owlsbooks Chapter 251 CAMPFIRES IN EASTMARCH
Chapter 251 CAMPFIRES IN EASTMARCH
Night in Eastmarch had never felt this heavy.
In Iron Hearth, darkness was a long-conquered enemy. Magitech streetlights always hummed with a steady blue glow, bathing every corner of the city in consistent light. There, night was merely a technical intermission before the factory engines roared back to life and Maglev trains streaked across the skyline. But here, in the midst of an endless prairie, night was the absolute sovereign. No mana lamps, no chimney smoke. There was only a scattering of stars that looked like shards of glass deliberately tossed onto a black velvet canvas.
Rianor Sudrath sat alone on a flat rock, distancing himself from the circle of the campfire. In his lap, an ancient mana compass vibrated softly. Its needle was restless; it twitched, spun slowly, stopped abruptly, then resumed its frantic shivering. The dim blue light from the device reflected off his spectacles, which had slipped slightly down his nose.
Push. He adjusted his glasses with his index finger, his eyes having not left the device for nearly an hour.
Earlier, back in Thornfield, this needle had pointed straight southeast—directly toward Luminara. But now? The needle had turned traitor. It had shifted south. Thirty-four degrees, if his mental calculations held true.
"Hmm... A new energy source? Or has something ancient just woken up?" he murmured.
His quill scratched against the pages of his notebook with a rhythmic skritch-skritch. There were no answers there. Only rows of data left hanging in the air.
The night wind blew, carrying the scent of dry earth mingled with wildflowers unfamiliar to his senses. Near the fire, Naya was preoccupied with her own world. Sshh... sshh... sshh... the constant sound of her whetstone against her dagger filled the air. Beside her, Orva distributed flatbread and dried meat with practiced efficiency. Meanwhile, Adul looked grave in front of his communication box. His fingers danced across the crystal panel, sending a test signal back toward Iron Hearth.
"Signal is stable, sir," Adul reported. His voice was steadier now, as if the nerves from the first day had finally eroded. "No urgent messages from headquarters."
Rianor simply gave a brief nod without turning. "Good."
A few meters behind him, Dom stood tall at the boundary between the firelight and the encroaching dark. The man was as still as a statue. Had his eyes not occasionally scanned the horizon, one might have mistaken him for a part of the Eastmarch landscape.
Crunch... crunch...
Footsteps on dry grass broke Rianor’s focus. Roland emerged from behind a tent, carrying two metal mugs that sent spirals of steam into the air. His hair was a mess—a casualty of a long journey that was beginning to tarnish his diplomatic image. His expensive coat had been swapped for a loose cotton shirt, though he still kept it neatly tucked into his trousers. At his waist sat a small-caliber magitech pistol—a stark contradiction to the sweet words he offered at negotiation tables.
"Tsk. Still awake, I see," Roland remarked, extending one of the mugs.
"And you?" Rianor countered, accepting the drink. The scent of herbal tea—a potent blend of pine and ginger—hit his nose. The supplies from Qaqortoq were holding up well.
Roland sat on the same rock, leaving enough space for both of them to breathe. Silence fell between them, punctuated only by the crackle of burning wood and the distant sound of Naya’s whetstone.
"The stars... they’re incredibly bright tonight," Roland said suddenly.
Rianor looked up. He was right. Without the light pollution of factory chimneys, the Eastmarch sky showed off its true splendor. The stars were packed so densely they looked like spilled diamond dust.
Roland pointed to a bright speck on the eastern horizon. "That’s toward Draconia, isn’t it?"
Rianor performed a quick calculation based on the moon’s position and the constellations. "Most likely."
Roland didn’t respond. His eyes remained locked on that single point.
Rianor exhaled slowly. He knew his brother. There was a storm brewing behind that calm facade—something that had been suppressed for too long and was now seeking a crack to seep through.
"Are you still thinking about Seraphina?"
The question was asked flatly. Not as an interrogation, but as an acknowledgment of a glaring fact.
Roland sipped his tea slowly. "I’m always thinking about her."
