Nothing was beyond betrayal. Marquis Hussein understood that better than most. He slipped secretly into Augusta Domain—not, as one might expect, to betray Count Lovett. If the southern plan succeeded, Hussein stood to profit even more than he did now. For the moment, he had no reason to expose it.

Instead, he quietly revealed one grain-store location to Derek.

“Viscount Derek, though the southerners have shown no movement, I fear they may cause trouble. I hope I am overthinking it.”

Hussein wore an expression of grave concern. In truth, he had hidden this particular granary while overseeing the transfer of royal aid and grain supplied by the central nobles. He had intended to keep it in reserve for his own future use. Now it could purchase something more valuable.

Derek immediately thanked him and apologized for earlier misunderstandings. “Marquis, I will convey your goodwill to His Majesty.”

Derek did not believe for a moment that Hussein had forgotten his humiliation and come crawling back out of pure goodwill. Every gift concealed a request. The Marquis wanted to purchase Derek's goodwill—or, more importantly, ensure that the King heard how he had protected Saint Miller's supplies. Even if Derek kept silent, Hussein would find another route by which to tell the court. The Marquis smiled when he realized that Derek had understood without forcing him to ask.

They discussed private contingencies to avoid being caught unprepared by the Holy Cross. Once Hussein left, Derek’s expression changed.

“Prepare horses. I must see the Count.”

“At this hour, Your Excellency?” Dusk had already come.

“Quickly. I fear time is short.”

Hussein's mention of the granary magnified a concern Derek already harbored. A man like the Marquis never acted without purpose. His eagerness to place his support for Derek's supplies on the royal record could mean only one thing: someone was about to tamper with the grain, and Hussein was hurriedly separating himself from the crime.

The King might tolerate Derek's arrogance or even his doubtful loyalty. Derek was a landed lord and a northern knight; his power gave him the right to be defiant. Hussein was different. His title, authority, and every opportunity he possessed had come through royal favor. Until he truly earned a seat at the kingdom's high table, he could not afford to forget whose servant he was.

Derek had made food preparations, but if southern nobles and Hussein worked together, perhaps through more extreme acts, those preparations would not be enough. He needed Count Perez.

Every northern house maintained sealed underground granaries. The nobles baked the excavated walls dry with fire, spread wood ash across the floor, then laid boards, mats, grain husks, and another layer of mats. The walls were lined with the same layered insulation; once filled, the pit was covered again half a yard below the surface and sealed beneath packed earth. Grain stored after the War of Division thirty years earlier remained edible when opened today. These reserves existed for sieges or for a northern-led war of recovery. The present crisis qualified on both counts.

Derek rode through the night and met Perez secretly outside Pran. The old count was surprised. As an old northern noble, he did not want to believe Hussein and Lovett could do such a thing, but political cruelty made the possibility clear.

“Derek, I will solve the food problem and send it to you secretly before the Holy Cross attacks. But if they prepared a killing blow, it will not be only cutting grain. If I were them, I would already have contacted people in the Holy Cross and would attack your Birch Fort direction.

“They could surround the fortress with fifty thousand men. Your soldiers inside Birch Fort could not move. They need not take it; while they stand outside, what can you do? A western advance would destroy everything.”

The plan was vicious. Even if the Holy Cross ultimately lost, Augusta Domain could still be destroyed. More than one hundred thousand subjects—and the power base that already made Derek comparable to a count—could vanish in a single campaign.

Derek accepted the lesson. His enemies would not be merciful. “I understand. If the Holy Cross thinks I am soft, it is wrong.”

After returning from Pran, Derek abandoned every comfort and turned himself into a spinning top, racing from one task to the next. He already possessed a broad understanding of Augusta and Saint Miller's terrain. Until now, he had refused to make his cruelest preparations. The danger had grown too great for further hesitation.

He mobilized training forces, brought knights frequently into the army, and increased recruitment even at the cost of spring planting. Militarism might leave insufficient food next year. Birch Fort’s defenses were reinforced again and again; piles of grain went inside, and soldiers were packed in like pigs. It looked ready for a long defense.

At the same time, he continued encouraging agriculture, directing farmers to cut irrigation channels, store water, and build ponds in preparation for planting. Outside observers found nothing unusual. Derek still appeared committed to the same old strategy: hold Birch Fort at all costs while developing the territory behind it. Given three to five years, he truly could have made Augusta impregnable.

His enemies saw only a young noble who knew how to lower his head and work, answering every danger with thicker walls, more soldiers, and longer hours. They mistook relentless labor for political naivety.

