I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 1470: The Tenth Prince

The first parchment, bearing the Emperor’s heavy red wax, was still cooling on the low wooden table in the Archduke’s study.

Northern did not look at it. He stood by the high lancet window with his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, watching the western granite rampart. Below, the mountain wind howled through the newly mended stone, kicking up loose snow and brittle pine needles.

Oland had gone down an hour ago to meet the truce flag, and the seneschal had come back with a severe expression and the first lion-sealed recall. Now the heavy, measured tread of armored boots echoed up the main stairwell of the Tempest Spire.

Princess Rehema Nora sat calmly by the hearth. Her resoled boots were planted on the shadow-forged stone, and her long white hair fell over her shoulders in a loose cascade. She watched the doorway without blinking.

Prince Rigel lounged on a padded bench in the corner. He wore a plain white silk tunic that stood out sharply against the dark, brutal architecture of the monster-built keep. On the surface, Rigel looked bored and insolent, with his chin tipped up and his legs stretched out across the stone. But his crimson eyes darted toward every sound in the corridor, and his thumb had worried a loose thread from the bench’s padding into a tight little curl.

Bairan leaned against the obsidian archway, tossing a bruised apple from one hand to the other.

”We have a guest, my Liege. He walks like he owns the mountain.”

The heavy ironwood doors swung open.

Oland entered first. The Tower Master’s face had gone the color of old tallow, and he held his ledger flat against his ribs as he stepped aside to clear the path for the imperial envoy.

Behind him walked a man in white-and-gold plate.

The newcomer was a double-digit Numbered Knight. He carried the suffocating aura of a high-tier Ascendant, and it pressed outward through the room, untroubled by the oppressive reiki swirling through the monster territory beyond the walls. His armor was unpolished but impeccably forged, and a hundred battles had cut deep gouges beneath the gold inlay. On his breastplate, stamped in stark black iron, was the number eighteen.

Knight 18 stopped in the center of the study. He did not bow. He did not look at Rehema, and he spared Rigel only a brief, dismissive glance. His eyes settled on Northern and stayed there.

The Knight reached into his heavy wool cloak and produced a second wooden tube. This one was capped in solid gold and bore the roaring lion seal of the Starward Court.

”I have delivered the recall to the Sixth Prince and the Princess. I carry a second imperial summons. Issued directly by the Throne.”

Oland shifted the ledger under one arm and held out his free hand to receive the tube.

The Knight ignored him. He cracked the gold cap himself, drew out a thick roll of cream-colored vellum, and unrolled it with a sharp snap of his armored wrists.

”To the Supreme Commander of the Ryugan front. By decree of the Crown and the Blood of Flame.”

Knight 18 paused, lowering the parchment slightly to look Northern dead in the eye.

”To Rian Artemis Reimgard, Tenth Prince.”

The room went still.

Rigel shot up from his bench. The white silk of his tunic rustled loudly in the silence, and the curled thread dropped from his fingers to the floor.

Oland froze with his hand still outstretched. The Tower Master stared at the Knight while his jaw slowly went slack. The overwhelming presence, the casual defiance of the capital, the deep well of ancient blood, all of it locked into place at once.

The ledger slipped an inch under his arm.

”Good stars.”

Bairan stopped tossing his apple. He caught it in his right hand, and a grin spread slowly across his eccentric face.

Northern did not blink. He kept his hands in his pockets and his shoulder resting easily against the stone window frame.

’I’m already there.’

Knight 18 finished the proclamation and rolled the vellum back into a tight cylinder.

”You have thirty days to present yourself at the Starward Court. The Emperor expects his family whole.”

He held the tube out.

Northern did not step forward to take it. He tipped his chin half an inch toward the hearth.

Rehema rose and crossed the room without a sound, her boots barely whispering on the stone, and took the golden tube directly from the Knight’s glove.

”I’ll tell him you read it.”

She slid the summons into the deep pocket of her travel coat and buttoned the flap over it.

Knight 18’s mouth thinned, and the rigid lines of his face pulled tighter around it.

”The summons requires a physical acknowledgment, Princess. The Tenth Prince must confirm his return.”

