"'Tsk.' These Baruch barbarians have no sense of decorum," mumbled a man as he observed the raucous scenes in the inn, picking at his food with disdain.

His presence was jarringly out of place. Corpulent and adorned in exquisite clothing, his fair complexion stood in stark contrast to the ashen pallor of the other patrons.

"I can't believe Father would send me, Uton, his favorite son, to these godforsaken wastelands," he lamented, raising a tankard of cheap beer to his lips before recoiling at its pungent odor.

"Young master, it's unwise to think thus," replied an aged voice. The speaker, a man in his sixties, radiated wisdom born of experience. Despite his years, he cut an imposing figure in his plated armor, a sword at his side. "The old master entrusted this responsibility to you because he believes in your capabilities."

"Bah!" Uton scoffed. "Things are not so simple, Bayezid. Though nominally part of the Kronos Empire, imperial authority has long waned in Baruch. These lords view their fiefs as personal domains, waging constant wars to unite the region under their banners.

Yet the land remains destitute, with only the port of Levin in Sonia serving as a trade point—and even that lacks a true master due to the uneasy status quo."

He continued, his voice tinged with despair, "With the central and imperial factions isolating all trade routes, you expect me to forge a channel between these barbarians and the central region? Even if I was my father, the lord of the Five Blossom Commerce Guild, I wouldn't dare attempt such a feat with three lifetimes. Don't you see, Bayezid? This is no mission—it's a death sentence. We've been exiled."

Uton's gaze swept over his caravan, despair etching deeper lines into his already troubled visage. His entourage was modest: one knight, Bayezid; about twenty soldiers; and two Academy students, their features distinctly marking them as natives of these desolate western lands.

The Academy students were not originally part of his retinue, but rather hired escorts to bolster his safety. Their paths had crossed when a marauding horde of orcs threatened Uton and his company. The students' timely intervention had saved them, and Uton, learning they too were bound for Earl Lagier's domain, had immediately secured their services.

As his eyes lingered on the students' uniforms, an unsavory feeling welled up within him, a stark reminder of the true reason behind his exile.

The Academy in question was none other than the Imperial Academy, a bastion where merit alone held sway. Its reputation was legendary: of the currently known Archmages, three hailed from its halls. It had produced eight Sword Masters, and even the Grand Commander of the Imperial Army once walked its corridors as a student.

Uton scrutinized the Academy students more closely, noting details he had previously overlooked. Their age suggested they had only recently graduated, a theory supported by the gleaming five-star pins adorning their uniforms—a mark of distinction reserved for top graduates.

Despite their attempt at anonymity, Uton's keen eye for social nuances detected an unmistakable air of nobility about them. Their manners, the way they carried themselves, even the subtle inflections in their speech—all hinted at an upbringing far removed from the common folk of these desolate lands.

They had introduced themselves as Wilhelm and Bening, but Uton harbored serious doubts about the veracity of these names. In his experience, nobles rarely traveled incognito without good reason, and in these turbulent times, reasons abounded.

Wilhelm sat at a corner table in the dimly lit inn, his eyes covertly scanning the room. His companion, Bening, sat across from him, both acutely aware of the portly nobleman and his entourage nearby.

Wilhelm felt at ease in these surroundings. The desolate western lands were a far cry from the polished halls of the Academy or the opulent manors of his youth, but this was also where they grew up.

He suppressed a wry smile as he caught the nobleman—Uton, if he recalled correctly—stealing glances at them. No doubt the man was trying to discern their true identities. Wilhelm and Bening had introduced themselves with false names, a precaution that seemed prudent given the volatile political landscape.

Wilhelm, or rather Veritas Lagier, sat in tense silence, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. The dim light of the inn did little to calm his nerves. After five long years, he was finally returning home, but the circumstances were far from ideal.

He had left for the Imperial Academy at fifteen, accompanied by Benning, his childhood friend and retainer. Now, at twenty, Veritas was a changed man, hardened by rigorous training and burdened with the weight of his family's expectations.

The ongoing war between House Lagier and House Vellin necessitated their clandestine return. Veritas and Benning had adopted the aliases Wilhelm and Bening, a thin veil of protection in these dangerous times.

Veritas's thoughts drifted to the rendezvous point his father had specified in their correspondence—a strategic vantage point on the border between the two warring territories. It was a natural chokepoint, the sole entrance connecting their lands to the central regions of the empire. There, his father and a contingent of trusted knights would be waiting to escort them safely home.

The presence of Uton and his entourage was an unexpected complication, but their chance encounter during the orc attack had provided a convenient cover.

Veritas carefully approached Uton's table, his posture relaxed but alert. "Mind if I join you, sir? I couldn't help but overhear your earlier discussion about the region's politics."

Uton looked up, surprise flickering across his face before he gestured to the empty chair. "By all means. It's refreshing to find someone interested in such matters in these... rustic surroundings."

As Veritas sat, he noticed Benning positioning himself nearby, ever watchful. Their eyes met briefly, a silent communication of readiness passing between them.

