Chapter 407 Chapter 407| One More Step.

While Northreach remained oblivious to the events unfolding here, Roland counted the days.

?He stood before the second-floor window of the inn, gazing at the streets still slick from last night’s drizzle. Laborers trudged toward the factories with slumped shoulders. Merchants opened their stalls one by one. No one bothered to look up.

?His white shirt had been freshly laundered by the inn staff. The wound on his left shoulder had fully scabbed over. His hair was neatly combed.

?Ten days had passed since the second audience.

?The room’s door swung open without a knock. Rianor stepped inside wearing a grimy gray shirt, his cracked glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. The bracer on his left arm remained dead, looking like nothing more than scrap metal.

?"Those glasses," Roland remarked without turning around. "It’s been two months, and there’s a new crack in them."

?"I have other priorities," Rianor replied, slumping into a chair near the window. "Tonight?"

?"Tonight."

?Rianor nodded, pressing no further. Then, after a few seconds of silence, he spoke up anyway.

?"You gave the Emperor a number that’s only half the actual timeline."

?"People handed a deadline tend to stop looking for a second one," Roland said calmly. "Ten days for him. Twenty days for his people."

?"Devious."

?"Diplomatic."

?Out in the corridor, Riven leaned against the wall, his massive frame taking up almost half the hallway. Bandages still wrapped his left arm where the Wyvern’s claws had struck. Borch, Thorne, Naya, and Dom stood behind him. Their weapons were still confiscated.

?"You’re too calm," Riven muttered, not looking at anyone in particular.

?"I’m used to it," Roland said.

?"I mean, it’s annoying as hell."

?Roland offered a faint smile. Behind Riven, Borch merely shrugged, as if he had been friends with this family for far too long to be surprised by anything anymore.

?The Emperor only knew of one deadline: ten days. But Roland never played all his cards in a single hand. The second deadline—twenty days after the first audience—was known to only one person outside the palace walls.

?And today, that deadline expired.

?Night fell faster at the port.

?A thin mist crept up from the sea, blanketing the docks in a gray haze that swallowed all sound. Vapor lamps cast a dim, yellowish glow along the pier, reflecting off the gently rolling water.

?The NRS Orion sat silently among the Iron Empire’s cargo ships. Its steel hull was dark—no flags, no searchlights. Since being detained at these docks, the ship hadn’t moved an inch.

?The port guards had long since stopped paying attention to it. A stationary foreign vessel wasn’t a threat.

?Inside the navigation room, Captain Elian stood in the pitch black. Only the faint green glow of the crystal display illuminated his face—the face of a senior officer who had spent far too much time waiting. Two men stood beside him. Orva, a Ghost Squad operative who was notoriously frugal with his words, and Adul, a young comms tech whose hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

?Elian popped open a small metal lockbox hidden behind the navigation panel. Inside sat a thick roll of parchment sealed with black wax. A courier had delivered it the day before Roland’s convoy arrived at the capital gates, before vanishing into the harbor’s shadows just as ordered.

?He broke the seal.

?"If I am not allowed to walk freely out of the capital twenty days after our audience with the Emperor, spread this. To the docks. To the laborers. To the merchants. To anyone willing to listen. Not to the palace. Not to the military. To the people."

?Elian read it one last time, folded the letter, and tucked it into his pocket.

?"We move," he said.

?"Captain," Adul whispered. "What if we get caught?"

?"We die quietly," Orva said flatly.

?"That’s not helping!"

?"That’s just the truth."

?"Adul." Elian looked at him. "Are the copies ready?"

?Adul nodded rapidly, patting the leather satchel at his waist. During the agonizing weeks of waiting, he had hand-copied Roland’s letter—dozens of pages of neat handwriting that had cramped his fingers twice over.

?They rappelled down a mooring line on the stern, expertly dodging the watchtower’s sweeping searchlights.

?The docks were deserted. Only a few stevedores were still loading sacks onto a steam-cart in front of a warehouse. Elian approached one of them—a middle-aged man with calloused hands and a bone-tired face.

?He handed over a piece of paper without a single word.

?The laborer read it under the vapor light. His eyes widened. His hands started to shake.

?"Is this true?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

?"Ask the people you know," Elian replied. "Don’t just believe us. Believe your own questions."

?The laborer didn’t answer. He folded the paper, shoved it into his pocket, and practically sprinted toward the warehouse where his crew was working.

?Elian and his two comrades moved on to the next worker. To a merchant locking up his stall. To a sailor just stepping off his ship. To anyone who would listen.

?Within an hour, ten copies were circulating the port.

?Within two hours, twenty.

?Within three hours, the Iron Empire’s harbor was buzzing with whispers.

?Back on the stern stairs, Adul leaned heavily against the railing, his legs turning to jelly.

?"I can’t believe we didn’t get caught," he muttered.

?"We’re not done yet," Orva noted. "We won’t know for sure until tomorrow morning."

?Elian stared out at the harbor lights, now teeming with hushed chatter. He didn’t smile. He just waited.

?The following afternoon, Rumina stood before the imposing doors of the Palace of Light’s audience chamber.

?She had requested an audience with the Emperor at the crack of dawn. Two Praetorian Guards flanked her—neither blocking her path, nor allowing her to leave. Rumina waited. Three hours.

?Her back still stung from the lashings that hadn’t quite healed, but her face betrayed zero pain. Her dark gray work dress was immaculate, her black hair pinned up in a loose bun.

