First Round: Journey to Verdan
"Th-the first...?"
The first round the director announced was simple enough.
In plain terms: take the girl who kept trying to run away, haul her back to her own country, and stick to her side for several days.
The trouble started before we even left.
The moment she heard we would share a single compartment, Esran had already gone deathly pale.
"…It's fine. I won't hurt you."
I'd meant it as reassurance. What came out, riding the edge of my passive, sounded exactly like the sort of thing you say to a beast being led to the slaughterhouse.
Esran pressed herself into the farthest corner of the carriage and began to tremble in tiny, continuous shivers.
The carriage rolled forward.
Outside the window the other pairs' processions split away—one toward a golden empire, another toward a wealthy port beyond the sea.
Ours headed for a scrap of borderland so remote you had to dig through the map just to find it.
Beneath the crystal ball the chat scrolled past.
Across from me Esran never once met my eyes the entire way. She only clenched her knees tighter, shrinking smaller and smaller.
…This is bad. Forget winning her heart—she's going to pass out before we even arrive.
The carriage was so quiet you could hear every breath. Every time the wheels hit a stone it jolted, and every time Esran pressed herself another handspan closer to the wall. There was nowhere left to go.
I made myself as small as a man my size could manage in a narrow box. Not that it helped much.
"…It's a long road. If you're uncomfortable, say so."
I'd only been trying to fill the silence. The instant the words left my mouth Esran's head dropped.
"I-I… I will keep that in mind."
Keep what in mind? She probably didn't know herself. The mere fact that sound had come out of me was enough to drain the color from her face.
Silence again—longer this time.
Outside the window dry fields, bare trees, the occasional crow drifted past. I pretended to watch the scenery while studying her from the corner of my eye. Her fingertips had gone white from gripping her skirt. She was holding her breath as if even that might give her away.
This wasn't working.
Win her heart? At this rate the girl would collapse long before any heart entered the picture.
"…Just a moment. I'm going to get some air."
The second I stood she flinched again—simply because I had risen.
…No. I'm stepping out so you can breathe, damn it.
I didn't say it. I just opened the door. Cold wind slapped my face.
Behind me I thought I heard the tiniest exhale of relief.
Fine. I'd sit with the coachman.
The driver's seat was better than the box. Open sky, cold wind. At least up here no one was shaking in terror of me.
I pulled my hood low and sat. The coachman shot me a sidelong glance. A big man climbing up with his face hidden—fair enough to be wary.
But this coachman was less frightened than he was talkative.
"…Sir, why'd you come out here instead of staying inside?"
"The person inside was a little uncomfortable."
"Ah. Well, that figures."
He gave a short laugh and looked ahead again.
For a while there was only the sound of wheels and hooves. Then the man proved he couldn't stand silence for long.
"This road in winter, sir—it's pure hell. Ground freezes solid. One wheel drops in a rut and half a day just vanishes."
"…Is that so."
"I'm telling you. Last year the axle snapped right here and our old horse had to—"
He launched into an unsolicited saga about his horse, his son, his wife's nagging. I had nothing particular to say, so I nodded now and then. Strangely, I didn't mind it.
"You're a quiet one, sir. That's fine too. A man needs someone listening if the talking's going to be any fun. Heh."
Then he lowered his voice a fraction.
"But sir. This Marriage Festival—I heard the Grand Duke of the North is in it. You catch that?"
"…I did."
"Aigoo, just hearing about that man makes my spine crawl. They call him Blood Winter, you know. Blood Winter. Tossed people into an ice river and sat there drinking tea until the screaming stopped."
He gave an exaggerated shudder.
"Folk like us wet ourselves at the sight of his shadow. Can't even meet his eyes. Not even his eyes."
I said nothing for a moment.
That man was currently sitting right beside him, listening to stories about an old horse.
"But you, sir."
The coachman chuckled again.
"You don't seem scared at all. Can't see your face under the hood, but talking to you's easy. You seem like a decent sort."
I figured I could just listen to his chatter all the way there.
That was when it happened.
The carriage hit a deep rut hard and bounced. Wind snatched my hood clean off.
Silver hair spilled free. Ash-gray eyes met the light.
The coachman glanced over without thinking—and froze solid.
"…G-Grand… Grand Duke of the N-Nor—"
"…Ah. Sorry. Don't mind it. Keep going."
Too late. The mouth that had been boasting about an old horse now belonged to someone else entirely.
"I-I'm sorry! This lowly one with my wretched tongue dared—! I've committed a capital offense, Your Grace!"
The hands on the reins went white. The carriage lurched.
"…It's fine. Calm down."
Even the words meant to soothe came out edged with that same passive steel. The coachman looked ready to cry.
…No. You were chattering just fine a second ago.