"You speak of the Empire's waning influence," Wilhelm began, a hint of disdain in his voice, "but perhaps that's not entirely a tragedy. The Empire's grip has often meant suffering for those on the fringes."

Uton leaned forward, a spark of interest in his eyes. "It’s the first emperor who carved out these lands from the eastern barbarians, the region you speak of exists because of the imperial grace."

Veritas nodded thoughtfully before calmly retorting. "And for that the lords of Baruch have protected the empire from their invasion, yet the you speak of the imperial grace if the region of Baruch falls then there would be no imperial grace to speak of.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Uton's eyebrows rose slightly. "But is it not the Empire’s Generals that hold the line? you speak as though they are different, the regions have done but little than to be soldiers in time of conflict, it is under the command of the glorious empire that the imperial grace remains."

Veritas nodded, a hint of respect flickering in his eyes at Uton's measured response. "A fair point, Lord Uton. But surely, you've seen how the Empire's support has waned in recent years? The grand general had not visited the imperial capital since the last war, reinforcements that were to arrive during the battle of Halstung never did, it was the nobility of Baruch who suffered the most, yet the imperial familly provides no respite,  Leading many to speculate….. The lords are left to fend for themselves more often than not."

"Perhaps," Uton conceded, "but that doesn't negate centuries of Imperial investment. The infrastructure, the trade routes—all built on Imperial coin."

Their debate continued, each point met with a thoughtful counterargument. Wilhelm found himself impressed by Uton's nuanced understanding of the political landscape.

Seeing an opening, Veritas steered the conversation towards his proposition. "Speaking of trade routes, I couldn't help but overhear your earlier mention of the Five Blossom Commerce Guild. Their influence could be pivotal in stabilizing the region."

Uton's eyebrows shot up, surprise evident on his face. "You heard that? We were speaking quite softly, and at some distance..." His eyes narrowed, reassessing Wilhelm. "You must have quite remarkable abilities to have caught that. A sword expert ranker, perhaps?"

Veritas allowed a small, enigmatic smile. "I have some skills, yes. But more importantly, I have connections that could be of use to you. My companion and I need to make a short detour. With your escort, we could ensure safe passage, and in return, I could arrange an audience with a lord of Baruch who'd be very interested in new trade partnerships."

Uton leaned back, clearly intrigued but still cautious. "An tempting offer, but not without risks. What assurances can you provide?"

"Only my word," Veritas replied honestly. "But consider the potential benefits against the minor inconvenience to your journey."

Uton's eyes narrowed, considering the offer. Before he could respond, his aged knight, Bayezid, interjected sharply. "Young master, I must advise against this. We know nothing of these men or their true intentions."

Veritas felt Benning tense behind him, ready to act if needed. He kept his expression neutral, waiting for Uton's decision.

After a moment of tense silence, Uton waving his hand dismissively at Bayezid, he nodded. "Very well, we have an agreement. Where exactly is this detour of yours?"

As Veritas described the location—careful to frame it as a minor deviation from their current route—he felt a mix of relief and apprehension. This was a risk, but a calculated one.

Throughout the exchange, Benning remained a constant, reassuring presence. His hand never strayed far from his weapon, his eyes continuously scanning for threats. When Wilhelm finally stood to leave, Benning was instantly at his side.

“ This would take much of the attention, away from us my lord” bening whispered to Veritas, To which Veritas gave him a wry smile as they made their map to the caravan.

Watching the two strangers make their way to the caravan Bayezid turned to face Uton, his weathered face etched with concern. His voice, carrying the weight of years of experience and loyalty, was low but firm.

"My lord," he began, eyes fixed on Uton, "I have been assigned by the old master to protect you, regardless of your exile. My age has brought me wisdom, and every instinct I've honed over decades of service screams caution."

Uton's expression softened slightly, but Bayezid pressed on, undeterred.

"These lands are treacherous, and these strangers, no matter how well-spoken, are unknown to us. The young man's knowledge and hearing are uncanny. I fear we may be walking into a trap."

Bayezid's hand unconsciously moved to the hilt of his sword as he continued, "I swore an oath to keep you safe, my lord. This detour could lead us into unknown dangers. Are the potential gains worth risking your life and our mission?"

Uton turned to Bayezid, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Bayezid, my old friend, if they meant us harm, they would have struck already. The orcs provided ample opportunity for treachery, yet they fought alongside us."

He paused, his expression turning contemplative. "Besides," Uton continued, his voice tinged with a hint of bitter amusement, "I have already lost everything. What more could I possibly lose?" A carefree laugh escaped him, sharp and brittle.

Bayezid's brow furrowed deeper at his lord's words, concern evident in his eyes. "My lord, you still have your life, your honor—"

Uton waved a dismissive hand, cutting off the knight's protestations. "Honor? In exile? Come now, Bayezid. We're playing a different game now.”

He placed a hand on the old knight's shoulder, his tone softening. "Your loyalty is beyond reproach, and I'm grateful for it. But sometimes, we must take risks to change our fortunes. This may be such a moment."

