The Forgotten Field

The interior of the main keep was overflowing with townspeople who had fled from the city.

Slowly surveying the haggard faces of people who clearly had not washed for weeks, Varkas eventually stopped before a row of bodies laid out along one side of the hall.

Soldiers clad in blood-soaked gambesons lay neatly beside civilians who appeared to have lost their lives after becoming caught up in the uprising.

“Are these all the dead?”

“N-No, Your Grace. The bodies of the soldiers who followed the lord, along with the mercenaries he hired, have been piled up in the rear courtyard of the fortress.”

An elderly priest in a black cassock, kneeling beside the dead, answered in an unmistakably nervous voice.

Varkas motioned toward the knights waiting behind him.

“Go and confirm it.”

Then, sweeping his cold gaze across the hall, he added,

“For the time being, this fortress will remain under lockdown. Everyone residing inside will undergo a thorough investigation. Only those proven to have had no involvement in the rebellion will be permitted to leave.”

Fearful sighs rose from every direction.

Leaving behind the people clinging to one another as they quietly wept, he ascended the staircase at the center of the hall.

It appeared the lord had met his end in his own bedchamber.

The moment Varkas entered the spacious room on the third floor, the heavy stench of blood struck him.

Crossing a carpet stained in countless patches of dark, dried blood, he approached a writing desk that had been half smashed to pieces.

Stacks of parchment lay scattered across its surface, smeared with both blood and spilled ink.

Picking them up one by one, he skimmed through them rapidly before stopping at a letter requesting military assistance.

His eyes narrowed.

The page, stained with dried blood, contained desperate pleas bordering on outright begging, mixed chaotically with what appeared to be military cipher symbols.

...A letter to his allies? Or...

His gaze dropped to the recipient’s name.

Written there were the words—

Gray Bear.

If that referred to Bjorn Blodar Heimdal, then the assumption that the leaders of the northern rebellion had hidden themselves in Tarlin was completely wrong.

Running a rough hand through his disheveled hair, Varkas tossed the parchment aside and began searching through the desk drawers for other clues.

Just then, Daren’s voice came from the doorway.

“Found anything?”

Looking down at the empty drawer, Varkas shook his head.

“Not yet.”

“I had a little more luck.”

Setting an overturned chair upright, Daren dropped heavily into it before continuing.

“The soldiers found several chests filled with gold coins in the underground warehouse. Judging by the circumstances, it’s payment for the military supplies sold to Valto.”

He let out a long sigh.

“Besides that, we also found five or six northerners among the mercenaries employed by the castellan. They almost certainly belonged to the rebel forces brought here for the smuggling operation.”

“Any survivors?”

Daren shook his head.

“The men loyal to the lord were almost completely wiped out. The only survivors are the chief steward and a handful of bodyguards who served as his closest attendants, but I doubt they’ll provide anything useful.”

“Interrogate them until they’ve confessed everything they know.”

Walking away from the desk, Varkas gave the order in an emotionless voice.

“If we allow this to end inconclusively, the same thing will happen again. Anyone connected to this affair will be punished severely and made into an example. Investigate every resident within the fortress without exception. Search every corner of this castle until you’ve gathered every piece of evidence that can be found.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Replying in a heavy voice, Daren rose and quietly left the room.

Varkas continued searching through the bookshelves, but once he concluded there were no meaningful clues left to uncover, he left the devastated bedchamber and walked through the silent corridor.

Then, through a shattered window, something familiar caught his eye.

In one corner of the garden, beneath the pale sunlight of late autumn, yellow roses bloomed in dazzling abundance.

He stood motionless for a long while, staring at them with frozen eyes.

Then, as though trying to erase the image of her that had suddenly appeared before him, he quietly resumed walking.

Days of brutal interrogation yielded nothing regarding the rebels’ headquarters.

Once it became clear that none of the leaders of the northern rebellion were in Tarlin, Kailias led the Roem Knights north toward a smaller territory.

