Horizon of War Series-Chapter 234: Crownless Realm

Crownless Realm

Strait of Three Hills, Hidden Cove

The night was thick with the scent of brine and charred meat, the smoky air clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Greasy fingers tore into roasted fish and game as waves lapped gently against the shore, their rhythm lost beneath drunken laughter and the occasional burst of raucous shouting.

The Mountain People's welcome-home feast grew more indulgent as the hours dragged on. With their commanders absent, some men staggered toward the boats, drawn by the hidden treasures they had smuggled from the burning city.

They had been ordered to leave empty-handed, but they had refused. When the Dawn's surprise attack on Corinthia began, the leading ships had fled first along with their commanders, leaving the rest to do as they pleased. Some had seized the moment, storming the nearby village and dragging unsuspecting locals onto their boats before rowing desperately to escape.

Now, those captives stood before the fire, their faces streaked with tears and anger.

The Corinthian women and girls were scarred, betrayed by the men they had once seen as teachers and mentors. They were paraded like prizes, trembling and crying, forced to dance their traditional dances for the amusement of strangers in a place they did not recognize.

Some were made to sing, their voices hoarse and cracking with fear, only to be mocked. Their songs of the sea, once filled with longing and pride, became the subject of cruel drunken laughter. The feast raged on, and so did the torment. The captives danced, forced to perform just to receive scraps of food.

It was their first night, and many still clung to hope. Some convinced themselves that this was all a misunderstanding, that they would be treated well, or that they might even be allowed to return to their families.

As the night wore on, those hopes faded. Every cry for mercy was met with laughter. Every struggle was punished with brutal violence. The crowd's cruelty grew bolder, their drunken jeers turning into something far darker.

Laughter swelled as a few women were dragged toward the huts, their screams swallowed by the roaring voices around them.

Then, the truth became undeniable. There would be no kindness. No return home. Resistance meant beatings. Submission meant being passed around like trinkets. Their suffering had only just begun.

***

Francisca

It had been a week since the Lord unleashed the hair elixir upon the masses, and Francisca had ascended to true stardom. She enjoyed the admiration to the fullest, eating and drinking almost for free every day. Because of that, she had grown fatter. Her movements felt sluggish, and her muscles were slower to respond. Not that anyone but her kin would notice, as they were taller and more nimble than humans.

With the Lord's permission, Francisca withdrew from her "beautiful mane errand," as she called it, and decided to concentrate on her main purpose, lest she embarrass herself, her kin, or her Lord in Umberland.

It was the dead of night inside a dimly lit chamber in the castle's guardhouse, where Francisca trained tirelessly with her massive axe. The weapon dwarfed even large poleaxes. One side was a hammer, the other a broad yet thin cleaver-like blade. She had commissioned it for greater reach and to combat heavily armored knights. With plate armor so common in Midlandia, she could not rely solely on her claws. freёweɓnovel.com

Moreover, using her claws would leave her mane a mess of blood, and she preferred not to waste the precious Hair Elixir if she could help it. Thus, she trained relentlessly, determined to master her new weapon.

Sir Harold had given her valuable pointers on wielding the axe, but he was often too busy to spar with her regularly.

A cool night breeze drifted through the open window. The light was dim, but it did not hinder her lightning-fast movements. Half-breed muscles were different from those of humans. While they possessed great strength, they lacked the same flexibility with pole-like weapons and required intense familiarity training to wield them effectively.

It was late into the night, yet to her, it was no different from morning. Her sleeping patterns differed from those of humans. For half-breeds, night and day held little distinction. They rested when it was safe and convenient, making them ideal for guard duty. Because of this, they were highly respected for their vigilance.

When she first joined the Blue and Bronze, Francisca had expected her kin to be treated as little more than glorified watchdogs. However, the Lord and Lady saw them as honored guests. As a result, the others treated her kin with respect despite their rank as squires. Many even regarded Francisca as if she were a young knight.

She grunted as she surpassed her hundredth swing, refining her form. Then, she caught her sister's scent. The metal bars embedded in the stone floor carried the faint trace of her approach from the gate below.

Francisca watched as her sister entered through the small gate, escorted by several guards under the watchful eyes of the SAR.

