Adam of crick

A month had passed since the tense gathering in the Frozen Hall. The castle was on edge; riders came and went incessantly. The tension was palpable, felt by all, from the lowest servant to the highest guard. Everyone knew the border was on the brink.

As the old saying goes, 'A quiet mind is a great blessing.' Yet, in these troubled times, peace of mind seemed a distant dream.

The North had always been a harsh land, a place of perpetual struggle. Its people were hardened by the unforgiving winter, the scarcity of food, and the constant threat of beasts. But a war would push them to their absolute limits, exacerbating these challenges.

As winter approached, prices were already soaring. Desperation knows no bounds, and with the war intensifying, prices reached astronomical levels. Yesterday, I visited the city market and was shocked to find that a single slice of bread cost a staggering 20 copper coins—a tenfold increase from the previous winter.

The war had disrupted the traditional grain supply from Dreynoir and Mitford County. These regions, now on the frontline, were unable to meet the winter's demand. As a result, the North was heavily reliant on grain imports from the Vixon Duchy. However, these imports were subject to high taxes, further exacerbating the economic burden.

The city itself was struggling to cope. A constant influx of refugees from the war-torn regions had strained the city's resources to the breaking point. The townsfolk, once accustomed to a life of relative comfort, now faced the harsh reality of sharing their limited resources. Tensions were rising, and a growing undercurrent of resentment simmered beneath the surface, as some feared that the newcomers would deplete the city's resources.

The streets were filled with desperate souls. Beggars, their eyes hollow and spirits broken, huddled together for warmth. Children, their bellies swollen with hunger, pleaded for scraps of food.

Crime had surged. Petty thefts, assaults, and even outright robberies were on the rise, fueled by desperation and hunger. The law enforcers were stretched thin, working tirelessly to maintain order in Icia.

In this bleak landscape, "God's Justice," a large charitable organization affiliated with churches and temples across Elaecia, stepped up to the challenge. They established a vast refugee camp outside the city, providing shelter, food, and medical care to the afflicted. Priests and nuns worked tirelessly, offering solace to the grieving, hope to the desperate, and a sense of purpose to the lost. Despite their immense efforts, the sheer scale of the crisis overwhelmed even this powerful organization. The lack of food was a particularly pressing issue, testing the limits of their resources and capabilities.

Yet, even as the Church worked to alleviate the suffering, criticism began to mount. Some accused the Church of hypocrisy, pointing to the opulent lifestyles of certain clergy members while the common people starved. The refugee camps were a stark contrast to the luxurious lives of the privileged few. Tents, made of worn-out canvas and tattered blankets, huddled together, offering little protection from the biting cold. The air was thick with the stench of decay and disease. Malnourished children, their ribs visible through their skin, clung to their mothers, their eyes wide with fear and hunger. The lines for meager rations stretched for miles, a grim reminder of the relentless struggle for survival. The constant threat of disease loomed large, as outbreaks of fever and dysentery swept through the camps, claiming lives with each passing day.

Some nobles, growing increasingly impatient, urged the Duke to stem the tide of refugees. They argued that the city was already overburdened and that accepting more would only exacerbate the situation. Some even suggested a more sinister solution: sending the able-bodied men in the refugee camps to the frontlines, turning them into cannon fodder for the war effort. The Duke, however, rejected this callous proposal outright. While he did issue a notice for increased recruitment in his personal battalion, he made it clear that this was a voluntary choice. Faced with economic hardship, many young people, desperate for work and a means to support their families, saw military service as their only option.

War is not a game, where the strong devour the weak. It is a tragedy, where innocent blood is spilled and families are torn apart.

Rhoadnia's sudden shift of focus from the temple region to our vital food-producing counties, Dreynoir and Mitford, was a strategic move that caught everyone off guard. While surprising, it was not entirely unexpected.

Count Dreynoir, though young, has taken the initiative to assemble an army and seek the Duke's support. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, the Duke has dispatched Baron Beaumont and his seasoned Hilly Battalion to bolster Dreynoir's defenses.

However, news of the battle's outcome had yet to reach the city, leaving everyone in a state of anxious anticipation.

A messenger was dispatched to Crimsia, the royal capital, but no formal response had been received. The skirmish had escalated into a full-blown war, yet the royal family seemed indifferent. Were they so oblivious to the plight of the North, so willing to let it fall without lifting a finger?

