The poisoned broth was served in a simple wooden bowl, steam rising slowly into the cold night air. The rich aroma of meat and herbs spread through the camp, warm and enticing, completely at odds with the bleak, frozen land surrounding them.
Louis accepted the bowl from the knight who brought it, his fingers steady and expression calm. He lifted it toward his lips, pausing just as the steam brushed his face. For a brief moment, no one thought anything was amiss.
Then he stopped.
Without drinking a single sip, Louis turned slightly and extended the bowl toward another man standing nearby.
"Roy," he said casually, "I have no appetite tonight. Drink it for me."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Roy froze. His body stiffened as if struck by lightning, and the forced smile on his face looked painfully unnatural. "My Lord," he said, his voice tight, "that… that would be improper. You should eat first."
Louis's eyes hardened. His tone lost all warmth.
"I order you," he said. "Drink it."
Roy's lips paled. A thin sheen of cold sweat formed along his temples, glistening in the firelight. His hands trembled slightly as he stared at the bowl, as if it were a venomous beast rather than soup.
He knew exactly what was in it.
Lambert, the Knight Captain, immediately sensed the abnormality. His gaze sharpened, and he gave a subtle signal with his hand. Several knights around the fire stood up at once, their armor clinking softly as they moved to surround Roy.
The escape routes closed in an instant.
"Drink it," Lambert said coldly.
Two knights seized Roy's arms and forced the steaming bowl toward his mouth. The heat scorched his lips, and panic finally shattered the last of his restraint.
"Wait—!"
Roy suddenly twisted his body, overturning the bowl. The broth spilled onto the snow with a hiss, darkening it instantly. He struggled wildly, attempting to break free and flee into the darkness, but the knights were ready. They slammed him to the ground and pinned him there, his face pressed against the frozen earth.
At that moment, realization dawned on everyone present.
There was poison in the soup.
Louis rose slowly to his feet. The firelight cast long shadows behind him as he looked down at Roy, who lay trembling beneath the weight of several armored men.
"You know the consequences of harming your lord," Louis said calmly. His voice was neither loud nor emotional, which made it all the more terrifying. "Don't you?"
Roy's eyes were filled with pure terror. His jaw quivered as he nodded frantically. Of course he knew. No one in the Calvin family's service could claim ignorance of such laws.
"Who ordered you to poison it?" Louis asked.
Roy swallowed hard. His throat worked several times before words finally spilled out.
"It was… it was Lord Benjamin," he stammered. "He ordered me to do it."
The name fell like a stone into still water.
Benjamin—Duke Calvin's second son. Louis's older brother.
Every knight present turned their gaze toward Louis. They were all sworn to the Calvin family and knew well the open and hidden struggles among the duke's heirs. Even so, hearing such a blatant assassination attempt sent a chill through their bones.
To be betrayed by one's own blood, before even securing a foothold in the North—this was colder than the snow beneath their feet.
Roy continued desperately, his words tumbling over each other. "He promised me… if I succeeded, he would let me return to the South. He said he would arrange a new position for me—at least a Knight Captain…"
The expressions of the surrounding knights darkened further.
Louis, however, let out a soft, humorless chuckle.
If his guess was correct, Benjamin intended to eliminate every possible rival to the ducal title.
The Calvin family did not follow strict primogeniture. Succession depended on strength, merit, and political support. Even a weak son, as long as he lived, remained a potential contender.
If Louis died on the journey to the Northern Reaches, the family would simply send another brother to replace him and complete the mission. In doing so, Benjamin could quietly reduce the number of heirs, one by one.
A clean, efficient plan.
Kill one competitor and weaken the rest at the same time.
Roy, sensing a final chance, looked up at Louis with tear-filled eyes. "My Lord, I was forced! I'm only a knight. Lord Benjamin commanded me—I dared not refuse. Please… please spare my life. I swear my loyalty to you! I'll serve you forever!"
Louis turned his gaze slightly.
"Lambert," he said.
"Yes," Lambert replied, stepping forward. He drew his longsword in one smooth motion, the blade flashing silver in the firelight.
Roy screamed.
"No! My Lord! Mercy! I will never—"
Pfft!
The sound was sharp and final.
Blood sprayed across the snow, staining it a deep crimson. Roy's pleas were cut off mid-syllable as his head rolled across the ground, his eyes still wide with disbelief.
Silence followed.
Lambert calmly wiped his blade and returned it to its sheath. "The traitor has been executed," he said flatly.
No one disagreed.
And yet, something had changed.
The camp was eerily quiet. The knights stood motionless, their expressions conflicted. Roy had betrayed his lord—his death was justified, unquestionable.
But was greed truly his only sin?
He wanted to return south. He didn't want to die in this frozen wasteland.
And weren't they all thinking the same thing?
Everyone here knew what assignment to the Northern Reaches truly meant. This land was infamous throughout the realm—a place of exile, with the highest mortality rate of any territory.
No one came here willingly. No one didn't dream of returning.
No one dared look at the severed head lying in the snow, afraid that they might see their own fate reflected there.
Confusion, fear, and helplessness washed over them like a silent tide.
The bonfire crackled under the dark sky, illuminating the turmoil in their eyes.
Louis noticed.
He stepped forward.
"Anyone who wishes to return," he said evenly, "may leave now."
The knights stiffened, startled. Several looked up in disbelief.
"I will personally write to the family and absolve you of responsibility," Louis continued, his gaze sweeping across them. "But after tonight, anyone who deserts will meet the same fate as Roy."
No one spoke. No one moved.
They were not fools. Even with a letter from Louis, desertion would likely be punished severely. The family might simply discard them—or worse.
Staying in the North was dangerous.
Leaving was no safer.
Louis let out a quiet laugh, the tension easing slightly as his murderous aura faded.
"You believe being sent to the Northern Reaches is a death sentence," he said. "You know why you're here. You have no powerful backing in the family. You were disposable."
His voice hardened.
"But I don't believe that."
He looked at them one by one.
"You are not trash. You became apprentice knights and full knights through talent, effort, and real battle. And those who sent you here? They hide in warm castles, drinking wine and indulging themselves. They are parasites."
A flicker of emotion stirred in the knights' eyes.
"Have you ever considered," Louis continued, "that we might survive here? That we might gain a foothold?"
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"The darkness before dawn may be long," he said softly. "But the sun will always rise."
The fire crackled.
"I don't know if we will all live to see that day," Louis said, his voice firm. "But I swear by the Dragon Ancestor—if that day comes, I will share its glory with every one of you."
His gaze sharpened.
"To the Calvin family, you are expendable pawns. But in this land, filled with danger and opportunity, anything is possible."
"Some of you," he said, "may one day become barons, viscounts—perhaps even earls."
He spread his hands slightly.
"You can accept fate, wait for death, and treat yourselves as already buried."
"Or," he said quietly, "you can stand with me and seize your future with your own hands."
Silence followed.
A long, suffocating silence.
The night wind howled through the camp, making the flames dance.
Then—
Bang!
Knight Captain Lambert dropped to one knee, his fist slamming against his chest.
"I swear to follow my lord to the death!"
One by one, the knights followed.
"I swear to follow my lord to the death!"
"I swear to follow my lord to the death!"
Their voices rose together, echoing into the frozen night as fists struck armor in solemn oath.
Under the cold stars, amidst bloodstained snow and flickering firelight, loyalty was reborn.
And somewhere beyond the darkness, the sun waited to rise.