Sensing her gaze, her sister looked up. Their eyes met through the bars, and they exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgment.

She could only wait. Her sister would likely report first to the high staff, which at this hour usually meant Sir Omin or Sterling. The Lord himself could also still be awake and might receive the report if it was urgent. ꞦâℕòВĚ𝐬

She continued her swings, followed by a series of quick slashes and thrusts. Mixing her strikes with defensive movements, she incorporated blocks and imaginary parries. When her movements finally felt smoother than the day before, Francisca called it a night. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she rested her axe on the table, which groaned under its weight as if protesting the burden.

Taking a large wooden tankard, Francisca sat on the cool stone floor, her back resting against the equally cool wall, and drank deeply from the fresh water. She had chosen this spot inside the castle's gatehouse because it allowed her to see or pick up the scent of any intruder from the various small windows, including one that overlooked the gate below. For her kin, this vantage point was invaluable for monitoring a large swath of land. From here, she could easily reach the battlements or leap down to chase any intruder bold enough to challenge them.

But tonight was peaceful. The only sounds were the steady hum of summer cicadas. As she rested, she listened to the guards' banter, their lively chatter a reassuring sign that all was well.

Nearly an hour passed, and she had entered a state of predatory rest, still and motionless yet fully aware, when she noticed a shift in the air. The scent told her that midsummer had already passed. There was less dust in the wind, replaced by richer, earthier aromas compared to the previous night. It was a subtle yet certain change. However, the dry season would likely linger for another month.

She had already heard of several fires breaking out in neighboring towns and cities. Fortunately, the newly trained firefighters, even with many still in training, were proving effective in containing the flames. From what she had observed, they showed promise, though she knew her kin could do better.

If only there were more of us.

With their numbers so few, taking part in firefighting was impossible.

Francisca’s keen senses picked up footsteps and activity outside. Slowly, she caught her sister’s scent again and turned her gaze toward the door. Moments later, a guard knocked twice before pushing it ajar.

"If it's my sister, let her in," Francisca said, and the guard stepped aside, allowing the half-breed to enter.

"Older sister, I have returned," a slightly smaller-built half-breed declared as the heavy door shut behind her.

"Welcome back. So, how is the minting village?" Francisca asked. Though they were called sisters, they were only from the same tribe, not blood-related.

"The SAR and I have scouted the surrounding lands and the valley," her sister replied as she reached for a water jug on the table. Her eyes lingered momentarily on the massive axe before she sat beside Francisca on the floor. "They have set up a perimeter and built guardhouses along the roads, disguised as lumberjack and hunter huts."

"A smart idea," Francisca muttered approvingly. "The SAR is truly resourceful."

The younger half-breed poured water into Francisca’s tankard, but Francisca handed it back to her instead. Without hesitation, her sister accepted and drank deeply, finishing it in a single long gulp.

"As the Lord suggested, the SAR built a hidden camp next to the village for training. I heard that Sir Harold visited the place, bringing several important-looking individuals," the younger sister added.

"Mm, yes, Sir Harold has been busy. He's everywhere. I believe he's also dealing with the Hunter's Guild." Francisca ran her fingers along her lupine jaw. A stronger SAR would make their security even more formidable. After what had happened to Lord Lansius in Korelia, everyone wanted to become stronger and more capable. "Is there anything else you want to share?"

"There is one thing," her younger sister said, her tail wagging. "Beyond the forest where the minters are, there lies a rocky highland, much like our home in Umberland."

This piqued Francisca’s interest. She grunted softly, their way of saying, Go on.

"I checked the soil. It is suitable for growing yams."

"Yams?" Francisca's ears twitched, excitement flickering in her sharp beastly eyes. Their kind did not hide their feelings.

The younger one shared her enthusiasm. "The soil’s scent is the same as home. Moreover, I found wild yams that the mountain goats eat."

"The place has mountain goats as well?" Francisca's tail swayed in eagerness.

"Yes," her sister confirmed, baring her fangs in a pleased grin. "They are fat and move in large herds."

"What a magnificent findings." Francisca pulled her younger sister closer, caressing the back of her neck.