Apparently, he still believed Bjorn might be hiding somewhere nearby.

Varkas, however, was convinced Bjorn had already vanished completely from the East.

Judging by the scale of the military supplies he purchased here, the forces still loyal to him remain largely intact.

Now that he had secured the weapons he needed, he had undoubtedly returned to the North, where his remaining supporters awaited him.

Leafing through another smuggling ledger that had recently been discovered, Varkas frowned.

One question continued to trouble him.

With every major northern city already lost and even Amasek having fallen...

Where had Bjorn obtained enough money to finance all of this?

The North possessed countless mines and vast natural forests.

But from the moment the war began, every trade route had been sealed.

Smuggling alone could never have financed a military campaign on this scale.

Perhaps...

Another regional lord had been secretly supporting him.

A dull ache spread through his head.

Varkas tossed the ledger onto the desk before leaning back in his chair and pressing two fingers between his brows.

The possibility of a third party’s involvement made the situation exponentially more complicated.

The most likely outside collaborator was Vallis to the west.

The descendants of the old Kingdom of Vallis, who had settled in the far northwest, had never abandoned their long-held desire to free themselves entirely from Libadon’s influence.

Dristan could not be ruled out either.

The Dristani people living in the southeastern reaches of the Robiden continent had never forgotten their ancient hatred toward the Weden people who bordered them to the west.

They, too, likely dreamed of independence.

One hundred and fifty years had passed since Emperor Darian’s death.

The Empire, composed of ten different peoples, now rested upon such a fragile balance that it would hardly be surprising if it collapsed at any moment.

...There may well be a third force seeking independence from the Empire, manipulating everything from the shadows.

Perhaps that was why the peace treaty negotiations had dragged on for so long.

Letting out a weary sigh, Varkas looked toward the sky beyond the window, where the first light of dawn had begun to spread.

Once again, he had endured another sleepless night.

The accumulated exhaustion made his arms and legs feel unbearably heavy, faint spasms occasionally rippling through them.

He clenched his fist tightly, suppressing the trembling, before forcing himself to stand.

A dull numbness spread through his arms, shoulders, and the back of his neck.

Yet the pain still failed to reach his mind.

Instead, there remained only a detached instinct warning him that, unless he rested soon, he might finally reach his limit.

I should probably obtain some sleeping medication before long.

For the moment, however...

He could still endure.

After briefly assessing his condition, Varkas picked up the coat he had set aside and left the military quarters.

The bodies of the executed prisoners hung from the city walls at regular intervals.

Over the past several weeks alone, thirty vassals had been executed.

The investigation had revealed that the overwhelming majority of the northeastern lords and administrators had participated in acts of treason.

As a result, an enormous power vacuum had opened throughout the northeastern territories.

Filling those positions as quickly as possible had become another urgent priority.

Varkas mentally reviewed potential candidates.

At the same time he appointed new lords, he intended to arrange Raina’s marriage.

If his younger relative stubbornly refused to wed, another possibility would be sending Lucas here instead.

There could hardly be a better place for him to gain administrative experience than Tarlin.

Allowing him to build accomplishments before formally announcing the next heir would not be a poor decision.

Weighing each possibility in turn, Varkas removed his waterskin from the leather pouch at his waist and moistened his parched throat.

Then—

A commotion erupted near the city gate.

Turning his head, he frowned upon seeing Beirof running toward him in obvious panic, barely armored.

The sight alone sent a foreboding chill down his spine.

“Your Grace! An urgent dispatch has arrived from Kalmor!”

The man came sprinting over, breathing hard.

Varkas straightened away from the fence he had been leaning against.

Holding out a tightly rolled piece of parchment, Beirof added in a voice strained with barely restrained fury,

“You must return immediately. We’ve received word that Young Master Lucas was gravely injured after being attacked by the Grand Duchess’s wolf.”