There was no king to turn to. The aging monarch, too frail to lead, had left the reins of power in the hands of the Prime Minister, Heinrich Vixon, the cunning and ambitious former patriarch of the Vixon Duchy. This man, the father-in-law of the Crown Prince, had seized the opportunity to consolidate power and exert his influence over the kingdom.

With the Crown Prince deceased and the second and third princes too young to rule, a power vacuum had emerged. The late Crown Prince's son was a potential claimant, but the Crimson Court was deeply divided. Factions had formed, each supporting a different prince or a noble with their own ambitions. This political deadlock had prevented a timely coronation, leaving the kingdom vulnerable and the future uncertain.

Are they fool? It was clear that Rhoadnia's ambitions extended beyond the North. Heinrich Vixon, the cunning Prime Minister, seemed to be playing a dangerous game. He sought to weaken the North, allowing it to crumble under the weight of war and famine. Then, at the opportune moment, he would offer his support, positioning himself as a savior. This would create a weakened, indebted North, a passive rival easily manipulated. In return, he would demand their support for his favored prince's coronation, securing his grip on power.

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The Greenflare and Grignard families, two of the most influential ducal houses, were also vying for power. Each had their own princely candidates, and securing the support of two out of the four ducal families would be a decisive advantage. The North, traditionally aloof from the court's intrigues, was now forced to engage in this perilous game. The Glaecias, a powerful family would undoubtedly play a significant role in shaping the kingdom's future.

Amidst this growing turmoil, my own anxieties deepened. The impending journey to Fort Blue with Lady Rayeesi and her son weighed heavily upon me. In my long years of service, I had encountered few individuals as kind and compassionate as Lady Rayeesi. She did not deserve the hardships that fate had thrust upon her.

However, given the current state of war and unrest, perhaps this is a fortuitous circumstance. The frigid fortress would remain steadfast, unaffected by the ravages of conflict.

"Old Adam, when might the Slacian medicos arrive? Her ladyship is experiencing some discomfort with her pregnancy and requires expert care," a voice inquired from behind.

I turned to face the speaker, a young female servant, likely one of Lady Glaecia's confidantes. The anticipation for a male heir, particularly from the Duke's lawful wife, Lady Gytha de Glaecias, was palpable throughout the castle. As her pregnancy neared its end, every detail, every discomfort, was magnified.

"Rest assured, girl," I replied, sensing the urgency in her voice. "The Slacian medicos are anticipated to arrive by dawn tomorrow. The inclement weather has made their journey arduous. Should any immediate concerns arise, I can summon Surgeon Driss."

"Thank you, Adam," she replied, a confident smile playing on her lips. "But that won't be necessary. Her ladyship is particular about who attends to her and the child." With that, she turned and vanished into the castle.

A glacial figure from the heart of Elaecia, the embodiment of aristocratic disdain, materialized in my mind's eye: Lady Gytha.

Her icy aloofness was a fortress she had erected around her heart, a shield against the world's impurities. As the lawful wife of the Duke, she carried the weight of centuries of privilege, a burden that had forged her into a woman as cold as the winter's bite. In stark contrast was Lady Rayeesi, a woman of fire tempered by adversity. Hailing from a once-proud chieftain family, she possessed a resilience that belied her delicate appearance. A mistress by circumstance, not by choice, she endured Gytha's venom with a quiet dignity that only fueled the other woman's ire. The birth of her son had ignited a new inferno of hatred in Gytha, a consuming jealousy that threatened to engulf them all. The Duke's decision to exile Rayeesi and her child to the desolate north was a desperate gamble, a desperate attempt to quell the tempest brewing within his household.

A biting wind swept across the plains, carrying with it the promise of a harsh winter. As I gazed down the desolate southern road, a sense of foreboding settled in my heart. I wondered if the icy embrace of the north would prove a kinder mistress than the venomous chill of Gytha’s court. May Lady Rayeesi and her child find safety in this icy wilderness, I prayed.