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The recipient showed great joy. Afterward, she asked, "Do you think Lord Beatrix will allow a tribe to settle there? So we would have less need to cull our young?"

"Are there humans in the vicinity?"

"The rocky highlands are unwanted. I found no villages except for the minters. I suppose Midlandia is fertile enough that they have better lands to live."

Francisca nodded. "If it's so isolated, then I can likely petition the Lord to establish a village there for our kin. But don't get your hopes up. Nobody can read the Lord. So keep this to yourself."

Her sister nodded but blurted out, "Lord Beatrix will be excited."

"What did I just say?" Francisca chided, warning her not to overstep before permission was given.

The younger half-breed giggled as Francisca rose and made her way to a cabinet in the corner. While she hadn’t used this chamber as her berth, she occupied it often enough to keep some of her belongings there. The guards had easily adjusted. If anything, her vigilance surpassed that of an entire group of men.

After shuffling through the cabinet, she retrieved two delicate glass bottles and returned to her sister, kneeling to offer them. "This is good for your mane. But remember to wash it thoroughly."

"My gratitude," her sister said, eyes sparkling. "This is a highly sought-after item."

Francisca nodded approvingly. "Yes, the Lord keeps creating fine items, one after another."

"Praise the wise and powerful Matriarch’s husband," the younger half-breed said in exaltation.

***

Summer of 4426

One week after the peak of summer, news of the Imperium's demise and the Ageless Emperor’s disappearance finally reached the farthest corners of the realm. It was met with shock, confusion, fear, and, ultimately, denial. For one thousand three hundred years, the Imperium had been the guiding light for its subjects, but now that light had been extinguished forever.

In the wake of its fiery downfall, two rulers had already proclaimed themselves kings, one in Brigandia and another in Nicopola. Yet the rest hesitated to declare independence. The roots of the Third Imperium ran deep, and few were bold enough to sever ties completely. Even in ruin, it remained the strongest bond holding hundreds of millions together. Scholars believed that once united, the realm would always find a way to reunite.

However, few truly understood that the status quo would not last forever. Even the most capable lords struggled with old feuds, unresolved disputes, and fragile alliances with their neighbors. Without a central authority to mediate conflicts and enforce peace, tensions would rise, and war would inevitably follow.

Soon, every baron, viscount, earl, and margrave began making preparations. Whatever level of readiness they once had was now doubled, if not tripled. Most regions were already in turmoil, but the worst was yet to come. The Eastern Kingdoms had yet to make their move, and now that they had learned of the Imperium’s downfall, their response was only a matter of time.

Meanwhile, every noble was forgetting about Duke Alvaro of Centuria, who was still fighting on the western frontier against the invading western nomads. For thirty years, generations had fought and died in this relentless struggle, yet the situation had turned grimmer than ever. No help was coming, and every high noble was too occupied defending their lands and advancing their own agendas.

In Midlandia, a recently war-torn region that had been split into two, fears and doubts lingered. Despite the conclusion of the armed conflict, several issues remained unaddressed. The first was the northern part of Midlandia, which remained hostile. The second was the Living Saint’s followers, who remained popular despite having sided with the defeated faction. People witnessed the new lord’s recruits and battle-hardened veterans dispersing clandestine gatherings of Saint Nay’s teachings. Clashes even broke out as the followers attempted to march to the monastery, despite it being off-limits.

The roads leading to the hill were heavily guarded by military garrisons, a stark reminder that the embers of conflict had not yet gone cold.

The reason for this closure was none other than the Black Lord’s demand that the monastery surrender those responsible for the large army that had besieged Cascasonne. But the Healers’ Guild continued to politely refuse, offering only assurances that the guild itself was not involved in the succession crisis and that the acts were merely the work of a few Sisters bought by corrupt officials. The ongoing negotiations seemingly left him with no choice but to delay taking further action.

Rumors spread that the Black Lord refrained from launching a siege and instead maintained the blockade because he didn’t want to jeopardize Midlandia’s fragile recovery. Others believed he did so to allow the Saint Candidates to remain in their monastery stronghold, hoping they would resolve the issue internally and spare him the ire of the populace.

