*** Snowkeep Palace – War Room ***

The air was sharp with the scent of ink and steel.

A map of the northern territories stretched across the great ebony table, weighed down by daggers and sealed documents. Around it stood the key figures of the duchy, Lucan, Marshal of the Armies; Chancellor Oren; and a handful of grim-faced captains who had fought with Justinian since the rebellion.

Old rookies now trained to be captains in their own right, all of them once from Justinian's own personal army from the night raid.

Justinian entered in silence.

He looked far less rested than usual, his eyes shadowed, his hands still faintly trembling from the dream he hadn't dared to call a dream. But the moment he stepped forward, all trace of exhaustion vanished behind the mask of command.

"Report," he said simply.

Lucan was first to speak. "The procession from the north passed the River Ilden before dawn. They march under banners of gold and white, the sigil of the Holy Allied Territories. Scouts estimate nearly five thousand in formation, with another thousand in reserve."

"Composition?" Justinian asked.

"Half heavy infantry, a quarter cavalry. The rest—" Lucan hesitated, "—clerical auxiliaries. Priests, chanters, inquisitors."

A murmur spread through the room. Everyone knew what that meant. The enemy came not just to fight, but to purify.

Justinian's gaze lowered to the map. His fingers traced the northern roads leading into Snowkeep's valley.

"They march like a crusade," he said quietly. "Not as soldiers, but as believers."

"Then they'll fight harder," Oren muttered. "Faith is a dangerous weapon."

"Only when wielded by those who never question it," Justinian replied.

He straightened, stepping toward the window. Outside, the snow fell again, slow, almost mournful. Below, the forges burned brighter than ever, workers moving like veins of flame beneath the gray sky.

"Send word to the granaries and armories. All production shifts to siege readiness. And have the Compendium teams assist the engineers, I want the walls to be lined with defenses."

Lucan gave a brief nod. "And the city's clergy?"

"Leave them," Justinian said. "If they're wise, they'll stay silent. If they're not—"

He let the sentence die. He didn't need to finish it.

"I have another concern, my lord."

Captain Caesus, the knight who was with Javier when delivering the message to Vesuvian in the past, spoke.

Also, once a beginner, now becoming one of Lucan's personal captains when it comes to warfare.

It seems like they weren't just slacking off due to peace time.

"We still don't know their intention. Is it wise to mobilize for a war?"

"I recognize you, you're the one who helped deliver my message, correct?"

"Yes, my lord, it's been a while."

"Congratulations on the promotion, then."

Justinian replied, but his tone had no celebratory fare to it, just a simple, respectful acknowledgment to one of the key figures in his victory against Rhyne.

"As for your question, we cannot take risks; it's best to prepare for the worst."

The door suddenly opened, Matthias entering the room with concern on his face.

"I've searched the churches, my lord; the priests you asked to be apprehended are nowhere to be seen."

'So they already escaped...'

"Set up an evacuation for the outer settlements, have Bjorn and Elberich prepare their own forces."

Justinian commanded, but he still wasn't sure what their plan was; his system was still dormant, which meant the opponent hadn't attacked yet.

"And Matthias, send a message to Augustus and Julius."

"Julius...? What for?"

To the rest, Augustus made sense, but Julius was strange; they weren't even allies or had a trade agreement. To most, he was just a new minor ruler.

"It's complicated, just send him a message for aid."

*** Snowkeep – Lower City ***

The streets were restless.

Merchants whispered of divine retribution. Mothers pulled their children indoors when the bells tolled. Even the snow felt different, heavier, as though the sky itself held its breath.

In the plaza, the first public copies of the Old World Compendium were being burned.

A mob had gathered under the direction of a few loud priests from the minor temples, chanting psalms as pages turned to ash. But the onlookers, workers, soldiers, and smiths did not join in. They only watched, their faces unreadable.

Among them stood Fenrix, cloak drawn tight.

He said nothing. He didn't have to. He only watched the flames, the same way he once watched villages burn during the rebellion, knowing the embers always spread farther than intended.

"Fools," he muttered. "They'll soon see the wrath of their own duke..."

He turned away before the priests noticed him, heading toward the castle with long strides.

*** The Thirell Duchy - Northern Borders ***

"This is certainly interesting..."

Marquis Raven spoke, wearing a full crusader's plate, all adorned with the holy symbol of Arethrus.

They planned to wage war against the proclaimed new chosen of Arethrus with the power of Arethrus himself.

"Has the Holy Patriarch responded to our messages?"

"No, my lord, Lord Marcellus is currently undergoing his annual isolation ritual."

Father Verdant spoke beside him, wearing a modified priest's robe that was meant for warfare, the usual gold and white replaced by red and black.

Marquis Raven glanced at him briefly.

"I see, then I wish him the best of luck."

"My lord!"

Another voice spoke out, this time from a group of white cloaked individuals numbering in the dozens; they were infiltrators.

Meant to terrorize the city from the inside while they were distracted by Marquis Raven's army, which was purposefully planted to be seen by scouts.

"Why are you here? Didn't I order you all to stay in the Heretic's capital?"

"It's no use... five of us already lost our lives just attempting to blend in."

The head infiltrator spoke, his concern in his eyes visible despite his masked outfit.

"Five...? How..."

"It seems we underestimated the enemy's defenses... the entire capital is being watched, we couldn't even sneak in without a dagger flying behind our backs."

Marquis Raven observed his face, trying to find lies or weakness in his tone and eyes, checking to see if his own men had betrayed him.

And he had all the reason to suspect, those same infiltrators were from the church, a small regiment that was handed to him years prior as a gift for his succession to the throne.

They were supposed to be the best of the best, and now they told him that they couldn't do their job?

But the longer he observed, the more he saw that they were telling the truth, enraging him.

"Of course, a heretic would be a master at the shadows... hiding from the gods' eyes with such cowardly actions..."

The Marquis lashed out, with most of the infiltrators exchanging uneasy glances at each other.

They had never heard a more hypocritical sentence in their lives.

'Didn't he just order us to do the same...?'

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