A small, unassuming carriage, worn with travel but bearing the insignia of a noble house, rolled to a stop near the towering fortress that loomed over the northwest border of the Cross Kingdom.
The coachman gently pulled the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. Their hooves clattered against the stone path, and their restless neighs echoed in the open air. Private carriages were not allowed to pass through the gates, so they had to stop at a distance.
The coachman dismounted and knocked on the carriage door.
"My lord, we've arrived."
Inside, a pale hand pushed aside the curtain, revealing a figure of a young man with disheveled shoulder-length hair and heavy eyes still fogged with sleep. His brows furrowed as he took in the scene before him.
"So this is the Ironhold Bastion…" Valen murmured, his voice laced with curiosity and a tinge of awe.
This was his first time seeing a stronghold, as he rarely ever left their estate. If not for the order that brought him here, he would have never had the chance to witness such might.
The fortress before him was massive, stretching across the landscape like an immovable giant.
The steady rhythm of iron-shod boots striking stone filled the air as soldiers marched in formation along the towering walls. Their polished armor gleamed under the harsh midday sun, their discipline palpable in every synchronized step.
Banners bearing the crimson insignia of the Cross Kingdom fluttered from the ramparts, snapping sharply in the wind. The air smelled of iron, sweat, and the faint trace of oil used to keep weapons battle-ready.
Carriages rattled through the gates as soldiers unloaded crates of dried rations, barrels of water, and stacks of freshly forged swords and spears. The bustling stronghold pulsed with life—a place constantly preparing for war.
Not far from Valen's carriage, others had arrived as well. New recruits climbed down hesitantly, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror as they took in the scale of the fortress.
Valen stepped out of the carriage, wincing as he stretched his stiff limbs. The coachman quickly handed him his luggage—two simple leather boxes that were surprisingly heavy.
"My lord, are you sure you'll be alright?" the coachman asked, his voice laced with genuine worry. He was one of the few loyal retainers who remained with the Crisoff family until the end.
"I'll be fine. You should leave immediately," Valen replied, adjusting his grip on the heavy bags, only to grimace from the weight.
"But—"
The coachman faltered, his gaze dropping to Valen's arms—slender and unused to menial labor. But he held his tongue. It wasn't his place to question his master's decision.
"I'll be staying in Golden City for about a month," the coachman finally said, bowing. "If you need anything, you can send word to me."
"Alright. I understand. You should go now," he said, giving a small nod toward the carriage, signaling the coachman to leave.
He didn't like other people worrying about him like this.
The coachman let out a quiet sigh. With one last, lingering glance, he turned the carriage around and drove off, leaving Valen standing alone with his heavy burdens.
"…It's so heavy." Valen muttered, glaring at the luggage."Just what the hell did Elsa put in here?"
Though it was only two bags, the weight was absurd.
'Did they pack too much?' He shook his head. 'No, the servants prepared exactly what was necessary. It's this body that's the problem.'
For now, he could only endure.
Hoisting his bags, he joined the line of recruits.
Although Valen was technically a noble, the royal decree had long since abolished noble privileges within the military. Nobles and commoners alike now trained and fought side by side—a measure to curb the nobles' growing ambition and to unify the army.
At first, Valen found it surprising. For the royal family to force the aristocrats to suppress their influence and stand on equal ground with commoners must have taken considerable effort. Nobles usually carried themselves with airs of superiority, yet it seemed the king possessed a power even they couldn't oppose. He was no simple character.
It was fortunate that Valen had been sent here. If he had remained in the capital, he wasn't sure if he could have stirred the waters or caused any meaningful trouble.
It seems fate is on my side.
He fell in step with the other recruits as they were herded toward the gates, passing through the guards who thoroughly checked their belongings before leading them inside.
Inside, the stronghold revealed its true scale.
Soldiers sparred in large, meticulously arranged formations. Commanders barked orders, and the clashing of swords filled the air. Different units trained across the vast field with impressive discipline and coordination.
"Impressive," he couldn't help but mutter.
'The royal family really invested in their military,' he mused. 'It seems they've been preparing for war long before the current conflicts erupted. They're just waiting for the enemy to attack first—to justify their retaliation.'
His eyes swept over every detail, memorizing the layout, the troop placements, the storage depots, the command tents.
Just as I thought—the things I planned might be more intriguing than I anticipated.
"Move quickly! Don't block the path!" barked a soldier overseeing the new arrivals, his crimson cape snapping in the wind as he waved them forward.
Valen picked up his pace, blending in with the nervous recruits around him. A wry smile tugged at his lips and also pretended to be uneasy.
The soldiers barely spared him a glance. They were accustomed to the sight of nobles and he didn't particularly stand out. Even the noble crest on his chest wasn't enough to draw their attention.
But there are still those who were able to recognize him.
Low whispers drifted around.
"That's the cursed young Viscount, isn't it?"
"What Viscount? Heh. He's just a bastard who gained his title by cursing his own family."
"Hey, don't let him hear you. He might curse you too. Anyway, everyone knows he's bad luck. He probably won't last long here."
Valen pretended not to hear.
Not because he didn't care, but because they were insignificant people—unworthy of his attention.
Besides, it wasn't like their opinions mattered to him anyway. After all, he wasn't in the same league as them.
Though he wouldn't hold much authority within this stronghold, his status as a noble still offered him protection. The aristocratic families wouldn't easily allow a fellow noble to be humiliated or bullied.
After all, once his five-year term of service ended, he would leave this camp and remain a Viscount, while many of the recruits here would merely become soldiers or guards.
In the future, they would still have to treat him with courtesy and bow their heads before him.
And perhaps, they were right to fear him.
The rumors were true—misfortune clung to him like a curse.