With that, Uton turned and strode towards the caravan, his gait purposeful.

Bayezid watched his lord board the caravan, a mix of resignation and determination settling over his features. He muttered a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening before following Uton.

As the caravan began to move, the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon, an air of anticipation settled over the group.

……

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain of the border between Lagier and Vellin territories. Lord Helmud Lagier stood atop a rocky outcrop, his keen eyes scanning the winding road below. Behind him, a small but elite unit of knights waited in tense silence, their armor gleaming dully in the fading light.

Helmud's weathered face was etched with both anticipation and worry. Five long years had passed since he'd last seen his son, Veritas. Now, with the war against House Vellin intensifying, the young man's return couldn't have come at a more crucial time.

"Any sign of them, my lord?" The gruff voice of Sir Adalbert, his knight commander, broke the silence.

Helmud shook his head, his eyes never leaving the winding road below. "Not yet."

A heavy silence fell between them, laden with unspoken concerns. Adalbert, who had served House Lagier for decades, finally voiced what had been on both their minds.

"My lord, it's been five years. Are you certain Veritas will be... different this time?"

Helmud's jaw tightened. Memories of his son's peculiar nature, evident from a young age, flashed through his mind. the cold calculation in his eyes even as a child – all of it haunted Helmud still.

"Different? No," Helmud replied, his voice low and tinged with a mixture of pride and trepidation. "Veritas has always been... unique. But perhaps he's learned to channel that nature for the good of our house."

As if on cue, one of the knights called out in a hushed voice, "Movement on the road, my lord!"

Helmud and Adalbert quickly moved to the edge of the outcrop, peering into the gathering dusk. A small group was indeed approaching, moving cautiously along the twisting path.

"Is it them?" Adalbert asked, tension evident in his voice.

Helmud squinted, trying to make out details in the fading light. "I can't be certain, but... yes, I believe so. That gait – it's Benning, I'd stake my life on it."

Instantly alert, Helmud and Adalbert peered into the gathering dusk. A small group was indeed approaching, moving with purposeful caution.

As he signaled for his knights to prepare for contact, Helmud took a deep breath, steeling for the reunion, a complex mix of emotions washing over him – relief, anticipation, and a deep-seated anxiety he couldn't quite shake.

……….

Veritas's heart pounded as he approached the rendezvous point. His father, Lord Helmud Lagier, descended from the rocky outcrop, a cautious smile softening his weathered features. The knights of House Lagier fanned out behind him, alert and ready.

As the distance closed, Lord Helmud raised his hand in greeting. His mouth opened, words of welcome on his lips.

In that instant, the air shimmered with an otherworldly energy. A blinding flash erupted between them, searing Veritas's eyes. When his vision cleared, time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl.

An ethereal blade of pure, malevolent energy materialized from thin air. It hummed with an unnatural hunger as it sliced through the space where his father stood.

Veritas could only watch, paralyzed, as the ethereal weapon connected with his father's neck. There was a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage as the blade cleaved through flesh and sinew. A spray of arterial blood erupted, painting the air crimson.

Lord Helmud's eyes bulged in shock, his mouth still forming words that would never be spoken. His head toppled from his shoulders, bouncing once on the hard ground with a wet thud before rolling to a stop at Veritas's feet. A thin stream of blood and cerebrospinal fluid leaked from the severed spinal cord.

The body stood for a moment, a grotesque fountain of blood erupting from the severed neck. Then it crumpled, twitching violently in a rapidly expanding pool of gore. The spasms sent visceral splashes of blood across the rocky ground.

Chaos exploded around them. Knights screamed in terror and rage. Steel clashed against steel as hidden attackers revealed themselves. But for Veritas, the world had narrowed to the unseeing eyes of his father's decapitated head, staring up at him in eternal surprise. A thin film of blood coated the corneas, giving them a glassy, inhuman appearance.

The coppery stench of blood filled the air, mixing with the acrid smell of fear, voided bowels, and the metallic tang of magic. Veritas felt warm droplets on his face – his father's lifeblood, spattered across his features like some macabre war paint. He could taste it on his lips, salty and sickeningly warm.

His mind reeled, unable to fully process the horror before him. Years of plans, of complex emotions, of prepared words – all rendered meaningless in a single, savage instant.

As battle raged around him, Veritas remained rooted to the spot, his father's blood soaking into his boots. He could feel the warmth seeping through the leather, a stark contrast to the cold dread gripping his heart. The ruthless, calculating part of his mind that had always set him apart began to stir, analyzing the situation even as shock threatened to overwhelm him.

The air crackled with tension as Veritas slowly raised his eyes from his father's severed head. His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the chaos with an eerie calm. The knights of House Lagier fought desperately against shadowy assailants, their cries of confusion and anger echoing across the blood-soaked ground. Bodies fell, entrails spilling onto the rocky earth, adding to the hellish tableau.

As the reality of the situation sank in, a cold fury began to crystallize in Veritas's heart. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening around the grip with deadly purpose. The blade sang as it left its scabbard, eager for vengeance.