"I don’t know what grudge sits between you, so drop the lace and speak plain." Gerald’s words flashed like a drawn blade.

Irritation rose first in Clive, a hot coal under the ribs, then his hand clenched the reins till his knuckles blanched like bone. Harrison gathered it all into his gaze, storm-dark and heavy. "Gerald Fortress Lord, our affairs aren’t a gate you can knock on—nor a gate you’re allowed to open."

"In short—carry today’s words to General Medith." His voice slid like cold rain. "We’ve poured blood and coin into this move, and in the Royal Capital her name swirls like gnats in summer. I can’t go back with empty nets—do you catch my drift?"

Gerald let out a thin, frosted laugh, like ice skimming glass. "Even if that leaves General Medith shamed? Aren’t you allies? This iron hand doesn’t look like how you treat an ally."

"So you’re not going to cooperate?" Harrison exhaled as if loosening a belt after a long march. Gerald watched killing intent bloom on faces like winter thorns, and knew the nightmare at his door had stepped inside.

"No matter. If General Medith won’t bend, we won’t force her." Harrison’s smile was a fox’s grin under moonlight. Gerald narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the mist, yet saw only that sly mask.

Harrison’s tone turned like wind veering over a ridge. "We can’t bind the general’s will. So let me ask about yours. His Majesty is preparing to stretch the map like a fresh hide. You, a standout commander of a mercenary branch, sit on the chokepoint to the Northern Kingdom—a cliff the river must pass. His Majesty admires that rock in the current. We’re offering rich terms—a velvet sash, not chains. You don’t need to kneel; just lean your banner our way."

Clarity ran cold through Gerald, like dawn over a battlefield. Foxes, all of them, several moves ahead on the chessboard. They’d dodge the stain of striking an ally and box him into a fork, where yes or no led to the same ravine. If that’s the trail, why should he throw open his gate and invite wolves to warm their paws by his hearth?

"This isn’t up for haggling, is it?" Gerald made his final check. Clive lifted his chin; armor clinked like ice cracking. "As a branch Commander, you know war’s taste. Many times, war starts when no one means it, like sparks kissing dry grass. Right?"

Relief came thin but steady to Gerald, like breath after a long plunge. The strong devour the weak; the tiger’s rush is already in his face. The lion seeking quiet sits on a ridge to watch tigers clash, hoping to net fish from others’ struggle. And we, the Solitary Wolves, are marked in the snow to be hunted.

"I serve Lady Felica! I serve the sea of souls who suffer and endure. We are knights, bright helms under sun—not butchers, not scum. Sorry—my finger wasn’t pointing at you." He raised his voice like a bell over fog. "I’m only offering a candle’s censure against those who rampage without reins."

Harrison’s eyes iced over, sharp as a north wind. Clive’s right hand drifted to the lance at his saddle, the weapon humming like a coiled snake. A heartbeat later, Harrison cut him a look—swift as a hawk’s flick—and Clive, stung but obedient, folded his killing heat like a cloak.

"Fine. A pity, truly. Believe me—His Majesty won’t smile at this." Harrison sighed, wind through dry reeds, wearing regret like a staged mask.

Gerald answered with a brittle laugh, then turned away, flicking the reins; his horse shot off like a black arrow.

...

"Milord, why didn’t we cut him down or seize him? Our march would smooth like sand after rain. We might win without a clash; if not, without a helm their rank would scatter like leaves. Our losses would thin to a shadow, right?" Clive asked, sparks snapping at his tongue.

Harrison let out a long sigh, old ash lifting into air. "Commander Clive, you’re young and capable—His Majesty saw it and set you at the head of a strong war-band. But you can’t stare at a single layer like bark and miss the rings. You need to see from all sides, like walking the hill, not just the path. Now you circle Gerald like a hawk over one hare, and ignore the river under the ice."

Clive blinked, earnest under the lamp, hungry for the map. "I don’t think focusing on the enemy’s chief is unsound. Please, milord—teach me more."

"Ah—so be it." Harrison felt the weight behind the errand settle, like a pack on shoulders. Paris wanted him to pass down iron hammered by family and war, lessons quenched and true. If the raid succeeds but Clive doesn’t grow, a thorn will sit in Paris’s eye—he’ll call me slow-witted or tight-fisted, and that knot will pull blood.

"This operation’s hinge isn’t Gerald. How hard can a single mercenary corps bite? Even with a fortress’s tight teeth, it’s a cup of water against a prairie fire. Don’t forget the cards in our sleeve. The key is Medith—Medith sits inside that castle like a blade in a scabbard. If we rush in, we’ll rouse her fury, and she’ll do anything for the friends she names—remember the Bloodhand Gang wiped clean like red ink in rain."

"Don’t think she won’t turn her blade on us. She’s likely long sour about His Majesty’s ascension; if we strike now, we hand her a handle to swing, calling us foul and no better than the Southern Kingdom. It wouldn’t break a limb, but if we can dodge the mud, we should."

"If we let him ride back now, later when we attack, we hold a decent pretext like a banner. If Medith intervenes then, it’s her forcing a hand—two natures, two colors, starkly apart. Chew the choice; taste it slowly."

"But… if Gerald carries our talk to Medith, won’t the road end the same?" Clive’s doubt drifted up like morning mist.

"You’re wrong. Gerald won’t speak." Harrison’s tone shut like a locked chest.

"Why?" Clive asked, his word dropping like a pebble into a deep well.

"Because he’s a fool, and fools are beyond cure—like dead wood that won’t take graft."