the pirates in secret. Had that hero not intervened, we would all have been massacred that night.”

“And where is this hero now?” the viscount pressed.

Lucas fell silent for a moment. The viscount suddenly understood. If the hero still lived, why would he not have arrived with them at Thorncastle?

A rare sense of shame stirred in the viscount; to mention the dead in front of the living, especially one so worthy of respect, was deeply discourteous.

“His Highness has departed,” Lucas said. “Before he left, he entrusted this sword to me. I am merely its keeper, charged with its safekeeping.”

“My condolences, Mr. Porter,” said the viscount.

“I do not grieve, for I have embraced his path,” Lucas replied quietly.

“He must have been a man of noble character.”

“He possessed a lofty and gentle soul.”

“After the pirates, you tried to reach Alvado,” the viscount went on, “but why not take the main road? Why, after crossing the Clavi Pass, did you bypass Bronte Village and enter the Streamglen Forest?”

“Because when we arrived at Bronte Village, death had already claimed it,” Lucas replied. “The entire population was wiped out, only the necromancer’s minions remained—stitched undead beasts made from winter wolves and monsters, and some death hounds. Other than that, only cold corpses.”

“A necromancer…” The viscount drew a sharp breath. “So it is not only fiends—are the Icelanders now allied with necromancers? They are mad!”

Lucas continued, “At that time, we still did not realize war had begun. We thought the horror at Bronte was the necromancer’s work. Fearing discovery by his minions, we sought the cover of the forest.”

“How many days ago was this?”

“The sixteenth day of the Winter’s Veil Moon.”

“A wise choice. That very day I received news of the front. Had you taken the main road, even if you evaded the minions, you would certainly have encountered the Icelandic army. By the sixteenth, they had already advanced to Alvado.”

“But I am still puzzled; to choose the forest was to gamble everything. The ground in Streamglen is treacherous, and your group consisted of the old, the weak, women, and children. With no roads, livestock would only slow you down, and you could not carry much food. Alvado was occupied by the Icelandic host, with at least a thousand soldiers garrisoned, all routes sealed. How could you possibly press on without pause?” The viscount tapped his fingers on the table.

“According to your map, you only skirted Alvado when crossing the Bragg River, passing by the nearby Icewater Ford. The Icelanders could spot you easily from their lookout posts, and the necromancer’s flying minions would surely patrol the front. This was a dead end—how did you pass such a gauntlet?”

“My lord, we did not press forward at once,” Lucas answered. “In truth, we rested nearly two days in a cavern before setting out again.”

“Where did you rest?” the viscount asked.

“In York’s warehouse,” the dwarf suddenly interjected. “My lord, York keeps a secret warehouse for precious materials in the mountains. On the day of the invasion, York happened to be there, fetching supplies for alchemy, and so survived. Later, meeting Porter’s group, York led them to hide in the warehouse.”

The viscount looked to Lucas and Balder. “Is this so?”

“It is as York says, my lord,” Lucas and Balder replied together.

“How could you meet by chance in such a vast forest?” The viscount narrowed his eyes.

“In fact, York tried to flee, but was caught by Icelandic soldiers,” York said. “Porter’s group rescued York from a troop, and so we met.”

“I see…” The viscount stroked his chin. “Go on—what did you do next?”

“Afterward, York asked Porter and the others to help retrieve the Mist Stone,” York said. “My lord, have you heard of the Mist Stone? A marvel from York’s grandfather’s homeland of Opal.”

“Opal, south of the Netherlands—a dwarf homeland. Is it the stone said to conjure thick mists? I have heard such tales: when dwarves face unstoppable foes like dragons, they use a wondrous stone to summon fog, and when the mist clears, not a single dwarf remains to be found. So such stones truly exist?”

“York has one,” York replied, stretching his neck. “But your guards took it earlier…”

“Philippo, have all three gentlemen’s belongings returned,” ordered the viscount.

“At once, my lord.” The courtier sent for their effects, which were set on the table.

The dwarf quickly gathered up the Mist Stone and his small things, stuffing them into his pockets, and no one stopped him. He patted his chest and exhaled in relief.

“You used the Mist Stone to conjure fog, evaded the Icelanders’ scouts, crossed the Bragg, and pressed on through sheer will and endurance, arriving here at Thorncastle today?” The viscount rose, eyes fixed on the map.

“An incredible journey—almost miraculous. I thought such things only happened in tales of chivalry.”

“It was no miracle,” Lucas replied. “We paid dearly to reclaim the Mist Stone, and every day after, we walked on our own feet, step by step.”

The viscount looked back at Lucas. According to the reports, Lucas bore no obvious wounds—his eyes and limbs were whole. But now, scars of burns and tears marred his exposed skin, and his left eye was burned blind. Clearly, he had survived savage combat.

Moreover, Lucas had broken through to Silver rank after lingering at Iron for over a decade. Usually, such men remain at Iron rank for life—ten years at that plateau is called ‘reaching the alley’s end,’ meaning the path ahead is closed, with only death awaiting. Only in the rarest cases, after unimaginable hardship, does one shatter the wall and move forward as Lucas had.

The viscount could not help but marvel. “Such hardships and peril—each moment you walked the edge of a precipice, one misstep and you would be shattered. I cannot imagine what fortitude kept you going.”

“Because we remember sacrifice and devotion.”

“I, Colton Quentin, offer my respect and sorrow to those who reached Thorncastle, and to those who could not.” The viscount placed his hand over his heart, making a gesture of remembrance.

All present offered their respects as well, including Her Holiness the Maiden.

“But, alas, war has come, and Thorncastle will be drawn into its flames,” the viscount said. “You have reached Thorncastle, but you must still serve your homeland and defend our home.”

“Viscount Quentin,” the Maiden suddenly interrupted, “I have something to tell you. The king and the church have reached an accord. We have witnessed terrible evil—of the seventeen demon archdukes recorded by the church, two have now appeared in the North and in Iceland. The crusaders and the armies of the realms are being summoned by the Pope. This is no longer a war of nations, but a war of Order and Shadow.”

“From now on, I will take command of Thorncastle. I shall require civilians and all noncombatants to withdraw to the rear, relocating them to lands not yet tainted.”

A Whitewing Knight nearby produced a decree signed by both king and pope.

The viscount’s face darkened; he had never imagined the situation was so dire. Would the Quentin legacy perish in his generation? He was loath to relinquish his power, reluctant to see the Maiden take command of Thorncastle. Yet, before the young woman with flaxen hair, he could only bow his head.

“As you command, Your Holiness.”

The Maiden smiled at Lucas and his companions, her gentle expression like a neighbor’s daughter one had watched grow up. “Do not worry. You may withdraw to the rear with the other noncombatants. The war will not touch you again.”

The courtier announced, “This is Her Highness Seraphia, who bears the name of the Saint.”

The dwarf instantly fell to his knees in terror, and Balder, uncertain, knelt beside him. Lucas bowed deeply.

“Your Highness, I request to remain at the front. My strength is little, but I will give my life to defend those weaker than myself, to protect my home and homeland.”

The Maiden nodded, and took up Radiant Edge, returning it to Lucas.

“As you wish. You have the will and faith to wield this sword—remember the vow you make today.”

“Unto death, I will not forget.”