As winter passed and green returned, farmers labored everywhere. Derek inspected the work; Augusta was relatively rich, with ample water and fertile soil. The young city’s outline emerged and forge fires burned without pause.

“Move all surplus weapons, including heavy armor, into the stores,” he ordered. That included Count Perez’s order.

The weapons went into the camp warehouses. The city itself still served almost no practical function; only a scattering of commoners and low-ranking smiths remained inside. Standing atop the unfinished inner wall, Derek's gaze turned cold. If victory required sacrifice, was the price worth paying?

He already knew his answer. Forgive me. I am no saint.

He returned to the camp. Augusta’s private forces numbered twelve thousand, training in several camps. Their daily consumption would stun any noble. Even House Perez could not endure it. Derek could not either: a year at this scale would bankrupt him. Only his earlier plunder in Saint Miller kept him afloat.

Wages alone exceeded fifteen thousand gold coins a year, while even basic equipment cost another twenty thousand. Without his own production, Derek would already have been near bankruptcy. Maintaining such an army long-term was impossible—unless he survived long enough for Augusta's growing economy to carry it. If half the soldiers died first, the burden would shrink on its own. If Derek failed entirely, bankruptcy would be the least of his concerns.

Even so, his actions were madness by this world’s standards. Counting the over-strength Saint Miller Legion, roughly thirty percent of the province’s troops were in Derek’s hands.

“Not enough. Increase training. Increase recruitment. I need more soldiers, more elites.”

Even the knights felt pressure, but Derek’s prestige crushed opposition until he failed. The whole province was also training, recruiting, and strengthening defenses. Decades without a major war meant the Holy Cross could launch an enormous campaign. Domestic aid would be late for many reasons, while the barbarians also demanded troops.

The northern nobles were stronger than they appeared. The entire region around the Northern Province belonged to their circle, not only militarily. When Count Perez called several great houses to secret action, Derek saw it again.

Grain poured into Saint Miller through northern channels that outsiders could barely detect. Large quantities crossed territory controlled by Lloyd's bandits, with still more smuggled through the domains of other raider gangs. A few scattered rumors escaped, but never enough to reveal the operation as a whole. Derek saw once again how overwhelming the power of an established local network could be on its own ground.

After spring rain raised the shallow river slightly, reports from the Holy Cross began arriving.

Grand Duke Sebastian Bruno Fernandez, the Holy Cross King’s brother and Grand Duke of Holy Light, would command the western campaign. A cardinal archbishop would serve as military priest. Count Connor Radd, the Sword of God, would be deputy commander. They were organizing two hundred thousand troops for a western march.

Years of recovery had brought the Holy Cross to a peak, and it erupted with this opportunity. Without the barbarian surprise attack, Locke and the Holy Cross might both have moved north to recover lost land, placing the Barbarian Kingdom under a truly crushing attack. Instead, the contradiction had shifted. Saint Miller Province broke thirty years of peace.

The news threw Saint Miller into an uproar, and every surviving hostile faction began stirring beneath the surface. Nothing on this scale had been seen since the Holy United Kingdom split apart.

Of the two hundred thousand Holy Cross troops, one hundred and fifty thousand were serfs scraped together from across the kingdom. The Church excelled at inflaming the faith of the poor, while the levy also relieved mounting population pressure. To the nobles, common serfs who multiplied without restraint were useless mouths. They valued strong slaves, skilled craftsmen, and military talent—yet refused to cultivate such talent among their own serfs, preferring to purchase expensive trained slaves instead. Nowhere was faith in superior blood stronger than in the Holy Cross Kingdom.

Thus Fernandez, of noble blood, became commander. Did he have enough prestige? Until he failed, the royal bloodline remained useful. Without another challenger, his campaign would face no internal resistance.

But Count Connor had noble blood, Church recognition, and military prestige. One defeat had not broken him. In their meeting, they argued.

“Birch Fort is hard. We should change direction,” Connor said.

“Has the Count been frightened by Locke? I am the commander.”

“I will not agree.”

“I think you took money from that northern knight.”

They parted badly while the cardinal archbishop smiled without speaking. Back in his tent, Fernandez’s rage vanished. It had been an act. He had not exposed his cards, including his connection to Count Lovett. Even without that intelligence, his numbers could roll forward.

“As long as I make no mistake, I will win.”

The first-time commander understood his position perfectly. Connor enjoyed the Church's support, but did Fernandez—the heir of a heaven-granted royal bloodline—not enjoy it as well? The one hundred and fifty thousand serfs were themselves the price of a bargain between Church and Crown.

No one intended to let them return. One hundred and fifty thousand lives would stain the land red and open a fief for Grand Duke Fernandez. That was the truth.