A tempting aroma rose from the poisoned broth, steaming in its simple wooden bowl. Arthur took the soup from the knight and slowly brought it to his lips. He paused, then abruptly turned and handed the bowl to Roger. "I have no appetite. You have it." Roger’s face went stiff. He forced a smile. "My lord, that's not proper. It is for you." "That was an order. Drink it." Arthur’s tone was suddenly hard as iron. The color drained from Roger’s lips. A cold sweat beaded on his brow. He knew exactly what was in that soup. To drink it was to die. Knight Captain Gideon, sensing the sudden tension, gave a sharp, subtle signal to the knights around the fire. They rose as one, forming a tight circle around Roger. "Drink it," Gideon said, his voice a low growl. The steaming bowl was forced toward his mouth. Realizing there was no escape, Roger lunged, trying to break free, but the knights slammed him to the snowy ground, holding him fast. Only then did the truth slam into the other knights: the soup was poisoned. Arthur stood, looking down at the man pinned beneath his soldiers. "You know the penalty for trying to poison your lord, don't you?" Terror flooded Roger’s eyes. Of course, he knew. "Who ordered you to do this?" Arthur’s voice was calm, unhurried. Roger’s voice trembled. "It was... it was Lord Bertram. He ordered me." Bertram. Duke Beaumont’s second son. Arthur’s own elder brother. The knights' eyes all shifted to Arthur. They were all men of the Beaumont clan, well-versed in the simmering rivalries between the Duke's sons. But for a brother to strike so soon, before Arthur had even reached his new post… it sent a chill through the camp. Roger continued, his words spilling out in a desperate rush. "He promised that if you died, I could return to the Southern March. He would arrange a new position for me, a Knight Captain at least..." At that, the expressions of the knights holding him soured with disgust. Arthur, however, let out a low, humorless laugh. His brother wasn't just trying to weaken him; this was an attempt to remove a rival for the ducal seat for good. The Beaumont title did not pass to the eldest son, but to the strongest. No matter how powerless Arthur seemed now, he was still of the Duke's blood, still a contender. And if he were to die on the road to the Northlands, the family would simply send another brother to take his place. This meant Bertram could not only eliminate one rival but also use the mission to wear down his other siblings. A clever plan, indeed. Roger clung to a last sliver of hope, his eyes pleading. "My lord, I... I was forced into it!" "I am just a simple knight! When Lord Bertram gives an order, I cannot refuse... Please, spare my life! I am willing to swear my allegiance to you!" "Gideon," Arthur said, his voice flat. "My lord." The Knight Captain stepped forward, his longsword sliding from its sheath with a whisper of steel. Sheer panic seized Roger. He thrashed wildly. "My lord! Spare me! I will never—" A silver arc flashed in the firelight, and blood sprayed across the snow. Roger’s pleas choked off in a wet gurgle. His head rolled to a stop, eyes wide with a final, frozen terror. Gideon sheathed his sword, his face a stony mask. "The traitor has been executed." But the atmosphere in the camp grew heavy, suffocating. The other knights stood in silence, a complex mix of fear and understanding flickering in their eyes. Roger's crime was betrayal, and the punishment was just. That was undeniable. But his motive? To escape this frozen wasteland and return home... which of them didn't harbor that same desperate wish? And what of them? Were they any different? They all knew what awaited them in the Northlands. It was a place of exile, the domain with the highest death toll in the dukedom. Not one of them had come willingly. Not one of them didn't dream of going back. In that moment, no one dared to look at the head lying in the snow, terrified they might see their own desperation reflected in its glassy eyes. A tide of confusion and hopelessness washed over them. Beneath the dark sky, the campfire crackled, illuminating the despair on every face. Arthur saw it all. He took a step forward. "Anyone who wishes to leave may do so." The knights started, their heads snapping up to look at him. "I will write a letter to the family myself, absolving you of any blame for desertion." Arthur paused, his gaze sweeping over each man. "But know this: after tonight, any man who abandons his post will share Roger's fate." No one spoke. No one moved. They were no fools. A letter from an outcast son meant little. Desertion was a crime, and the punishment back home could be far worse than a quick death in the snow. This was a dead end, but retreat was not a path to safety. Arthur looked at their silent, grim faces and suddenly let out a soft laugh. The killing frost in his eyes thawed, and his voice became measured. "You believe being sent to the Northlands is a death sentence." "You know why you were chosen for this post. It is because you have no powerful patrons, no family connections. To them, you are expendable. You are trash to be thrown away." Arthur paused, then his voice rang out, firm and powerful. "But I do not believe that! You are not trash!" "Every one of you earned your rank. You passed your trials, you bled in battle. You are knights forged in fire!" "And the men who sent you here? They are parasites, growing fat and comfortable within the castle walls while you freeze!" He scanned their faces again, and this time, he saw a flicker of something new in their eyes. A wavering of their despair. "Have you ever considered what might happen if we don't just survive on this permafrost, but thrive? If we build something of our own here?" "The darkness before the dawn is long, I know." "But the sun will rise." "I do not know if we will all live to see that day, but I swear by the Wyrm Progenitor—" "When that day comes, I will share all the glory of the sun with every one of you!" Arthur’s gaze held them, and the wavering in their eyes grew stronger. "To the Beaumont family, you are pawns to be sacrificed. Insignificant." "But this land, this land is full of opportunities. Here, anything is possible." "One of you might become a Baron. A Viscount. Perhaps even a Count one day!" "Of course, you can continue to wallow in your fate. You can lament your misfortune and wait for the grave." "Or you can stand with me. You can seize this forsaken land and forge a future with your own hands." The night wind howled, and the flames of the campfire danced across their stark, conflicted faces. Suddenly, a sharp thud broke the silence. Knight Captain Gideon had dropped to one knee, his armored fist striking his breastplate with a resounding clang. "I swear to follow my lord to the death!" Then a second knight knelt, and a third, and a fourth… "I swear to follow my lord to the death!" "I swear to follow my lord to the death!" One by one, the knights knelt in the snow, their right fists striking their chests in a deafening, unified chorus.

Chapter 2: The Poisoned Broth