Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest-Chapter 342 - 15: Close Protection

The night had deepened.

In the fireplace, firewood crackled and popped, casting red flames that illuminated most of the castle’s hall.

Two people sat on chairs, one to the left and one to the right beside the fireplace, with sparks occasionally bursting forth.

The young king listened as the Witch told a story from the North.

The story originated from a distant, dark age—cold and cruel, replete with death.

"The people of Wandong struggled in the vilest conditions, not seeing the sun for over a hundred years, believing they had lost it forever. Livestock froze to death, parents smothered their children, humanity almost perished, until the first Winter King promised the gods never to betray this land. They were granted a space to survive, a nightmare that the royal line of Wandong could never escape for thousands of years afterward..."

"Is the legend true?" the King asked.

"Mostly unreliable," the Witch replied.

"Only frightening legends survive. If Your Highness wants stories, I have plenty here—of Cangyue, Igo, the wild gods of the plateau... Before Your Highness established the order of the Seven Kingdoms, each tribe savagely grew. Even after the establishment of the Seven Kingdoms’ order, those legends didn’t cease.

"Your Highness conquered the Yige people but never conquered Igo Land; he conquered the Wandong people, yet never the Northern Land. Even the lord of the Black Iron Crown has his limits. The secret histories of the court described his concerns about the North: if calamities arose, they’d come either from the Nether Sea or the North, the great enemy stepping from those long-forgotten, distant years."

"But I still don’t see their shadows now."

"My king, it’s because you are too young. You might feel that these years have been very cold, but every few decades, this land faces a cold period. Some believe this is normal, but there are wise men who think it’s a coincidence. Change is about to happen, it’s going to shatter everyone’s common sense, and this ominous sign was confirmed a hundred years ago. The tribes of the Frost People moved away from the endless ice fields, but amidst the chaos and death, there also brewed a hope that could change everything."

The Witch said, "When darkness and disaster descend, filling the land with cold, there emerge some who are different, lifting torches to light the path ahead, and these individuals are called heroes and leaders by the world."

Crack! Pop!

The sound of burning wood.

Flames danced in the fireplace, and sparks burst forth.

The darker the winter night, the warmer the flames, the deeper the darkness, the more penetrating the flames.

The silhouettes of the two were stretched very long by the firelight, starting from their feet and vanishing into the darkness.

The Witch’s story was finished.

The young king remained unmoved, deep in thought.

...

In the morning, Roman woke from a dream.

He smelled a faint scent of orchid from the bed, its owner’s body warm and tender, lying beside him, and he could distinctly feel the soft, delicate skin.

"Your Highness..." she sat up, opened the warm fur blanket, naked, and began helping Roman dress.

"Won’t you sleep a bit more?" Shasta asked.

The chill crept inside the room; the outside cold wind was strong, having started to snow the day before; it had not ceased all night, and snowflakes were still dancing.

As Roman fastened his belt, he said, "Today a caravan has brought a group of slaves, I need to go see them, to prevent those fools from being lazy and not following my orders."

Shasta could only help him put on his cloak, then swiftly dressed in her undergarments, inner garments, sweater, and a black sheepskin jacket, and followed Roman out of the bedroom.

The two came to the hall and saw Margaret sitting alone at the long table, silently nibbling on the bread in her hand.

Roman and Shasta’s arrival did not elicit any reaction from her.

"Margaret, you are eating bread again," Shasta sat next to her and said. "Eat something else." She placed a few slices of bacon on Margaret’s bread and pushed the plate with desserts toward her.

The latter neither rejected nor accepted.

After Roman had a quick breakfast, he spoke to the maid, "I won’t be back for lunch today, but make extra for dinner and prepare another bedroom as a lady will be staying here from now on."

"Very well, Your Highness," the maid bowed.

Roman and his two companions then mounted their horses and left Fertile Castle.

Margaret lagged slightly behind, and Shasta noticed she was preoccupied. Riding next to her in the howling cold wind, she asked, "Margaret, what’s wrong?"

The Blood Witch replied softly, "You talked for a long time last night."

Shasta nodded and said, "I was telling His Highness the stories I heard from the Prophet."

Margaret pointed out, "You spent the night in His Highness’s room."

Shasta hesitated, hearing this for the first time from Margaret, but was frank about it, "His Highness asked me to warm his bed, and I had no reason to refuse," she said. "Besides, we are his guards; the closer to him, the better to prevent any assassin from finding an opportunity."

The Grand Duke Riptide had died at Dragon Castle, and with that precedent, Shasta felt obliged to offer Roman tighter security.

This was the only path they had now.

"Margaret, what’s wrong? If you have something to say, just say it."

Margaret fell into a long silence.

Her long blood-red hair covered most of her delicate face, her posture and demeanor somber and oppressive, the atmospheric pressure keeping others at bay.

Shasta clearly saw Margaret’s thin red lips move as if she wanted to say something, but she ultimately did not speak.

Shasta wondered what exactly was on Margaret’s mind.

The Blood Witch seldom paid attention to external affairs; even during their perilous times, when others grumbled, Margaret never faltered and continued her duties quietly.

But why would she suddenly bring this up?

Were her unspoken words meant to say something specific, or did she believe Shasta shouldn’t have done it?

However, Shasta felt there was nothing wrong with her actions; Witch Forest was no Monastery, and witches weren’t Nuns. As long as they didn’t harm other sisters, witches had the right to choose their partners.

Most people disliked witches, believing that interacting with them could bring misfortune and that mating with them would condemn their souls to Hell after death. Only a few thrill-seeking men and women would engage with them.

Her actions had not harmed any other sister; in fact, her initial intention was to protect Margaret.

Margaret’s spell was unique, causing her immense pain. The sight of blood could drive her mad, leading to frenzied killing, yet she was a pillar of strength for Witch Forest.

Shasta often took note of her and was concerned about Margaret’s mental state, fearing she might one day not withstand the pain and lose control completely.

Shasta knew Margaret well; when she asked her a question and got no response, it often meant Margaret herself did not know what to say or do.