Winter in the Armanov lands was more than a season—it was a veil that revealed who stood firm and who wavered. Snow muffled the roads, muted the villages, and drove the common folk indoors. But in the world of nobles, silence never meant peace. It was the time when ambitions sharpened, loyalties shifted, and betrayals hid beneath gentle words.
Mikhail had spent the last few days studying the sprawling regional maps in the war room. His gaze always drifted to the north. The northern territories had long been under Volkov influence, and their people—along with minor nobles—had never fully embraced the Armanov banner. He knew this; thus, he had kept military presence minimal there, relying instead on discreet diplomacy.
The east, on the other hand, was a swirling storm of indecision. The trade routes made the region wealthy and restless at the same time. Every step Mikhail took cast either hope or suspicion upon them. Their loyalties were the most unstable.
But the west…The west was a rising wall of support. The newly introduced prototypes—simple heating devices, more efficient water pumps—had caused genuine excitement among the farmers and craftsmen. These inventions, though primitive by his old world's standards, were miracles here. And each miracle strengthened his influence.
Yet the same question haunted him day and night:"Where will the first crack appear—and where will rise the first true pillar?"
One evening, Viktor hurried into the room."Sir… movement on the northern border. Something unusual."
The moment Mikhail opened the report, he understood. Merchant couriers had been intercepted, carrying messages from the Volkovs inviting minor northern nobles to a seemingly economic meeting. But the phrasing between the lines hinted at a deeper, darker purpose.
"Which families?" Mikhail asked."Three northern, two eastern. None from the west."
Mikhail allowed himself a small smile."Good. The west remains stable."
But stability here did not erase the trembling elsewhere. If the Volkovs solidified their hold on the north, a civil conflict would be unavoidable.
He turned to Viktor."I'm issuing a special directive. Reach out to the east quietly. Subtle, but firm. They must feel our resolve without fearing us. As for the north… small gestures. Enough to remind them they're not alone."
"And the west?" Viktor asked."Leave them. Support grows faster when it grows naturally."
That night, Mikhail walked alone in the snowy courtyard. The snowfall was heavy, yet his steps were soundless. Under the dark sky, he felt the weight of two eras:the frozen grip of the past and the burning promise of the future.
The silence broke only when the Loyalty System pulsed within him:"Passive resistance increasing in the north."He froze.So… it begins.
But a second, softer pulse followed:"Western support increasing."A reminder that every shadow cast somewhere created light elsewhere.
This war would not be won with swords or proclamations—it was a war of patience, subtlety, and timing.
The next day, he received various regional representatives. Eastern trade envoys first, then the newly appointed western village leaders. The final visitor was an elderly northern adviser. His eyes held caution—but not fear.
"Your Majesty," the man said quietly, "your people are watching. But they live under Volkov shadow. They want to support you, but they cannot do it openly."
Mikhail met his gaze."Tell them this: a snowflake is fragile alone. But when snowflakes unite… they become an avalanche."
The old man bowed with trembling lips."Then let the first rumble come from you."
By evening, the regional landscape had shifted further:the east grew attentive, the north uneasy, the west brighter than ever.
Mikhail turned to the window.Outside, snow fell like silent promises.
"Prepare yourselves," he whispered."The shadows will break soon."