The first light of dawn has barely crested the horizon when the massive gates of the Imperial Palace groan open, signaling the departure of the relief force. The air is crisp and cold, filled with the rhythmic, thundering cadence of seven hundred elite armored warhorses striking the stone pavement in unison. At the vanguard rides Vice Commander Hilowat, his figure imposing in full plate armor, his cape snapping in the morning wind as he leads a wedge formation of the Empire's finest Imperium Knights. Behind them, protected like the heart of a beast, rolls the grand royal carriage, its gold accents gleaming dully in the early light. Trailing the carriage is the main body of the force—a terrifying column of steel and discipline that stretches down the main avenue, a testament to the Great Empire's martial supremacy. The common folk who've risen early watch in awed silence as the embodiment of their nation's violence marches toward the east to answer a call for aid.
Inside the plush, velvet-lined interior of the carriage, the atmosphere is suffocatingly heavy, a stark contrast to the organized discipline outside. The tension is palpable, radiating primarily from Miyako. She sits beside Mikhail, but her usual stoic composure is fractured by visible, vibrating anxiety. Her eyes are cast strictly downward, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, fixed on the floorboards as if trying to see through them to the threatened soil of her homeland. Her body is rigid, every muscle coiled tight, and her hands are white-knuckled as they grip the scabbard of her sword, her thumb brushing the guard repeatedly in a nervous tic. She's a warrior returning to a home that might already be burning, and the helplessness of the travel is clearly gnawing at her.
Sitting opposite them, with her hands folded perfectly in her lap, is Maria. The Head Maid looks out of place in her pristine servant's uniform amidst a convoy of war, yet her expression remains one of professional calm. However, the silence eventually becomes too thick even for her. She shifts slightly, her gaze settling on the Prince. "My Lord," she begins, her voice soft but laced with genuine confusion, "I don't understand why you would bring me on a battlefield against Orcs. My place is within the palace walls, ensuring your comfort, not amidst the blood and mud of a siege."
Mikhail, who's been watching the passing scenery with a bored expression, turns his gaze to her. He knows exactly why she's there—her skills as a spymaster and assassin will be invaluable in the chaos to come, far more than her ability to pour tea. But he keeps his answer layered. "Don't worry, Maria. You'll know once we reach Eldrath." He offers a slight, enigmatic smile. "And if I have to use you on the battlefield, then you can just serve us like you always do. Whether it's serving wine or serving death, I trust you to be efficient."
Maria holds his gaze for a moment, perhaps sensing the double meaning, before she offers a deep, seated bow. "Understood, My Lord." She sits back, her role defined as indefinite, but her loyalty absolute.
As the convoy rumbles onward, eating up the miles between the Empire and the Eastern Kingdom, Mikhail turns his attention back to the window, staring out at the rolling hills of the borderlands. While his face remains impassive, his mind is churning, dissecting a specific, nagging inconsistency in the narrative he thought he knew so well. Hmm, this really doesn't make any sense at all. He narrows his eyes, focusing on the fate of the Queen. In the game, even if the condition of Eldrath was not good after the invasion, and the casualties were high... He recalls the Queen he'd met—Yuehua. She'd been desperate, yes, but she possessed a spine of steel. I have met Queen Yuehua; she's not a weak ruler to commit suicide even if she felt guilty for her people.
The game lore had glossed over it as a tragedy of despair, a plot device to clear the board for the chaos that followed. Her death in the game was a mystery, more or less. But this doesn't feel right. Strong monarchs who survive invasions usually focus on rebuilding, not self-destruction. The "suicide" feels convenient—too convenient for political rivals who might want to seize power in the vacuum. It smells like an assassination masked as grief. A cold realization settles in him: the war with the Orcs might just be the distraction for a darker political play within Eldrath itself. I'll have to look into it, he resolves, adding another objective to his list. But right now, I'll just sit back and relax before the war. We have some Orcs to kill. He leans back into the cushions, closing his eyes, letting the rhythmic motion of the carriage carry him toward the violence awaiting them in the East.