A procession of more than forty knights picked its way across the snow-covered ground, their dark forms a stark line against the white expanse as they approached Winterspire Citadel.
At the heart of the convoy rolled a pitch-black carriage, a banner bearing a crimson moon hanging limp from its roof in the cold air.
A column of that size did not go unnoticed. The soldiers at the gate straightened, their hands tightening on their pikes as they watched the group’s slow advance.
When the carriage halted before the city gate, a tall young man descended.
He swept back his hood, revealing a handsome, sharp-featured face. "I am Arthur Beaumont, a Pioneer Baron of the Dominion," he announced, his voice clear in the biting wind. "I am here to see Duke Conrad."
The soldiers traded surprised glances.
House Beaumont was one of the Valorian Dominion’s Eight Great Houses, a name known even in the desolate Northlands.
They had no idea of the young man’s standing within his family, but a Beaumont was not someone a common soldier could afford to offend.
One of the guards turned on his heel and disappeared through the gate to deliver the message.
A short time later, a middle-aged official bustled out to meet them. "Baron Beaumont," he said with a curt bow. "The Duke is expecting you. Please, follow me."
Led by the official, Arthur and his retinue passed through the heavy gates and into Winterspire Citadel itself.
Though the city streets were wide, they were a mess of potholes and half-frozen slush. Snow and mud churned together under their boots, leaving a trail of filthy prints.
Most of the buildings were rough-hewn constructions of stone and timber, looking dilapidated and worn. Here and there, the skeleton of a ruined structure slumped against the wind and snow.
Pedestrians were few, and they seemed to fall into two distinct groups.
There were the Northern soldiers in their heavy fur coats, their faces etched with a weary indifference born of endless battle.
And there were the civilians, wrapped in coarse cloth, their expressions numb as they hurried through the cold.
Arthur took in the scene, his expression impassive.
Given the North’s scarce resources and constant warfare, the fact that the city functioned at all was a minor miracle.
The official led Arthur and his men to the governor’s manor. "Duke Conrad is inside."
The interior was spartan, devoid of any luxury. There was only a heavy wooden desk, several old bookshelves, and a deep blue military banner hanging on the wall.
A middle-aged man sat behind the desk. A vicious scar ran from the corner of his left eye to his chin, twisting his already stern features into a permanent glower.
His presence filled the room like a physical weight, an oppressive stillness that spoke of immense power. This was the ruler of Winterspire Citadel, the de facto master of the Northlands—Duke Conrad.
"A mid-rank Knight," Conrad grunted, his gaze sweeping over Arthur with open disdain. "A scion of House Beaumont?"
Arthur met his gaze without flinching and inclined his head. "I am."
"You have the look of a proper nobleman," Conrad said, a faint sneer twisting his lips. "More so than that celebrated brother of yours, at any rate."
The condescension was expected.
In a world where the strong devoured the weak, power was the only currency that mattered. It was only natural for a legendary Peak Knight to look down on someone of his meager strength.
He saw no point in trading barbs. He produced the Pioneer's Writ, its wax seal bearing the royal crest. "I'm here to register my claim."
Conrad took the writ, his eyes flicking over it just long enough to confirm Arthur’s standing as a Pioneer Lord. Then he pulled a large map from a stack of parchments on his desk, spreading it flat.
"Anywhere but the red circles is yours for the taking."
Arthur looked down. It was a detailed map of the Northlands.
The province was vast, easily half the size of the land called Russia from his past life.
Yet only a dozen red circles marked lands that were already claimed or forbidden.
The sheer number of available territories sent a spark of excitement through him.
To encourage this venture, the Dominion had issued a comprehensive "Northern Pioneer Mandate." One of its clauses was clear: new Frontier Lords had to register their claim at the governor’s manor, with first arrivals getting first choice.
It seemed he was one of the very first to arrive.
The other noble scions were likely dragging their feet, loath to trade the comforts of the capital for this frozen wasteland, not taking the mandate seriously at all.
Which was excellent news for him.
Arthur stared down at the intricate map, his mind racing.
For days, he had been collating the information fed to him by the system, preparing for this exact moment. Threads of intelligence from his daily briefings wove together in his mind, a complex tapestry he had been meticulously sorting, comparing, and analyzing to find the perfect starting point.
He already had his target.
The choice, therefore, took only a moment.
He reached out, his finger tracing a small circle on the parchment before tapping it decisively. He looked up to meet the Duke's gaze. "Here."
Conrad glanced down at the spot Arthur had indicated, and a flicker of surprise crossed his stony features.
It was in the southeastern corner of the province, at the junction of the Greystone Chasm and the Greymoss Tundra, seventy-five kilometers from the Frosthowl Fjord.
Had the boy stumbled upon one of the region’s prime locations at a single glance?
The area boasted one of the North’s few temperate microclimates, a place where cold-resistant crops could grow in the seasons outside the deepest winter.
That fact alone set it far above most other territories.
A nearby stream offered a consistent water supply and a source of fish.
More importantly, the hills were known to hold veins of Cold Iron. They were notoriously difficult to mine, but if one could find a way, the potential was enormous.
In this perpetually frozen, resource-starved wasteland, such a place was a veritable paradise.
The Duke lifted his head, his eyes reassessing the young man before him.
He had dismissed him as just another pampered noble, but the boy clearly knew how to choose land. He was not as simple as he appeared.
A look of genuine interest replaced the scorn in Duke Conrad’s eyes. "A good choice," he said, the words a rare and unexpected compliment.
Arthur accepted the praise with a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "Thank you, Your Grace. I simply tried to make the most prudent judgment possible."
The Duke’s respect for Arthur grew. He clapped him on the shoulder, a heavy, solid impact. "If every Pioneer Lord had your eye for potential, the North might actually have a future."
He picked up a heavy steel seal from his desk and brought it down hard on Arthur’s registration document, the impact echoing in the quiet room. The act formally confirmed Baron Arthur Beaumont’s sovereignty over the new territory.
Arthur took the parchment, his fingertips brushing the deep impression of the Frost Halberd crest left by the seal.
He remained outwardly composed, but inside, a fierce sense of triumph was igniting.
A territory chosen with the aid of his Oracle Intelligence could never be ordinary.
If Conrad knew the land’s true value—the secrets hidden beneath its soil—he would never have let it go. He would have held it in his own iron grip.