Bairan lobbed the apple across the room. Northern finally pulled his right hand out of his pocket, caught it without looking, and turned it over to inspect a brown spot with lazy interest.

”I’m not going.”

Knight 18’s hand drifted toward the broadsword belted at his waist.

”The Emperor’s word is not a request. It is a mandate. You are holding the Sixth Prince as leverage, but the Throne will not bargain for him.”

Northern tossed the apple into the hearth, where it struck the glowing embers with a soft hiss.

”I don’t need leverage. I’m giving him back.”

Rigel stiffened, his crimson eyes flashing.

”What?”

Rigel took half a step forward and stopped there. He had spent weeks in the Spire, smelling the familiar blood and watching the Archduke build a nation out of monsters and refugees. The chin he had held so carefully high all morning had come down.

”You’re sending me back.”

Northern nodded slowly.

”Your father asked for an answer. You’re the answer. Go back to Reimhold. Sit in the Starward Court. Let him look at you, tha”t should be enough for him.”

Rigel swallowed hard. He looked at Rehema, then at the Knight, and finally back at Northern. Then he straightened his spine and pulled the white silk of his tunic flat against his chest.

”I see.”

Northern turned back to the armored envoy.

”Take them to the border. Bairan will ride with you until you clear the mountain passes.”

Bairan pushed off the archway and rested his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword.

”My absolute pleasure. I do love a parade.”

Knight 18 did not argue. He had his objective. He bowed stiffly to Rehema, offered Rigel a lesser nod, and turned on his heel. His heavy boots rang against the stairs all the way down to the courtyard.

It took an hour to prepare the horses.

By then the Ryugan courtyard was full of stamping hooves and the clatter of imperial harness brass. The white-and-gold escort sat high in their saddles, their breath pluming in the freezing mountain air, while grooms ran the last girth straps tight.

Rehema stood by the main gates, fastening the heavy silver clasp of her riding cloak.

Northern walked down the broad granite steps to meet her.

Rehema waited until the clasp caught.

”He’s going to push the board, Northern. Father doesn’t just read ledgers. He balances them. You’re exposing your name to the entire continent.”

Northern watched the escort’s horses shift and blow in the cold.

”The name is just a target. It keeps them looking at the Spire instead of the wall.”

Rehema patted his shoulder, and her fingers lingered on the rough black wool of his coat.

”Don’t let him break you.”

Northern lifted one shoulder under her hand.

”I’m unbreakable, Rehema.”

Rigel was already mounted on a pale roan gelding. The younger prince looked down at Northern from the saddle. For a moment, the royal insolence was gone. The reins hung slack in his gloves, and he held Northern’s eyes a beat longer than any prince of the Starward Court was taught to.

”I’ll see you in the capital, Brother.”

Northern did not correct him. He gave a flat, shallow nod.

Bairan rode at the head of the column on a massive black destrier. The Sword King whistled a tuneless tavern song as he led the imperial escort out through the iron gates of the Tempest Spire, swaying in the saddle as if he were riding home from a wedding.

Northern stood on the highest tier of the western rampart and watched them go.

Oland stood two paces behind him. The Tower Master held his ledger tightly against his chest, gripping it as though the heavy parchment could pin him to the stone.

Down on the winding mountain road, Knight 18 brought up the rear of the column.

As the escort crossed into the dark tree line, the Knight drew rein, and his heavy warhorse stopped in the slush.

The Knight turned in his saddle.

He did not look at the ramparts. He did not look at the iron gates. He tipped his head far back and looked high up at the towering, impossible peak of the Tempest Spire itself.

The distance was nearly two miles, blurred by drifting snow and the reiki fog of the ancient forest. Even so, Northern felt the stare.

It had weight. A cold, piercing pressure scraped against the edges of his suppressed perception.

It was not the first time. A thousand miles away, in the Crown City of Reimhold, the Rian clone had felt this same pressure while standing in the Legion Fields. It carried the same weight, came from the same angle, and held the same cold calculation of a veteran killer measuring a threat.

It was identical.

And so, Knight 18 turned his horse and rode into the trees.

Northern leaned his elbows on the cold granite wall and watched the last of the white imperial cloaks vanish into the pines.