Chapter 401| Afraid That You Are Right

?The late afternoon sun glinted faintly off the steel surface as the carriage approached.

?The gates of the Iron Empire’s capital towered over twenty meters high before them.

?The steam-carriage ground to a halt. Its steel wheels hissed softly, white vapor billowing from the smokestack.

?Roland stepped down first. His shirt was still grimy, the wound on his left shoulder not fully healed. Rianor followed, his left arm hanging limply with the completely dead Bracer, his cracked glasses slipping down his nose. Riven dismounted next, his hand resting near the hilt of his shortsword. The Dwarf King followed suit, his white-runed warhammer slung across his shoulder.

?Grigori and Adrian were escorted out, their hands still bound by rune-etched chains. Grigori walked tall as usual, while Adrian moved with far more cautious steps.

?Bringing up the rear, Borch, Thorne, Naya, and Dom walked in silence. Their weapons weren’t raised, but their eyes never stopped scanning the watchtowers flanking the gates.

?There was no welcoming committee. No sound at all, save for the evening wind carrying the scent of metal and embers.

?A voice suddenly echoed from a steam-powered megaphone atop the tower, a grating mix of metallic distortion and static.

?"Stop right there."

?Roland looked up. "I am Roland Sudrath, envoy of Northreach. I come bearing two high-ranking Iron Empire citizens who survived the battle in the Eastern Mountains. We request an audience with Emperor Regulus."

?Two guards stationed beside the gate exchanged glances. Then, one of them looked toward the prisoners standing behind Roland. His eyes widened.

?"That’s... that’s General Grigori!"

?His partner turned to look as well, the color draining from his face. "And that’s... Prince Adrian?"

?A minor panic broke out inside the guardpost. One of the guards sprinted inside through a small side door. The others gripped their weapons with trembling hands, entirely unsure of what to do.

?The voice from the tower finally replied. It wasn’t just a simple command anymore. This time, the voice was visibly tense. "Hold your position. Do not move."

?Roland didn’t budge. Rianor scrutinized every corner of the gate, mentally calculating the number of watchtowers and the placement of their cannons. Riven remained on high alert, even with his hands away from his weapons.

?The Dwarf King measured the height of the walls with his own eyes, as if comparing them to the walls of his underground city. Grigori stood with a deadpan expression, as if he had been in this exact situation years ago. Adrian was pale, his eyes darting nervously toward the watchtowers.

?Fifteen minutes passed before the small door at the side of the gate finally swung open.

?A man stepped out, followed by three soldiers clad in dark gray plate armor. His hair was slicked back flawlessly, his black shirt adorned with a gear emblem on the collar. He stopped three paces away from Roland.

?"Officer Voss," he said curtly, offering no further introduction.

?His eyes scanned the group one by one—Rianor, Riven, the Dwarf King—before lingering on Grigori and Adrian.

?Voss blinked once. Not out of shock. It was more like he was mentally calculating something.

?"Are you aware of what you’re doing?" he asked.

?"I am," Roland replied.

?"You took two high-ranking figures of the Iron Empire hostage, and marched them directly to our front gates." Voss’s voice was flat, but laced with underlying pressure. "Why shouldn’t I just arrest all of you right now?"

?"Because that is the Emperor’s decision to make," Roland replied. "Not a gate officer’s."

?Voss stared at him for a long moment.

?A forced sense of respect flickered in his eyes, as if reluctant to admit it but unable to refute the logic Roland had just laid out.

?He turned and barked a brief order to one of his soldiers. The soldier immediately ran back through the small door, disappearing inside.

?"You will be held in the guardpost," Voss said, turning back to Roland. "No one leaves until orders come down from above."

?Roland nodded. "We accept."

?Two soldiers stepped forward, confiscating Riven’s shortsword, Thorne’s spear, Naya’s daggers, Borch’s Gauss Rifle, and Dom’s combat knife.

?Rianor handed nothing over. His Bracer had been dead for days; there was nothing left to confiscate.

?Voss personally inspected the chains on Grigori and Adrian’s wrists, ensuring the bindings weren’t injuring them.

?The group was escorted through the small door at the side of the gate.

?The corridor inside was cramped, lit only by a row of dim yellow steam-lamps running along the ceiling. The air smelled like a heavy mixture of hot metal, oil, and coal—a stark contrast to the crisp mountain air they had left behind.

?The holding cell where Roland and Rianor were placed was nothing more than a four-by-four-meter steel box.

?Two wooden benches sat in opposite corners. A steel table was welded directly to the floor, a single steam-lamp hung from the ceiling, and all four walls were completely windowless.

?Riven, the Dwarf King, and the rest of the Ghost Squad were placed in the adjacent room. Grigori and Adrian were taken to an entirely separate holding area.

?Roland sat on the bench, leaning against the cold steel wall. Rianor sat across from him, staring at the faintly flickering steam-lamp.

?The steel walls enclosing them felt colder than the mountain winds. Several minutes passed in absolute silence.

?"Are you sure the Emperor will receive us?" Rianor finally asked.