?Finally, the heavy doors groaned open. Volkov stood in the threshold—tall and gaunt, a metal measuring rod tucked into his belt.

?"His Majesty will see you now."

?Rumina stepped inside.

?Emperor Regulus slouched on his throne, his respirator hissing softly in the quiet room. His eyes were dim but sharp. He stared at her, expressionless.

?Rumina stood tall, straightening her back.

?"Why did you request this audience?" the Emperor demanded.

?"I am already acting as your collateral, Your Majesty," Rumina answered. "I believe that should suffice. Why do you need Roland as well?"

?The Emperor studied her for a long moment, sizing her up. "Because Roland holds value. You are merely his shadow."

?Rumina straightened her back. "A shadow who knows exactly what your war will cost."

?The Emperor fell silent.

?"Roland is my brother," Rumina continued. "If you keep him chained here, I can’t guarantee anything. But if you let him go, I will personally ensure Northreach honors its end of the bargain."

?"You are bold."

?"I am a daughter of Northreach," Rumina declared. "Bravery is my daily bread."

?The rhythmic hiss of the Emperor’s respirator filled a long, heavy silence.

?"I will consider it," he finally rasped.

?Rumina gave a curt bow, turned on her heel, and marched out.

?It wasn’t until she was safely out the door that her knees buckled. She didn’t know if her words had been enough. But she had played her part, and that was infinitely better than just sitting around waiting.

?Volkov entered the Emperor’s private study late that afternoon.

?"There are rumors brewing at the port, Your Majesty," he reported. "About the Dwarves. About Project Legion. About why we’re truly marching to war. They’re calling it ’the buried truth’."

?The Emperor didn’t move a muscle. His respirator hissed, slower this time.

?"How many know?"

?"Not many yet, but it’s spreading like wildfire. The port was ground zero. Tomorrow it could be the markets. The day after, the entire city."

?The Emperor sat in prolonged silence.

?He knew exactly what this meant. Roland’s letter hadn’t been a bluff. The ten days he thought he controlled were merely the surface layer. And he had realized the possibility of a second layer entirely too late.

?"Release Roland," he ordered.

?Volkov raised an eyebrow. "Your Majesty?"

?"We are not ready for war. Not now." The Emperor glared at the map plastered across the wall. "If we hold him any longer, Northreach will mobilize its forces. And there is only one thing we know for certain about them: they possess technology we cannot comprehend."

?Volkov did not argue.

?"These rumors will die down if we show them we have nothing to fear. Let him go. Let everyone see that we are still in complete control."

?Volkov bowed deeply and exited the room.

?The Emperor sat alone in the gloom, staring intently at the freshly closed door.

?"You are far more dangerous than I imagined, Roland Sudrath," he muttered.

?Elsewhere, Irina stood rigid in a palace corridor, her fists clenched tight.

?The news had just reached her. Roland was free. The Emperor had caved to the pressure.

?Her pristine white hair was slicked back, her pale blue eyes practically radiating ice, and her dark gray uniform stretched taut across her rigid shoulders. She spun around and power-walked toward her private office.

?Two junior officers were already waiting inside.

?"Roland Sudrath walks free tonight," Irina declared, skipping the pleasantries. "Anastasia will be leaving for Northreach. We cannot let her arrive."

?"Why is that, General?" one of the officers asked.

?"Because if Anastasia sees what Northreach is hiding with her own two eyes, she will turn against the Emperor." Irina locked eyes with both of them. "Intercept her. Don’t kill her. Just sabotage her carriage, block the roads, do whatever it takes to delay her."

?The two officers exchanged nervous glances. "What if the Emperor finds out?"

?"He won’t. Because you’re going to make sure it’s clean."

?The officer who asked swallowed hard, but didn’t protest. They both saluted briskly and left.

?Irina stood entirely alone, staring at the closed door.

?"This isn’t over," she whispered venomously. "Not by a long shot."

?That night, from his vantage point at the inn’s window, Roland watched two Praetorian Guards approaching the entrance. They were unarmed. One of them held a keyring.

?Roland smirked.

?The door swung open.

?"Lord Roland. You are hereby released, by decree of His Imperial Majesty."

?Roland nodded, stepped out of the room, walked down the creaky stairs, and exited the inn. Outside, Rianor and Riven were already waiting.

?Rianor looked at him with a raised brow. Riven simply nodded, acting as if he’d never doubted Roland’s release for a second.

?"The dead man’s switch worked," Roland said softly.

?"I can tell by your face," Rianor replied. "You look like a guy who just hit the jackpot."

?"I did win the bet."

?"You won because the Emperor got spooked," Riven grunted. "Fear can quickly turn into fury if he gets a moment to think."

?"Which is exactly why we move before he gets the chance."

?"Not quite yet." Rianor pushed up his shattered glasses. "Anastasia will be heading out soon. If we aren’t ready, she could get ambushed on the road."

?"I know." Roland shifted his gaze toward the port, in the direction of the NRS Orion, and far across the sea, toward home. "Tomorrow. We finish this."

?Night fully embraced the capital of the Iron Empire. For the first time in ten agonizing days, Roland could finally breathe easy.

?But he knew this was far from over. The hardline faction hadn’t given up yet. And Anastasia was still in the crosshairs.

?He stared up at the gloomy, overcast sky.

?Just one more step.