“Forgive me, son, for what happened at your wedding,” Primus said. “I’ll definitely find out how the assassins were able to get past our guards.”
Nero nodded and squeezed Serra’s hand. She was sitting next to him. The witch hadn’t had time to change, and bloodstains were visible on the hem of her snow-white wedding dress. Hadjar tried not to look at them as well... But for completely different reasons.
“I hold no ill will toward you, my King,” Nero shook his head. “We must find and punish the ones behind this assassination.”
It was unlikely that the Prince was concerned about his father’s life. He was full of righteous anger at the fact that someone had dared to endanger his wife. Come to think of it, had the wedding made Serra a princess of Lidus? He should’ve paid closer attention to South Wind’s explanations on the intricacies of Palace life in his childhood. To be honest, Hadjar had been a bit lazy. After all, he’d been relying on the neuronet at the time. Without it, he felt as if he’d lost a vital piece of himself.
“Then let’s proceed with this unscheduled council,” the King nodded.
Without waiting for Primus to give the floor to anyone, General Bermengton took up the pointer.
“May I, my King?”
Primus looked at the official, sighed heavily, and waved his hand to indicate approval. The General rose, coughed into his fist, and began to move figurines representing soldiers, guns, and cavalry across the map.
“According to our intelligence reports, the rebel troops are allegedly holed up in the White Forest,” Bermengton gave everyone some time to process what he’d just said. There was much to unpack there. The White Forest was one of the most deadly places in Lidus. No one below the Formation Stage would ever risk going in there, despite the legends about a variety of magical herbs and strong beasts whose cores could help with cultivation. Too many anomalies, natural disasters, and monsters of great power plagued that Forest. Not to mention the fact that the snow never melted in the White Forest, not even in the middle of summer. It was so cold there that the chill could rival the highest peaks of the Black Mountains.
South Wind had told him that the Forest had appeared as the result of a battle between two Immortals. A number of adventurers went there every year, searching for the legacy of one of these Immortals. No one had ever returned.
“That’s impossible,” one of the officials cried. “It’s impossible to survive in the White Forest!”
Most of those present supported him with their approving whispers.
“Actually, it makes sense,” Nero said, raising his hand, which made the aristocrats fall silent. “Did you know that the best trackers and hunters of the Kingdom have been looking for the rebels for fifteen years? And no one has found them so far.”
“But we’re talking about the White Forest!” The official protested indignantly. “My Prince, with all due respect, you must’ve been hit in the head during the war. No one can endure even one season in there. Let alone 15 years!”
“That just means they’ve found a way,” Nero shrugged.
“About as likely as finding a way to be born an Immortal,” the official said. “General Bermengton just wants to send General Traves to his doom. Not your most subtle move, Sir.”
“Are you accusing me of something, Earl Rakia?” The General squinted. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the pointer. “Maybe-”
“Maybe it’s time for you to stop being foolish,” Elaine whispered, but as she did so, a wave of power swept through the room. It was difficult for Hadjar to find the right words to describe it because he’d never felt something like this before. Only he and Primus had noticed that a hieroglyph on the Princess’ hand had flashed brightly for a moment. “Until recently, it had been considered impossible to defeat ‘The Black Gates’ sect. Do you mind reminding me, Earl Rakia, what the sect is like these days? Maybe you know how its Patriarch is doing?”
Blushing slightly from the humiliation, Rakia leaned back in his chair and waved his hand uncertainly. Hadjar knew perfectly well that he led the opposition to the current government and King Primus. Unfortunately, this opposition was very nominal and mostly for show, but even that was better than nothing.
“Go on, Bermengton,” Primus nodded.
He and Hadjar had studied at the same ‘school of management’. As a result, their councils were rather similar: first, everyone got the opportunity to speak, and then, based on what he’d heard, the King made a decision. Hadjar hoped that this detail would elude his friends’ notice. He needn’t have worried. The newlyweds were still too shocked to pay attention to such subtle clues.
“Thank you, my King,” the official moved a few more figurines to the White Forest. “Give me one hundred thousand cavalry, two hundred thousand infantry, and one hundred and twenty cannons, and by the middle of autumn, the rebels will be nothing more than a memory.”
The councilors started whispering again. Three hundred thousand soldiers wasn’t that big of a deal to the Army of Lidus. Significant, certainly, but not any sort of major loss. 120 cannons was, of course, a fortune, but if the rest of the armies ‘tightened their belts’, they could be found.
“We’ll come in from the south side,” Bermengton continued, “and march in a wide arc toward the Blue Vein.” The General gestured with the pointer at a wide river that never froze. “The rebels will be forced to retreat, and once they are on the ice, we’ll use the cannons.”
Bermengton concluded his presentation there. The others had enough knowledge and imagination to figure out the rest. What would so many cannons do to people stuck out on the ice, even if they were strong practitioners? Some of them would end up a