Whatever the real reason, for those who lived across what was now called Southern Midlandia, this was their new reality. They lived under the rule of a foreign-born lord, a humiliating fate filled with fear and disgrace.

However, the greater-than-life events beyond Midlandia had softened them to the Black Lord’s rise to power. After all, the capital had burned, the Ageless Emperor was presumed dead, and the Imperium lay in ruin.

Change was unfolding on a grand scale, and they understood that it was not happening to them alone.

As time passed and the new Lord opened his court in Canardia and began touring the land, people started to notice how quickly order was restored. The Lord's men, officers, and knights, through their many activities and training, effectively patrolled the land and fostered a sense of security. These armed men displayed uncanny discipline, seemingly driven by a code, and conducted themselves exceptionally well. Compared to the usual armies of the time, they appeared not only highly competent but even honorable.

At first, only the people in Canardia could witness this, but as travelers, peddlers, and merchants moved during the summer, word spread to neighboring regions and, eventually, throughout the province.

His decision to deploy armed men to troubled areas earned him the respect of the populace, who feared bandits emerging from the scattered remnants of the defeated forces. At the same time, his initiative to provide medical aid wherever his army advanced, supported by the newly formed medical unit, gained him their gratitude.

Without them realizing it, the Black Lord began to be seen in a better light. Once a barbaric warmonger, he was now feared but recognized as an exceptionally talented lord.

And soon, his reputation would only continue to grow.

While the majority still viewed the Black Lord and his Lowlandian army as occupiers, intellectuals could not deny the justification behind their presence. He had arrived with a strong pretext, backed by the previous Seneschal, Bengrieve. Thus, while there was no outright acceptance, neither was there immediate rejection. The Midlandians largely refrained from passing judgment, watching closely to see what would come next.

However, to those who had heard of the Black Lord through trade or contacts in Lowlandia, this was the dawn of a new era and an exciting one at that.

Despite ruling for less than a full season, the new lord had introduced a plethora of changes. The market was full of vigor, offering products never seen before. The excitement was such that nobles and wealthy patrons eagerly traveled to Canardia to witness firsthand what had caused the commotion, particularly the talk surrounding a luxurious new bed the Lord had introduced.

This bed, called the spring bed, was the sensation of the summer. It was bouncy yet firm, stayed cooler for longer, and promised healthier sleep and superior rest. Almost every wealthy visitor placed an order after briefly trying it in the elaborate shop the Lord had named the showroom.

The Lord didn't even have to actively promote it. He simply equipped the guest chamber with the new bed, where captured knights awaited the finalization of their ransom. He also gifted one to House Tedzeus and a few other key allies who had lent him men and equipment to combat Canardia's recent fire.

In a world where meaningful improvements to personal comfort were rare, word spread quickly.

Moreover, beyond superior comfort and health, the prestige of owning the newest, most talked-about item drew everyone's attention, and money poured in.

Already anticipating commercial success similar to what he had achieved in Korelia, the Black Lord had built a massive workshop in Ornietia to meet demand, securing copper and tin to produce coils in large quantities. He also recruited artisans and craftsmen to assemble the coils and fabric covers. He knew local manufacturing in Midlandia was necessary, as demand far surpassed Korelia's limited capacity.

Aside from beds, the wealthy were also keenly interested in the new carriage the market dubbed the Lowlandian Carriage. They tried it once and quickly fell in love with it. Described as comfortable as palfreys, it was certainly the best carriage anyone could buy, and thus order after order was placed.

Not limited to expensive items for the rich, culinary inventions had also emerged. Despite being relatively new, pasta stalls were booming, as many were curious about what the Lord and his army ate, and peddlers eagerly embellished the new food with concocted stories.

While the Lord's men had yet to teach the populace how to make it, several shops had experimented and successfully replicated pasta. Without any formal instruction, the populace had already begun dabbling in pasta-making out of curiosity and profit.

But the biggest surprise was the Hair Elixir. Normally, only the wealthy paid attention to such luxuries, but this time, everyone wanted it. They all saw Francisca and longed to mimic her lustrous fur. Not just the noblewomen but even the servants in the castle had it, their hair showing the difference. The craze spread even faster with free samples given out or won through raffles, reading competitions, poetry recitals, and other simple contests.