I hadn't changed. Hood on or hood off—the only difference was that he had seen my face.
That single face had killed the easy air between us completely.
After that the coachman never opened his mouth again until we arrived. Anything I said only earned a trembling "Yes! Yes!" so I shut up too.
I'd almost enjoyed talking to someone for once. And just like that, I was alone again.
In that awkward silence the carriage crested the final hill.
And Esran's country spread out before us.
…Huh?
For a moment I lost my words.
What lay beyond the hill was less a nation than the remains of one.
The walls stood half-collapsed and left that way. A single faded flag fluttered weakly above them.
The village below was worse. The square that must once have held a market was lined with nothing but shuttered shops—broken shutters, dust-caked stalls.
The few people we saw were uniformly gaunt. When they spotted our carriage they didn't come out to gawk; they hid behind doors.
A live-broadcast carriage rolling in wasn't entertainment to them. It was the dread of what fresh trouble is this.
…How does a country end up like this.
Even to eyes that had eaten company rice for nine years, this wasn't merely failed. It had the particular stalled air of a place where money no longer moved.
The carriage slowed as we entered the village. From the driver's seat I glanced back inside.
Esran was pressed to the window, staring at her own country.
Earlier she had trembled because of me. Now the quality was different. What sat on her face was not fear—it was shame.
A border scrap you could barely find on a map. A princess clearly sent as filler. And that princess was now laying bare the bottom of her homeland for the entire empire to watch.
"…It's a shabby place."
For the first time Esran spoke first, voice barely above a whisper.
"Not a place fit for Your Grace. Just… endure a few days."
She called enduring her own country "enduring."
The words lingered strangely.
Beneath the crystal ball the chat scrolled on schedule.
Half mockery, half pity.
I was almost glad Esran couldn't see the chat.
At the roadside just before the castle gate an old woman sat with a single stall. Every other shop was closed; hers alone stubbornly held its ground.
On the stall, hand-woven cloths were neatly folded.
"…What's that stall?"
The coachman flinched, then answered in a stammer.
"Y-yes! Yes, Your Grace. Th-that's this country's textile… they say it was once a point of pride. Woven for generations so people wouldn't freeze to death in this cold borderland."
"…Then why is everything closed?"
"W-who even knows goods from a place like this? Even if it's good… without a name, it's as good as nothing."
Without a name, as good as nothing.
…I'd heard that line somewhere before.
I stepped down from the carriage into a cutting wind. After sitting exposed on the driver's seat for so long, my body was already chilled.
The old woman hesitated, then carefully held out a length of cloth. Her hands were shaking. No doubt she was terrified of daring to offer anything to such a fearsome guest.
"Y-Your noble self… though it's shabby. You look cold."
You look cold.
The words felt oddly familiar.
Without much thought I took the cloth and draped it over my shoulders.
It was warm. The cloth a borderland grandmother had spent a lifetime weaving was, truly, devastatingly warm.
"…Nice. This."
I'd only put it on against the cold, but as I ran my fingers over the weave my hand stopped.
This texture. This weave.
I'd seen it in the original work.
How this unremarkable border fabric would later be processed. The moment its uses were discovered, what it would be worth.
Right now it was cheap cloth that only kept out the cold. In the original, much later, it would fall into the Crown Prince's hands and sweep the entire empire.
…But there's no reason it has to end up in the Crown Prince's hands, is there?
My mind spun fast. If the thing was going to rise anyway, seizing it first was pure profit. Snatching what would have gone to the Crown Prince—and at practically free prices.
I turned to the old woman.
"This. Can you supply it to the North?"
The space in front of the stall went still.
The old woman's hands froze. Inside the carriage Esran's eyes, watching, went round for the first time.
"…Pardon?"
"The North will buy it. Steadily. The entire stock."
She stared at me blankly, as if the words hadn't registered.
I ran my hand over the cloth once more and named the price.
"Five gold coins per bolt. Everything that comes out—the North takes it all."
To me it was simply fair value. Knowing what it would become later, I'd actually bid low.
But.
The old woman dropped the cloth she was holding.
"F-five gold… coins? Per bolt?"
Cloth that had never sold for more than a few copper pieces in her entire life.
Inside the carriage the blood rushed back into Esran's face so fast the earlier pallor vanished.
…Huh? Why are they reacting like that.
I'd named a fair price. In their eyes, though, the terrifying Blood Winter himself had walked up and offered a fortune for cloth no one else would touch.
Beneath the crystal ball the chat exploded.
…No. I just did it because it's a profitable deal.
The old woman gathered the fallen cloth back into her arms with trembling hands. Moisture welled in her wrinkled eyes.
And inside the carriage Esran was looking at me.
For the first time in her life—without trembling.