******

The morning dawned crisp and clear, the first light of day casting long, dancing shadows across the cobbled streets of Icia City. A chill hung in the air. A sense of foreboding crept into my heart. Ruth had diligently prepared for my journey to Fort Blue, packing warm clothes, medicinal herbs, and potent potions. He was a kind-hearted lad, orphaned at a tender age, whom I had taken under my wing. Though his young heart was heavy with sorrow at my departure, he understood the harsh realities of our lives, bound to the whims of our master. For a mere fourteen years old, he possessed a wisdom beyond his years.

A pair of swords, twin blades of tempered steel, lay on the bed. I hadn't touched them in years, perhaps even a decade. They were relics of a past life, a time when I had wielded them with deadly precision. A surge of nostalgia washed over me as I picked them up, their weight familiar in my hands. I had sworn never to use them again, but the uncertain future ahead made me reconsider.

A commotion outside interrupted my reverie. I went to the window to see a company of hardened veterans arriving, their presence a reassuring sight. The medicos accompanied them. I hastened to greet the count and dispatched the medical team to Lady Glaecia's chamber. The soldiers, their faces etched with the lines of experience, were engaged in animated conversation over ale, a welcome respite from the rigors of the journey.

Lady Rayeesi emerged from the wagon, seeking the fresh morning air. Her delicate features wore a mask of quiet determination, and her young son, Ethaen, clung to her hand, his small face a reflection of his mother's courage.

Emerging from my chamber, I approached the towering figure of Captain Knyaz Agatha, engrossed in conversation with a servant. "Long time no see, Knyaz Agatha, the fiercest," I greeted her, invoking her well-deserved moniker.

She turned, her piercing gaze sweeping over me. A warm smile softened her stern features. "Oh! It's you, old man. Still alive and well, I see."

"Many years yet to come, my lady," I replied, though I knew she preferred a less formal address.

"Enough with the theatrics," she chided. "How fare my father and brothers?"

Her father, Stuart Starness, a prominent bannerman to the Duke, had never approved of her decision to become a knight. A noblewoman destined for a life of luxury, she had chosen the arduous path of a warrior. While the kingdom had several female knights, most were of humble birth or from warrior clans.

"Your elder brother attended the gathering, appearing to be in good health. I haven't heard any concerning news about your family," I assured her. "Might you consider returning home, Agatha? Your family may welcome you back now."

A flicker of thought crossed her eyes, but I couldn't decipher its meaning. "My life is now bound to the battlefield," she declared resolutely. "I've sworn to protect the lady." She changed the subject, teasing, "Lord Merwin said you'll be joining us. I wonder if your old bones can handle the northern chill."

"The Duke had intended me to serve as his son's personal steward," I replied. "So, I must endure the cold. Besides, I've always been curious about the lands where dragons are said to dwell."

"Quite the adventurer, old man," she responded with a chuckle. "We'll depart the city as soon as our supplies are replenished. Lord Merwin emphasized the urgency of leaving Icia City. There are those who may harbor ill will towards Lady Rayeesi. If you wish to bid farewell to anyone, I suggest you do so promptly." Her smile was reassuring, but a note of caution lingered in her voice. She was right, of course. The Duke's mistress, who had recently given birth to a son, had undoubtedly made enemies.

"I'm ready when you are, Captain," I replied, my voice steady. Turning away, I watched as Lady Rayeesi, a figure of regal bearing, climbed into the ornate wagon, her young child nestled in her arms. A retinue of servants followed, their faces etched with a mix of worry and determination. Two wagons, laden with supplies and provisions, stood ready. A contingent of six seasoned knights, their armor gleaming in the morning light, prepared to ride. And I knew that once we reached the northern garrison, we would be joined by a squad of ten more. A sense of reassurance washed over me as I approached my horse. The time for departure had arrived. I cast a final glance at the imposing castle, a silent prayer forming on my lips for the safety of those we were leaving behind and for the strength to protect those in our care.

With a deep breath, I mounted my horse and joined the procession. The city gates creaked open, revealing the vast expanse of the wilderness beyond. With Lady Agatha and her retinue at the vanguard, the caravan departed the city. I, with two silent knights, formed the rearguard. As we rode through the city gates, the biting wind was a chilling harbinger of the frozen north. 'There are those who may harbor ill will towards Lady Rayeesi', Agatha's warning echoed in my mind. A sense of unease had lingered since the previous night at the castle. Perhaps it was merely an old man’s paranoia, but I couldn't shake the feeling that challenges lay ahead.

Whatever form they might take, we would face them head-on.