As a diplomat, Roland Sudrath was a master of negotiation. He had faced the arrogant Dragon Emperor, sat at tables with bloodthirsty nobles, and convinced miserly merchant councils. He always held an ace up his sleeve.
But this time, he felt his hands were empty.
"When she came to me," Roland’s voice weakened, nearly swallowed by the night wind, "I had mentally prepared for every possibility. Diplomatic rejection, impossible political terms, even death threats from her father. I was ready for all of it, Brother."
He paused, his eyes still fixed on the eastern star.
"But I wasn’t ready for... her eyes."
Rianor remained silent, letting the steam from the tea dampen his face.
"She held me so tightly, Rianor. As if she were drowning and I was her only lifeline." Roland stared into his cooling mug. "And when she told me we couldn’t be together... her voice trembled."
"Are you certain it wasn’t just an excuse?"
"I’m a diplomat. I’m paid to smell a lie from a kilometer away. I know the difference between someone rejecting you out of hate and someone doing it out of necessity." Roland looked up. For the first time, Rianor saw resignation there. "She’s terrified. Not of me, but of something in Draconia."
Rianor set his mug down. "So, you’re going to find out what it is?"
"Of course." Roland chuckled—a dry, bitter sound. "But when? Right now I’m stranded here, heading for Luminara, thousands of kilometers from Draconia. And after this, who knows what chaos awaits. Meanwhile, she..."
"She’s waiting for you," Rianor cut him off bluntly.
Roland turned. "Huh?"
"She’s waiting for you," Rianor repeated in the same tone. "If she rejected you not because of hate, it means she still loves you. And if that love exists, she will endure. It’s as simple as that."
"You talk as if this is just a technical issue."
"Because it is." Rianor looked his brother in the eye. "You’ve spent so much time entangled in complex negotiations that you’ve forgotten the basics. This isn’t about diplomacy, Roland. It’s about time. Finish your business here, then go to Draconia. Find out what she fears, and then destroy that fear."
"And if I fail to fix it?"
"If you don’t try, you’ve already failed from the start."
Roland went silent. The campfire popped, throwing orange sparks into the night air.
"You know," Roland murmured after a while, "back when we were kids—back on Earth—I always admired you."
Rianor raised an eyebrow slightly. "Admired me? I thought you used to complain that I was an insufferable brother."
"Oh, you are insufferable. That’s a fact." Roland swirled his tea. "But you always had a plan. Always knew the next step. I... I’m not that great. I’m just a talker."
"Just a talker?" Rianor almost smiled. "Roland, you made the Dragon Emperor bow to the alliance. That isn’t ’just talking.’ That is a talent I couldn’t buy with a thousand mana engines."
Roland looked at his brother tentatively. "You mean that?"
"I never joke about facts."
"Hmm. No wonder you rarely praise me."
"Because if I did, you’d become too arrogant to talk to."
Roland let out a small laugh, his voice sounding more relaxed this time. "Yeah... there’s some truth to that."
Silence enveloped them once more, but this time, it felt warmer.
"When I proposed to Elara," Rianor said suddenly, "I was terrified too. And you already know how that story went."
Roland froze. "But you did it anyway."
"Yes. Because I realized one thing."
"What?"
Rianor looked at a faint star to the north—Polaris. The star that never shifted even if the world turned upside down.
"Fear is painful, certainly. But regret? Regret is a poison that kills you slowly from the inside. And I refuse to die a fool because of that poison."
Roland sat in silence for a long time, absorbing those words. Slowly, he gave a firm nod.
"Thank you, Brother."
"For what?"
"For not giving me the garbage motivational fluff I usually hear at diplomatic galas."
Rianor sipped the last of his tea. "I’m not motivating you. I’m simply stating data."
Roland smirked. "Of course. Classic Rianor Sudrath."
An hour later, Roland had returned to his tent. His breathing was steady; the weight on his shoulders seemed to have lifted slightly.
Rianor remained unmoving on the rock.
He pulled out the ancient mana compass once more. The needle remained steadfastly pointed south. Not toward Luminara. But straight toward The World’s End Mountains.
He compared it with a standard magnetic compass. Magnetic pointed north; mana pointed south.
"Why have you changed direction?" he whispered to the metal device.
