Take It Easy
"Take it easy." "That's how it is. We absolutely can't overuse the Central Forge Reactor. But we can't just stop burning fuel either. I know that. Still, we can't ramp up magic stone production overnight. You know that, right?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Balance it out using the roads. Leave this to Bildo, our Minister of Roads."
Phew, I almost lost my temper there. After putting Daniela to sleep, I caught some shut-eye myself. The moment I woke up, I called a meeting. It was one I'd gathered on the fly—no set agenda, a surprise session. Officially, it was about road usage and preparing for winter-like crises, but the real point was something else. Call it personal anxiety if you want, but what mattered now was the gaze turning southward.
The North's safety? Secured. The North's cold? We'd conquered it enough to survive. That left the next problem.
Normally, the nomads would come up, but not this time.
"Your Grace, regarding the sewage system..."
"Report."
Hexon, our Minister of the Interior, began his presentation. I wondered if I was working these older folks too hard, but there was no choice. If the North's power weakened over issues like this, it'd be a loss.
The sewage report was positive—they were making good progress. Starting from the basics, as always.
"I always say it: water is crucial. Keep the clean water and sewage completely separate. Even if it means rebuilding the sewers from scratch, do it right. Right now, we're using lead or wood pipes draining underground. Can't we do better?"
"Your Grace, we've looked into copper pipes, but it seems to require essential knowledge from mages or alchemists."
"Then scout from the South or train people up—do it gradually."
"That brings up... the budget issue."
"Of course..." Money wasn't infinite. We'd even tried porcelain, but it guzzled funds. Roads were the same, and maintenance would cost a fortune too. Bottom line: we were running low on cash.
"For now, enact basic hygiene laws as regulations. Ban dumping shit or trash outside the roads. Use it as fertilizer or route it to the sewers."
"Understood, Your Grace."
Being the Northern Grand Duke came with endless problems. We'd solved a bunch, but now money and other issues cropped up. Still, sewage wasn't the priority today.
Our Foreign Minister—nomad handler in name only these days—spoke next. Things had changed.
"You've got a new task, Foreign Minister."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
"Go to the Empire."
"...Pardon? Your Grace?"
"Meet the Emperor and secure a pledge of the North's loyalty."
"Hmm, with my insight, I can't quite grasp the meaning..."
"Put simply: go to the Empire and make a strong impression. Got it?"
"Ah, yes, I'll do that."
He'd figure it out. If Dorgon's reports were accurate, the Empire was on the brink of fracture—just like in the novel. More importantly, it was a chance to expand Northern influence. That could open a path forward.
"Prepare at once and depart immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The meeting ended, and the ministers scattered. They had the busiest schedules, so I headed straight to my office. Lunchtime was approaching.
Daniela was still fast asleep in bed. I placed a hand on her forehead. Fever lingered, but it was manageable. Last night, it felt out of control; now, it seemed stabilized.
*Golong-golong*—yeah, her snoring sounded like that. More like a quiet kitten mewling. Probably from the sudden pain.
I watched her for a long while. A strange feeling welled up. Had I ever cared for someone like this? It made me ponder.
Eh, whatever! Enough. I tucked her in properly and returned to the office, shoving aside those two nagging words trying to surface.
===
A dream. A tangled mess of a dream.
Daniela von Bart, daughter of a southern marquis. The girl with the Bart family's blue eyes. Before she could even bask in affection, she was betrothed to be Crown Princess. At the Empire's legal marriageable age, she surely would have become one.
But the Crown Prince didn't choose her. Why? Because Daniela loved him too much? She'd never loved anyone her whole life. Born and told to become Crown Princess—no choice of her own.
Cartina's schemes? Her plots didn't matter. Baron daughters scheming weren't rare.
But why was Daniela hurting so much? Who was she? So, you—the one watching this pain right now. You, Daniela. Daniela von Bart.
You're asking what remains if you discard 'von Bart.' Coming all the way to the North. If you die here, can you at least stay Daniela von Bart?
===
"Hah!"
With a sharp gasp, Daniela bolted upright. Nearly a full day had passed. She'd slept the whole time, barely eating. We couldn't wake her.
I hadn't roused her on purpose. But now, of all times. And with a ragged breath.
"You okay?"
I rushed to her side, poured a glass of bedside water, and carefully trickled it into her mouth. Clutching my forearm, she let it flow down her throat. A few drops spilled to her chin, wetting the blanket—but her cold sweat had already soaked more.
"Alfredo, bring some tea."
"Right away."
I sat by the bed and checked her forehead again. The heat had subsided, but the illness lingered.
"Bad dream?"
"Hah... hah... I don't remember well. But not a good one."
"Funny thing—folks from the South always seem to have nightmares sleeping up North. No idea why."
Alfredo brought the tea. Steam rose gently as I sipped. Daniela touched the cup lightly to her lips.
I finished my tea and returned to the office—work awaited.
"Once you're feeling better, let's tour the grounds."
"Thank you, Your Grace... but I..."
"Hm." Couldn't focus on the papers. That shrinking posture. Worried, maybe.
"What happens to me here..."
"Who knows." No words for that. The Barts seemed intent on discarding her. Dorgon and the Foreign Minister's views of the Empire gave clues, but not now.
Or maybe I just wanted to play the stubborn type.
"Will I... die here?"
Nothing to say there either. In the original story, yes, she should. But I didn't want that. Northern honor aside, how could I harm a guest? ...Though I knew damn well there were other reasons. Beyond politics or schemes. Human feelings? Not quite yet. But unexpectedly so.
"I should be asking you. Did you come here to die?"
"N-no, Your Grace. But..."
"The North was your final stop, right? Coming without escorts. Only a death wish explains that. Isn't it, Daniela von Bart?"
She said nothing. Hit the mark? Nobles or fugitives to the North—all the same. Escorts are essential. Full preparations needed. But arriving with just a letter and patched linen? That's suicide.
"After seeing you, Your Grace, I was to deliver my family's letter and act accordingly..."
"Drop it. Now."
I turned back to my papers. She sipped her tea silently, gauging the mood. Alfredo stood midway between office and bedroom.
"There's a saying up North."
"Pardon?"
"A proverb: 'We forgive those who freeze to death, but those who try to are fools.'"
Alfredo nodded. Freezing to death in the North? Forgivable—the winters are brutal. But seeking it out? Pure idiocy. The proverb carries weight.
"It calls people trying to die themselves fools. It's no sacrifice, no courage."
Northern sacrifice or bravery dwarfs the South's. Never seen Southerners up close, but reports paint the picture. Especially not fathers pushing daughters to die—none in the North.
"Anyway, the letter suggests they won't let you use 'Bart' anymore. No family name left—what to give you?"
"Wintergard suits her, Your Grace."
"You too with the jokes, Alfredo?"
"I don't know the Barts, but she's our guest. Thought you'd like her politeness."
"Why you..."
Even amid my banter with Alfredo, Daniela eyed us warily. Words she wanted to say wouldn't come. Like Lord Reward's son, the stammerer Leor.
"Point is, this is the North. Whatever happened down South doesn't matter. Your Southern titles mean nothing the moment you live here. So,"
take it easy.