The gates of the fortress groaned open, and twenty riders departed under the gray dawn bearing Irineus’s sealed letters and tokens of good will. Their banners snapping in the wind. Their destination: the stronghold of Harrkun, the closest and most powerful Barbarian chief. Their mission was clear deliver the message to the Harrkun and see if they are willing to discuss alliance and trade.

  The gates of the fortress groaned open, and twenty riders departed under the gray dawn, their banners snapping in the wind. Irineus watched from the battlements, his fingers curling around the cold stone. Lucius stood beside him, his face lined with disapproval.

  "You send them to their deaths," the old scholar muttered, his voice brittle with anger. "These barbarians skin their enemies alive and drink from their skulls. What makes you think they'll honor a messenger's banner?"

  Irineus did not flinch. "Then let them see we are not prey."

  One more rider left the fortress that morning, veering south along the Imperial road. His destination was the heart of Emilia itself—the city where Lord Philip Emilian ruled. He carried a full dossier: troop movements, trade reports, and a detailed account of Irineus's plan to open talks with the barbarians. If betrayal came, Irineus would not be caught alone.

  One Week Later

  The scouts returned on the eighth morning, their mounts lathered but unharmed. Their leader, a grizzled veteran named Daniel, dismounted and pressed a carved bone token into Irineus's palm. "The chieftain sends his son. They come in three days."

  The fortress prepared.

  The fortress itself had been dressed for the occasion. Rich banners hung from the walls. The air smelled of roasted meats, spiced wines, and fresh bread. Fountains, newly repaired, gurgled sweet water in the courtyards.

  Even the stables had been scrubbed and perfumed.

  It was a display of power—and of wealth.

  Martin drilled the garrison until their formations were seamless, their armor gleaming under Gunnar’s meticulous craftsmanship. Livia oversaw the feast—barrels of Emilian wine, platters of roasted game, perfumed oils burning in bronze braziers. The scent of luxury filled the air, a deliberate display of wealth and strength.

  The barbarian delegation arrived at midday, their approach heralded by the thunder of hooves. Fifty warriors rode in loose formation, their fur-clad frames bristling with axes and spears. The barbarians reined their horses hard, eyes wide. Some muttered in awe. They had expected a crumbling ruin clinging to survival. At their head was Anund, third son of Harrkun, his youth belied by the cold calculation in his eyes.

  He was tall—near two meters—and broad-shouldered, his linen tunic finely woven, his black wolf pelt draped like a conqueror's mantle. Gold glinted at his throat and fingers, but his sword was plain, its hilt worn smooth by use.

  He was received formally—no gushing welcomes, no unnecessary warmth. Just a measured greeting from Irineus and Martin, flanked by Lucius and a cadre of officers.

  Respectful, but firm.

  Anund’s gaze flickered over them, lingering on the fortress walls, the bustling workshops, the disciplined ranks of men. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Your walls are... sturdier than reported."

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  ...

  The great hall roared with music and the clatter of plates, but every laugh was measured, every toast a veiled challenge. Anund sat at the high table, tearing into roasted boar with a dagger, his warriors eyeing the fortress guards like wolves circling a campfire.

  The great hall roared with music and laughter, but beneath the surface, tension hummed like a drawn bowstring. Anund sat at Irineus’s right, his warriors feasting beside Martin’s men, their hands never far from their weapons.

  "You show much strength, Lord Irineus," he said, addressing him with the formal title. "And much wealth. But what do you offer my people?"

  Irineus sipped his wine before answering.

  " Alliance," he said simply. "Trade. We offer food, cloth, dyes, perfumes, alcohol—goods your people desire but cannot easily produce. In return, we ask for peace between our lands. Mutual protection."

  "You have steel," Anund said, tearing into a leg of lamb. "My father wants to know—will you trade it?"

  Irineus sipped his wine. "For the right price."

  Martin leaned in slightly. "And we would like your horses," he added. "You have many fine horses. We would trade arms and armor for them."

  Anund nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tapping the gold rings at his knuckles.

  "Horses for weapons," he mused. "A fair bargain."

  But then he paused—and delivered the true cost.

  "My father seeks more than goods," Anund said. His voice grew heavier, more formal. " But weapons alone will not buy an alliance.“

  "My sister, Sigrid," Anund said slowly, "is of marriageable age. Take her as your wife, and our clans are bound. My father will recognize your rule. Our two people will live in peace. Is that what you wish?"

  A silence fell.

  Livia, serving wine nearby, froze. The cup in her hand trembled slightly before she steadied it.

  Irineus exhaled. "That is... a significant offer."

  "It is the only offer," Anund corrected. " I am not a fool, you need this alliance more than us. Without us, you’ll be crushed between the bandits and my father’s armies."

  The air thickened. Martin’s jaw tightened. Across the hall, Livia’s hands paused over her cup.

  Irineus exhaled slowly. "I will need time to consider."

  Marriage. Not merely a pact of trade, but a bond that could not easily be broken.

  "My sister," Anund said, meeting Irineus's gaze directly. "If she is to become your wife. Our banners will guard your lands as our own. We will recognize your rule and your fort as a sovereign domain."

  It was a brilliant move.

  A marriage alliance would tie Fort Emilia’s fate to the strongest barbarian clan in the region. It would grant legitimacy in the eyes of many—and danger in the eyes of others.

  Irineus’s mind raced.

  Anund smirked. " Try to make a decision quickly. Time is a luxury, My Lord. We cannot wait too long for you to make that decision."

  After the feast council was summoned.

  The Council room that night was thick with tension.

  "Madness!" Lucius slammed his fist on the table. "These savages butchered imperial garrisons! You think a marriage vow will stay their hands?"

  Sebastian, ever pragmatic, stroked his beard. "But with their horses, we could patrol the entire valley. And an alliance would free us to focus on the Black Flag."

  Alexios flipped through his ledgers. "Their herds are the finest in the north. We could triple our cavalry."

  Only Livia remained silent, her back to them as she stared into the fire.

  Irineus turned to her. "You’ve said nothing."

  She didn’t look at him. "What is there to say? You are the last prince of a fallen empire. If you mean to rebuild, you need more than swords. You need legitimacy." Her voice was steady, but her knuckles were white where they gripped the chair. "A royal marriage would give you that."

  At dawn, Irineus met Anund in the courtyard.

  "I accept," he said. "But on three conditions."

  Anund raised a brow.

  "First—your father’s warriors will not set foot in my lands without my leave. Second—trade routes remain open, tariffs fair. Third—" Irineus’s voice hardened. "If Sigrid bears my heir, that child inherits everything. Not your father’s wars, not your clan’s feuds. This kingdom."

  Anund studied him, then grinned. "Spoken like a true king."

  They clasped forearms. The deal was sealed.

  As the barbarians rode out, Martin joined Irineus on the walls.

  "You’re sure about this?"

  Irineus watched the distant figures vanish into the trees. "No. But survival is rarely about certainty."

  Below, Livia walked the gardens, her back straight, her hands buried in the earth.

  Planting seeds for a future she would not see.