The poisonous broth was served in a wooden bowl, releasing an enticing aroma.
Louis took the soup from the knight, slowly raised it to his lips—but suddenly stopped. He turned and handed the bowl to Roy.
"I have no appetite. You drink it."
Roy's face stiffened. He forced a smile. "Lord, this is against protocol. You should drink first."
"I order you—drink it," Louis said, his tone turning sharp.
Roy's lips turned pale. Cold sweat beaded at his temples.
He knew exactly what was in that bowl. If he drank it, he'd die.
The knight captain, Lambert, noticed the strange tension. He gave a discreet signal to the surrounding knights. Several immediately stood and surrounded Roy.
"Drink it," Lambert said coldly.
The boiling hot broth was brought forcefully to Roy's lips.
Realizing he could no longer play dumb, Roy suddenly lunged, trying to escape, but he was swiftly pinned to the ground.
Only then did the knights fully understand—this soup was poisoned!
Louis rose, looking down at Roy, who struggled beneath the weight of several armored men. "You know the punishment for attempting to assassinate a Lord, don't you?"
Terror filled Roy's eyes. Of course, he knew.
"Who ordered you to poison it?" Louis's voice was calm, but commanding.
Roy trembled, his voice cracking. "It… it was Lord Benjamin. He ordered me to do it."
Benjamin—Duke Calvin's second son. Louis's elder brother.
The knights all turned their gazes toward Louis. As members of the Calvin family's knightly order, they were well aware of the bitter rivalry among the brothers. But to see one brother move to eliminate another so openly, so viciously, before any real power had even been secured—it chilled the blood.
Roy continued in a broken voice, "He promised… that if I succeeded, I could return to the Southern Territories. He'd give me a new position. Captain, at least…"
The knights' faces grew darker.
Louis, however, let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
So that was it. Benjamin wanted to wipe out future threats to his claim.
The Calvin family's ducal succession wasn't based on primogeniture. It followed the law of strength—the most capable heir would inherit the title.
No matter how weak Louis appeared now, as long as he lived, he remained a direct descendant of Duke Calvin. He had a legitimate claim. If he died en route to the Northern Border, the family would simply dispatch another brother to finish the assignment.
In other words, Benjamin not only removed one rival but also accelerated the decline of the rest. A cunning, ruthless plan.
Roy clung to a final shred of hope. "Lord, I… I was forced! I'm just a knight! Lord Benjamin ordered it—I didn't dare disobey! Please spare me! I'll pledge my loyalty to you!"
"Lambert," Louis said softly.
"Yes," the knight captain responded. He stepped forward and drew his sword.
Roy panicked. "Lord! Please! I'll never—"
Puchi!
A flash of silver. A spray of blood. The plea died on Roy's lips.
His head rolled to the snowy ground, eyes wide with terror frozen in death.
Lambert calmly sheathed his sword. "The traitor has been executed."
But in the camp, the atmosphere turned heavy.
The knights fell into silence, their eyes clouded with complex emotions.
Roy had betrayed his Lord. He deserved death. That much was clear.
But had he acted purely out of greed?
He had only wanted to return to the South. To escape this frozen, forsaken land.
Were they so different?
Every knight present knew what it meant to be sent to the Northern Border to establish new territory. This was exile. The land with the highest mortality rate in the realm.
None had come here by choice. All wanted to return home.
Now, none of them dared look at Roy's severed head, afraid of seeing their own reflection in his lifeless eyes.
Confusion and helplessness washed over them like a tide.
Under the black sky, the bonfire flickered, casting trembling shadows across hardened faces.
Louis saw it all. He stepped forward.
"Anyone who wishes to leave—go now."
The knights were stunned. All eyes lifted to him.
"I will personally write to the family and absolve you of guilt," Louis said, pausing. His eyes swept across the crowd. "But after today, anyone who deserts will end up like Roy."
No one moved.
They weren't fools. Even with Louis's letter, the Calvin family might not forgive desertion. Abandoning one's post might result in punishment more brutal than death. Staying in the Northern Border could mean a slow death—but returning might mean disgrace and ruin.
Louis looked at the still, silent knights and laughed lightly.
His tone shifted—no longer threatening, but honest. Resolute.
"You think coming to the Northern Border is a death sentence," he said. "You know why you were sent here. It's because you have no backing in the family. You're considered expendable. Trash."
He paused, then stepped forward.
"But I don't believe that. I don't believe you're trash."
His voice rose with force.
"You became squires, and then knights—not by privilege or blood, but through your talent, your training, your sweat, and your battles!
"And those who sent you here? They are parasites—hiding behind castle walls, living off the labor of others!"
His gaze pierced the crowd, igniting a flicker of hesitation in the knights' eyes.
"Have you ever wondered—what if we survive this land? What if we gain a foothold here?
"I know… the darkness before dawn feels endless.
"But the sun will rise."
Louis raised his hand and pointed to the east.
"I don't know if we'll all live to see that day. But I swear, by the dragon ancestor—if that day comes, I'll share that sunlight, that glory, with all of you!"
His words echoed into the cold silence.
"To the Calvin family, you are pawns. Pieces to be moved and sacrificed.
"But in this land—this cold, desolate land—there is opportunity. Real opportunity.
"Someone among you may one day become a Baron, a Viscount… even an Earl!
"Or—you can continue to live as pawns. Sighing. Lamenting. Waiting to die."
He stepped forward again, closer to the fire, the wind swirling his cloak.
"Or—you can join me.
"And seize the future. With your own hands."
Silence.
Long, stifling silence.
The wind howled.
The bonfire hissed as snowflakes drifted into its embers.
Then—
Bang!
A sharp sound shattered the stillness.
Knight-Captain Lambert dropped to one knee, slamming his right fist against his chest.
"We swear to follow you to the death, Lord!"
A second followed.
A third.
A fourth.
Then a chorus:
"We swear to follow you to the death, Lord!"
"We swear to follow you to the death, Lord!"
One by one, the knights dropped to their knees, each fist crashing into their chest in solemn unity.
The bonfire roared. The cold wind blew.
And in that moment, amid snow and blood and fire—
The Northern Border had its first flame of loyalty.