Barron moved at first light, not in a standard, recognizable formation, but as a silent, efficient spearhead. He chose the fastest, leanest horses and the most reliable Knights. His mission was simple, brutal, and non-negotiable: intercept the Ashbourne convoy and ensure it reached the Breadbasket site on time, no matter the cost.
They found the convoy two days out, moving at the slow, deliberate pace Riven's father had set—a calculated act of resistance. Barron confronted Master Thomas, the Duke's grizzled logistics man, a veteran whose entire career was built on measured, unhurried caution.
"Master Thomas, the route is changing," Barron announced, pulling his horse alongside Thomas's heavy carriage. The Knight's voice carried the authority of absolute urgency. "We're taking the old mountain road. It cuts the journey by two full days."
Thomas glared, adjusting his spectacles on his nose. "Absolutely not, Lord Barron! That track is for moving wild goats and reckless brigands, not for these precious, high-yield seeds. This is the Duke's command! They move on my schedule, which honors the necessary caution for a high-value shipment."
"Caution means nothing right now, Master Thomas," Barron countered, his voice sharp and hard as the steel of his armor. "The Crown Prince's future Consort promised the common folk a delivery date. You move the seed on time, or you explain to the Duke why House Ashbourne broke a sacred vow to the people on behalf of the Crown."
Barron leaned in, his expression ruthless. "And while you're at it, you can explain to Duke Durnhall why they needed to speed their elite military transport across the country just to cover your house's slow pace. Do you think His Grace will like that public embarrassment?"
Barron was executing Mira Lune's strategy perfectly: leveraging peer pressure and the crippling fear of public shame. Master Thomas's face paled instantly. Failure to support the Consort was one thing; but being publicly shamed by House Durnhall's superior military efficiency was an intolerable insult to the Duke's honor.
"The mountain route it is," Thomas grumbled, spitting a curse into the dust. "But if a single sack is lost, it's on your head, Lord Barron."
Barron's confident, cold smile was his only reply. "Let it be on mine. Just move, old man."
The journey instantly devolved into a brutal, relentless race against the clock and the terrain. Barron and his Knights pushed the convoy relentlessly over the Iron-Spine's treacherous, narrow mountain passes. The horses strained, their muscles trembling; the carts groaned under the impossible load; and the dust was so blinding and thick it felt like breathing sand. They bypassed a week's worth of traditional travel in less than seventy-two hours.
Exhausted but unbroken, they crested the final ridge, arriving at the new Imperial Gate of the Breadbasket site precisely on the promised deadline.
As the first heavy-laden wagons crested the hill, a powerful, quiet moment unfolded below them. Hundreds of local miners and farmers were waiting. They weren't cheering or screaming; they were standing quietly, patiently, holding their empty, worn ceramic bowls and frayed sacks.
When the reality of the delivery hit them—the fact that the carts were actually there—a collective, reverent sigh of relief and hope went through the silent crowd.
Barron watched the moment of transfer: the heavy sacks of grain sliding from the wagons into the grateful, rough hands of the common folk. It wasn't a military victory; it was a promise kept. And it was the most important sight he'd ever witnessed.
Back in the Imperial Palace, in the cold marble of the Senate, the explosion was magnificent. Vaelorian, deep into his third hour of debating the appropriate size for official Imperial crests on stable blankets, noticed Senator Aldrin's face had gone past mere grumpiness and was now genuinely apoplectic.
"Your Highness!" Aldrin roared, rising to his feet, scattering expensive, irrelevant papers. "We have been debating horse blankets while your future Consort runs an entirely illegal, unsanctioned military operation through the Western Territories!"
The Senate fell silent. Vaelorian blinked, feigning confusion with Oscar-winning precision. "An operation, Senator? Lord Riven is simply testing out a new... agricultural security initiative with Lord Torvin. We discussed it last night. All standard procedures, I assure you."
"Standard procedure does not involve His Grace, Duke Ashbourne, shipping tons of wheat, and House Durnhall's high-speed cavalry on demand! Not to speak of the unauthorized deployment of Imperial Knights on private land!" Aldrin shrieked, spittle flying. "Your Future Consort used a handful of fake diplomatic letters and an unapproved public deadline to force the Great Western Houses to fund and execute a massive supply drop to a region completely outside their territorial purview!"
Vaelorian slowly leaned forward, the tiresome façade dissolving entirely. A genuine, delighted, and utterly dominant smile spread across his face.
"Ah," he purred, his eyes gleaming with triumphant intelligence. "You mean Project: Breadbasket. It worked, then?"
"Worked?! He bypassed the entire legislative body! He leveraged the common folk's expectations against our Great Houses! He called it a 'Loyalty Test'!" the Senator wailed from the benches.
Vaelorian stood calmly, letting the wave of impotent fury wash over him. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm, clear, and laced with absolute victory.
"You know what Senator? Even I, haven't been informed of this victory, but you have, senator. Your network of spies is really incredible." The sarcasm in his voice was clear but his icy glare was scary as he continued. "It seems, gentlemen, that while we were meticulously debating the thread count of our tents and the proper wood for our latrines—which, I might add, remains undecided—Lord Riven successfully demonstrated the depth of the commitment we gained on our Imperial tour."
He spread his hands wide, encompassing the room. "The food has been delivered. The people are fed. Lord Torvin is thrilled to be the official 'Custodian.' The project is fully funded, fully executed, and costs the Imperial treasury precisely zero copper pieces."
Vaelorian's eyes, sharp and commanding, swept across the room, leaving a chill in their wake. "Your concern, I submit, is not the legality, but the efficiency. Lord Riven has proven that loyalty, when properly channeled, is a far more potent resource than gold. The foundation we secured is already bearing fruit."
He tapped his remaining, still-undebated scroll. "Now, shall we return to the vital matter of the budget? Perhaps we should debate the maximum acceptable circumference for a standard Imperial wagon wheel to prevent future, unforeseen logistical issues? I wouldn't want him to encounter the same difficulties he encountered this time again."
The senators didn't know whether to scream or faint. They realized they had been played perfectly, checkmated by the Crown Prince's boring act and his ambitious future Consort. The decoy was successful; the Senate was neutralized, and Riven had just quietly carried out his first mission as the future consort behind the Lumina Empire.