?"No," Roland answered honestly. "But there’s no other way forward."

?Rianor didn’t press further. He shifted his gaze to the heavy steel door, waiting just like the rest of them.

?In a larger, much brighter room, Officer Voss stood before a long table while three other commanding officers read the report he had just drafted.

?The steam-lamps here were far brighter than the ones in the dingy corridors Roland’s group had walked through.

?"General VII Grigori, captured," one of the officers said, his voice heavy. "This is a disgrace."

?"Prince Adrian," another added, sounding much more anxious. "If word of this gets out—"

?"Don’t panic," Voss cut in. "We report this to the top. Let the Emperor decide."

?"The Emperor is in a meeting," the third officer pointed out.

?Voss folded the report, sealed it with black wax, and handed it to a courier waiting by the door.

?The courier bolted out, sprinting through narrow corridors, climbing a spiraling iron staircase high into the air, and disappearing toward the massive palace looming in the center of the city.

?The war room at the top of the palace’s central tower was paneled in gear-engraved steel. The ceiling was low, bright steam-lamps illuminated a wrought-iron table, and a massive tactical map covered the main wall.

?Emperor Regulus sat at the head of the table, his mechanical respirator mask hissing softly with every breath he took. His eyes were dim, staring blankly at the report in his hand, betraying absolutely no emotion.

?Anastasia Velthorne stood not far from him, her black hair perfectly pinned up, a black wolf-fur mantle draped over her left shoulder. Four generals and two ministers occupied the rest of the room.

?"Grigori is a prisoner," Emperor Regulus said, his voice muffled by the mask. "Adrian as well."

?A beat of silence fell over the room. Only the rhythmic hiss of the Emperor’s mask could be heard.

?General V Irina slammed her fist on the table. "This is an insult! Send the troops, Your Majesty. Right now."

?"Don’t be rash," General III Volkov countered, his tone far more level. "The Northreach envoy brought them back alive. If we attack now, we are the ones in the wrong."

?"They are interfering in our affairs," Irina argued.

?"They are finishing the affairs we started," Volkov shot back.

?"Silence, both of you," Emperor Regulus said, without raising his voice a single decibel. That one sentence was enough to freeze the entire room.

?He placed the report on the table. There was no fury on his face. No panic. Only a chilling calmness that felt far more threatening than any shouting ever could.

?The Northreach envoy wants me to get angry, he thought. If I get angry, I am in the wrong. If I refuse the audience, I look weak. If I accept too quickly, it looks as though I am yielding to my own prisoners.

?"We do nothing," he finally said. "Let them wait. Long enough to make them doubt. Not long enough to make them leave."

?Anastasia listened in silence, her face remaining perfectly stoic. But in her mind, she cataloged every word, every reaction in that room.

?Emperor Regulus was a man who was incredibly difficult to anger.

?And that was exactly what made him the most dangerous man she had ever met.

?The meeting was adjourned.

?Anastasia was the last to leave, descending the iron stairs, navigating the long corridors, and exiting through a side door into the palace’s rear courtyard.

?She wasn’t entirely sure why her feet were leading her in this direction. She only knew that she needed to see this envoy with her own eyes.

?The door to Roland’s holding cell swung open without warning.

?Roland stood up from his bench.

?Anastasia stood in the doorway, her dark gray uniform immaculate, the black wolf-fur mantle draped over her shoulder, her hair pinned up as flawlessly as ever.

?"Princess Anastasia," Roland greeted, offering no smile and skipping any excessive pleasantries.

?Anastasia didn’t return the greeting.

?She stepped inside, let the heavy door shut behind her, and stood right in front of Roland, closing the distance until it bordered on uncomfortable.

?"You returned with prisoners of war from the very side you were supposed to help," she said.

?"That’s right," Roland replied, never breaking eye contact.

?"This worsens your position."

?"I know. But I’d rather worsen my position than let the Dwarves be exterminated for absolutely no reason. If that makes me wrong in your eyes, so be it. I’m not here to please you."

?Anastasia stared at him for a long moment.

?Her eyes showed no outward emotion, but there was something there—a spark of curiosity that was difficult to fully suppress, no matter how hard she tried to keep a straight face.

?She paused for a second, as if weighing whether it was worth saying at all.

?"The Emperor will not receive you," she finally said.

?"Why?" Roland asked.

?"Because he is afraid," Anastasia answered.

?"Afraid of what?"

?Anastasia turned around, walking toward the door. At the threshold, she stopped briefly, glancing back over her shoulder.

?"Afraid that you are right," she said.

?The heavy door clanged shut behind her.

?Roland stood alone, staring at the steel door that had just closed.

?Rianor stood up from his bench. "We don’t have much time."

?"I know," Roland replied.

?He walked over to the steel table, pressing both his palms flat against its cold surface.

?Rianor sat back down, waiting, letting his brother think without interruption.

?Emperor Regulus wouldn’t welcome them with open arms. But there was one thing that could make him change his mind—one thing far stronger than his own fear.

?The truth. Something the Iron Empire had never needed in order to win—but perhaps the one thing they weren’t quite ready to face.