With its affordable price for a smaller, diluted version, the Hair Elixir was the hottest and most sought-after item in Canardia. Every woman desired the new hair cleanser, which was clean, soothing, and pleasantly fragrant. It detangled hair, made it lush and easy to comb, and even gave it a brilliant shine.

The Lord’s thorough machinations ensured that his favored officers and officials had access to it, allowing them to gift it to someone special, use it as a talking point, or secure a welcome among the city’s social elite.

With clean clothes, well-groomed hair, and polished words, the Lowlandian esquires and officers proved themselves as refined as any educated Midlandian. This helped them strengthen a better image of themselves and the House of Blue and Bronze.

Ultimately, the Lord sought acceptance among his subjects, knowing it was essential to ease friction and foster unity. He saw this as paramount to his future rule, for unresolved conflicts still loomed, and war lurked just beyond the horizon.

***

Strait of Three Hills, Hidden Cove

The coastal wind carried the scent of brine and charred wood, stirring painful memories for the captured Corinthian women. It reminded them of home, yet nothing about this place resembled Corinthia. The cove's rocky terrain was harsh and unwelcoming, nothing like the sandy beaches of their homeland.

There was no beauty here. Worse, their existence in this place was torment, a cruelty beyond words.

There were forty of them, ranging from children to expecting mothers. For eleven days, they had endured humiliation and suffering in this foreign land. The men they once trusted as mentors and tutors had revealed themselves as nothing more than animals in disguise. Their previous kindness had been a lie, a way to pass the time. Now, those same men unashamedly indulged in depravity, claiming ownership over the captives' bodies.

From the very first day, the boldest among them had tried to flee, running for the sea, desperate to swim home or die trying. But even half-drunken men were faster. The escapees were caught and beaten without mercy. Some had their bones broken, others were struck until they lost teeth that would take years to grow back. A few were taken, never to be seen again.

Hungry and cold, trapped in crude huts, the remaining women huddled together. As the night deepened, the bitter mountain wind swept down upon them. It howled through the cracks in the wooden walls, biting at exposed skin.

Their Corinthian clothing was ill-suited to keep them warm. They needed woolen blankets, but only scraps were spared. Many had fallen ill, their coughs echoing in the night. A few hardened women managed to plead for medicine, and their stubbornness earned them a handful of herbal concoctions, honey mixtures, and poultices, but it would never be enough for them all.

Many had been broken, and returned to the huts in a condition too terrible to speak of, their eyes devoid of the will to live. One woman, in desperation, had taken a knife and hacked away at her hair to deter the men from wanting her, but it only made her infamous.

Through the threats and scowls of their captors, they had learned of their fate. Slavers were coming. Yet the thought of chains did not scare them. Anything, no matter how uncertain, seemed preferable to remaining in this rotting makeshift prison, subjected to barbaric cruelty night after night.

Yet, whoever these slavers were, they seemed in no hurry to claim them.

Another midnight came, closing in on their twelfth day in this forsaken place. It had been sixteen days since their capture. Many restless women had not fallen asleep, keeping watch over their group and the youngest among them, knowing that men could come at any moment seeking warmth at their expense.

The breath of the mountain winds howled stronger. The women clung to one another for warmth, their ragged clothes reeking of sweat and men. Their bones ached, their hope of rescue gone.

Even to them, it was clear that the Corinthian barony was losing to Dawn. Their men had likely died or suffered in captivity. They had been on the sea for days, and it was unlikely that their fishermen husbands or brothers would ever find them here.

The last sliver of hope was gone from even the strongest among them until flashes of steel and muffled screams cut through the night. The wind now carried the scent of iron and blood.

Through a small wooden window, no larger than a stretched palm, the women nervously watched as shadowy silhouettes approached in the darkness. A lantern hung outside the hut, revealing an old but sharp-visaged man clad in dull-colored armor.

"Corinthians?" he asked, startling the women, who exchanged glances, their hope awakened.

The man needed no answer. "I am Avery, and I am your new Lord. Promise me your loyalty, and I promise to protect you."

Tonight marked the beginning of a three-pronged assault against the Mountain People.

***

PS: Link to Map is always on the footnote (post chapter note)