"Bring out Milton Erwin to me."

In front of the kingdom's military encampment, an armorless elderly man bellowed with a resounding voice from twenty paces away.

Minutes later, Milton Erwin, clad in a pristine white robe, stepped leisurely out of the camp. "Ah, if it isn't Uncle Arwin gracing us with his presence. And here I was expecting Uncle Raventa."

"Hmph," Arwin replied with a snort of disdain. "If that guy had shown up, you'd be a layer of skin lighter right now. Be grateful it's me who's come to have a civil chat."

"Alright then, Uncle. What exactly is it that you want to talk about?"

"The terms for negotiation, of course."

"Negotiations?" Milton's brow furrowed in confusion. "Who said anything about negotiating?" The cleric-look-alike spread his hands wide. "The second division of the royal army will arrive shortly, followed by a third. Uncle Arwin, heed my advice. With another human-demon war on the horizon, surrendering to His Majesty now will likely only deduct your dukedom—not so bad, really. We humans are kin after all, and the demons are our true enemies."

"Yes, that's why I'm here," Arwin responded as he took a step closer, shortening the space between them. "But surrender is out of the question. We negotiate or we fight."

Arwin moved even closer, whispering into Milton's ear, "I know you’ve got an image to maintain, so I won’t embarrass you. The terms are all laid out – take a look for yourself when you return."

Feeling the intrusion within his robe as an envelope-sized object was stealthily inserted, Milton clamped it reluctantly under his garb. Even if his own instincts screamed for battle, he remembered that ultimately, it was the king's will that mattered.

Arwin patted Milton's shoulder with a counterfeit warmth, smoothing out his robe's collar. "Well, I'll take my leave now. I await your, or rather, the palace's response."

Now wasn't the time for prayer. Once back inside his tent, Milton signaled for privacy before breaking the seal on the letter. Arwin was a man usually sparing with his emotions, yet today...

He must be quite pleased with himself, Milton thought with a sigh and unfolded the letter:

[Terms for Negotiation:

Kingdom:

King Leopold Heracles to publicly apologize for offenses toward the Westlands and Northlands since his ascension;

To cede all territories north of a four-hundred-league line above the capital;

To legislate formal recognition of the "Arwin-Raventa United Grand Duchy" (the Northwestern Grand Duchy) as legally and de jure independent;

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

To pledge non-intervention in the Grand Duchy’s internal affairs, where both sides shall only accept the direct, unified command of the hero in wartime, fundamentally without subordination.

Church:

High Pontiff Ramista to abdicate;

The Grand Duchy to form its independent Northern Church, having complete authority over the appointments and removals of all its clergy, unanswerable to the capital’s Church;

To withdraw all Faith Guardians from the capital;

To abolish permanently the station of the Holy Maiden.

Northwestern Coalition:

To retreat forces north of a four-hundred-league line above the capital.]

It’s penned by Spencer Raventa! Milton's hands trembled slightly, not recalling the last time he'd lost his composure like this.

Having read the proposed terms, Milton could almost picture Raventa’s smugness. He now realized why the typically composed Arwin was uncommonly cordial today. He must've read the terms and laughed in advance at what was expected of Milton.

"What utter nonsense!" Without hesitation, Milton ripped the delicate parchment to pieces, his face flushed with humiliation and rage which had no immediate outlet until he finally spat out two words no devoutly religious man should utter, "Beasts! Harlots!"

These weren't terms for negotiation, they were the demands of bandits, brigands, bandoliers—worse, even! If the king and the High Pontiff agreed to such ludicrous conditions, then they had truly lost any desire for victory and any piety for the divine.

Regaining his composure, Milton listened for footsteps outside, "General, urgent dispatch from the capital."

"Enter." Milton commanded with renewed vigor, and the tent flap was swept aside. An envoy clad in squire armor strode in; Milton remembered him from the night of Carnwen Stronghold's fall—he was the Shadow Guard accountable for overseeing the foolhardy George Bradlay.

The courier extended the sheepskin parchment with both hands to Milton, giving a swift military salute before stepping back out of the tent.

The dispatch's content was concise:

[Approved to proceed with negotiations with rebels.

Morton Doyle to serve as the chief negotiator, Milton Erwin as deputy, with all deputy's actions under the chief's jurisdiction.

Until the arrival of the chief negotiator, the deputy must maintain military discipline and is permitted preliminary discussions with the rebels. But the ultimate agreement terms are to be effectively finalized by the chief negotiator.]

The straightforward phrases left Milton's usually steadfast face shifting between storms. Although Morton Doyle was infamous within nobility for his martial prowess and ruthlessness, Milton knew his son currently lay in the hands of the rebels. Could it be the man would stoop so low to ensure his son’s return?

Stepping out of the tent, Milton gazed toward the solid bulk of Carnwen Stronghold, the dissipating smoke in the sky seeming to mirror the stirring unease in his heart.

---

In stark contrast to the somber mood in the royal army camp, behind the dense walls of Carnwen Stronghold bustled life and clamor reminiscent of a vibrant market.

"Ha!"

With the girl's sharp cry, a young soldier was flung back and landed flat on the ground three paces away.

"Wow!"

"Is that what a hero looks like?"

"With such slender arms and legs; who would've guessed..."

"..."

Chattering soldiers crowded around, their whispers adding to the din. Then, always known for his boldness, one soldier whistled out loud, "Nien, make sure to tell your boy, 'Once the hero gave your old man his best punch, and it didn’t even faze him.'"

"Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Thunderous laughter roared across the training field as the remark echoed.

The young soldier knocked back got to his feet, chuckling—after all, it’s not every day you’re struck by an authentic hero. If not for the inappropriate notion of disrobing in public, Nien would love to lift his cuirass and check for a hero's bruise as a battle trophy.