He reopened his notebook. Under the dim light of his lantern, he wrote down his latest observation:
Mana compass shifted 34 degrees. Original target: Luminara. Current target: The World’s End Mountains (South). Hypotheses: (1) Emergence of a new high-density mana anomaly. (2) Chain reaction from an awakened ancient energy source. Field investigation required.
He paused. His hand wanted to write a single word: Orion. Or perhaps Project Legion. But he held back. There was no concrete evidence yet.
"Whatever is stored there, Orion... I hope your seal hasn’t cracked yet."
Thud. He closed his book.
Dom suddenly appeared beside him without a sound. "Sir. You should rest."
"Later."
"You’ve said that for three hours now."
Rianor almost smiled. "You’re getting chatty, Dom."
"Just stating the facts, sir."
Dawn broke in pale orange hues. The camp was quickly abuzz with activity. Tents were folded, horses checked, and the remains of the campfire extinguished until not a wisp of smoke remained.
Dom and Adul were ready on the driver’s bench. Naya and Orva performed final checks on their saddles. Roland stepped out of his tent, his face looking much fresher.
Rianor stood by the carriage, his eyes fixed sharply to the south.
"Our next destination?" Roland asked as he approached.
"Not a city. A bridge," Dom answered, spreading out a leather map. "An ancient stone bridge crossing the Eastern Bay. From there, we can follow the coast toward the Luminara border. Much faster than circling around by land."
"An ancient bridge? Who built it?" Roland frowned.
Dom simply shrugged. "The architecture is alien. Not Aethelgardian style."
Rianor stored that information away. A relic of the past? Or something more dangerous?
"How long?"
"Two days to the bridge. After that, four days along the coast to Luminara."
Rianor nodded. "We move out now."
The carriage wheels began to turn, crushing the Eastmarch grass frozen by dew. In the distance, the silhouette of the mountains began to appear faintly, looming like sleeping giants. The compass in Rianor’s pocket continued to vibrate, pointing in the same direction.
At the same time, hundreds of kilometers to the northwest.
The coast of the Beast-kin Khanate was swallowed by thick fog. The moon appeared only as a pale shadow behind the clouds. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs was heavy—Boom... boom...—like the heartbeat of the earth.
From out of the mist, a giant silhouette emerged.
It wasn’t a sailing ship. There were no sails fluttering in the wind. Only a pitch-black iron hull tearing through the water in silence. A terrifying metal prow jutted from the fog, with chimneys emitting thin smoke that was nearly invisible in the dark.
A Wraith-class landing ship. The finest infiltrator in the Iron Empire’s fleet. No flag, no lights, no noisy engine roar. Only the hiss of fine steam swallowed by the roll of the waves.
From the ship’s belly, dozens of figures descended onto the rocky beach.
They moved like ghosts. Their black armor was designed not to reflect even a sliver of light. Sealed helmets hid their expressions. In their hands, they carried high-pressure steam weapons—silent but lethal.
At the very front, a woman led the way.
Her black hair was cut short to her shoulders. Her left eye was covered by a worn black bandage, contrasting with her right eye, which stared sharply like a hunting predator. There was no hesitation, only cold calculation.
General Katarina.
"Two squads north, one south. Clear out all the outer outposts," she commanded. Her voice was low, sharp as a blade. "Leave no witnesses. But remember—leave a few alive so they can run and spread the fear."
An officer beside her nodded obediently. "Our primary target, General?"
"Fear," Katarina answered, staring toward the hills where the Beast-kin tribes resided. "Khan Arslan must know that there are uninvited guests on his land. But he will never know who we are or where we came from."
"And Northreach?"
Katarina smirked—a smile that never reached her eyes. "They will hear of this. And when they do, they must choose: help their allies who are being slaughtered, or hide behind their city walls while we burn these grasslands to the ground."
She turned back to the Wraith ship still anchored in the mist.
"The Emperor asked for a second front. I will give him a sea of fire."
One by one, the Iron Empire’s forces vanished into the dark. On the ship, the steam engines resumed their low pulse—thump... thump... thump...—like the heartbeat of a giant that refused to die.