The First Prince's Measure
The northern night ran deeper than most.
Each time the tent canvas shuddered in the wind, a creak cut through the chill air. Irregular drifts of snow whipped past on the gale and slipped faintly through the gaps in the fabric.
Inside the flickering lamplight of the tent, Sedrian gazed toward a seam that looked out on the camp beyond. A thin draft stirred his golden fringe.
"These soldiers must need a great many things," he said quietly. "Simply enduring this merciless cold is a matter of survival for them."
Then he turned his eyes to Svein, who stood before him.
"More to the point—what did you make of him, having met him?"
Word that the two men had sparred had already swept through the entire encampment. At Sedrian's question, Svein straightened.
He recalled Arteon as he had seen him that afternoon. The shock and the thrill of crossing blades with the man had yet to fully fade.
"He is unpolished," Svein said in a calm voice, "but a man of tremendous potential."
His gaze fixed on a single point in the air.
"If he has already reached that level of mastery before his body is even fully formed… I cannot begin to predict how much stronger he may become in time."
Sedrian's eyes flickered slightly at the words.
When it came to matters of the martial path, Svein never offered empty praise. That an appraisal of this magnitude should leave his lips was something else entirely.
"You mean he could grow stronger than you?" Sedrian asked.
Svein had already stepped into the threshold of the 7-Star realm and was counted among the five finest in the Empire. The knight order composed of disciples he himself had trained was already regarded as one of the most formidable forces the Empire possessed. An evaluation from a man like Svein was, in truth, more reliable than that of almost any other warrior alive.
Yet Svein's answer did not come at once. He hesitated, as though turning something over in his mind, then quietly exhaled.
"…The realm I occupy is one I myself entered only by a chance opportunity."
The voice was even, but it carried the weight of a man cautioning himself. The height Svein now stood upon was a place no one could reach without some such catalyst.
"For that reason, I cannot swear that he will necessarily enter this realm."
"…I see."
Sedrian's reply drifted low.
"However." Svein continued. "If that unfinished body is completed, and if the spearmanship he now employs comes into perfect harmony with that body until the two are one…"
He drew a breath and went on.
"Should he earn the right and ascend to this realm… I would venture that he might advance to the next stage faster than anyone else."
"…"
Sedrian knew Svein well enough to understand. This was the highest praise the man was capable of giving.
And more than that—
"I don't believe I've ever heard you speak with such care," Sedrian said, rising from his seat.
The moment he stepped outside the tent, a hard wind slammed into him. Snow slanted through the pitch-black dark. Svein took a fur cloak from the wall and settled it over Sedrian's shoulders.
"The air is bitter, Your Highness."
Despite Svein's words, Sedrian lifted his face to a black sky empty of stars. A sky not unlike the Empire itself, as it stood now.
"As you well know," Sedrian said, "the Empire is in a deeply precarious state."
A struggle between two brothers that, mishandled, could tear this vast empire apart. That was why every last resource had been poured into the northern advance. If they could push northward and hold what they took, no greater achievement existed. And for that, warriors of exceptional skill were indispensable.
But—
"A man of twisted ambition, no matter how great his power, will inevitably become a problem."
The wind struck hard enough to rattle the tent ropes.
"Svein Caroxon."
Sedrian's voice rolled low. At that single utterance, Svein's back went ramrod straight.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Sedrian's gaze turned sharp. His voice was no longer gentle.
"Belacrod will already have approached him. There is no chance he has not."
The corner of his mouth hardened by a fraction.
"If by any chance… there should be signs of such a thing—"
Before the sentence was finished, Svein's expression locked. His eyes went cold, and the killing intent of the battlefield settled over him.
"Have no concern."
His words were absolute, his voice low enough to cut the wind.
"I will take his head. Without fail."
A sudden gust whipped their cloaks hard against them. Sedrian narrowed his eyes and looked up toward the northern sky. His golden hair streamed through the blizzard, gleaming like a single thread of flame.
Soldiers were already drawn up in ranks before the tent. Under a tension sharp as frost, Arteon felt their eyes on him as he walked toward the tent that served as Velkain's command post.
Claw, waiting outside, received him.
"You've arrived."
"Is the person inside…?"
"…Yes."
When Claw nodded, Arteon looked toward the tent entrance. He had expected this, so his hands did not shake—
…But perhaps.
He worried that a single misstep might drag him into the tangled central politics of a restless empire.
And yet—
No. This is for the best. I needed to confirm it for myself.
He simply had not expected that confirmation to come today.
Arteon nodded.
"Lieutenant Arteon has arrived," Claw announced toward the interior.
Velkain's voice answered at once.
"Enter."
Short and solid. Arteon drew aside the flap and stepped inside.
Those standing within: Commander Velkain and officers of battalion rank and above, silent in their places. And at the center sat a young man with golden hair. His eyes were calm, yet a single glance from them held the entire tent in thrall.
…The First Prince. Sedrian Aurelian.
Arteon had glimpsed him once before, in passing, at the imperial palace during the last awards ceremony—but this was the first time they had truly faced each other.
Arteon clenched his right fist, set it to his chest, and saluted.
"A heart of steel! Lieutenant Arteon greets His Highness Sedrian Aurelian, the First Prince."
It was a proper military salute—yet Svein's face hardened.
"Kneel," Svein said to Arteon, "and offer your greeting again."
An oppressive force rolled out that no one present could defy. Pressure like a weight on the shoulders—but Arteon answered evenly.
"On the battlefield, a soldier's salute is this. I cannot kneel."
"What did you say?"
Svein's eyes flashed cold. In an instant the tent froze solid, and even Velkain and the other officers shifted uneasily. Still Arteon held his spine straight and looked at Sedrian.
This, too, was a means of taking the prince's measure.
…His reaction will tell me what kind of man he is.
There was risk in it, but Arteon's words were not wrong. He swallowed dryly and waited for Sedrian's judgment.
Then—
"Sir Svein. That is enough."
At Sedrian's words, every gaze turned to the center. Sedrian tilted his head slightly and smiled, gentle.
"As he says, this is a field of war. There is no breach of military etiquette here—and so there is nothing to rebuke."
"But, Your Highness…"
"Sir Svein."
Sedrian turned his head and looked at him. The gaze was not coercive, yet it carried authority enough that Svein closed his mouth.
"…Forgive me."
Sedrian's eyes returned to Arteon.
"So you are Arteon."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Arteon straightened as he answered. Sedrian went on.
"I have already heard of your deeds in the Belikezel campaign. Your name has spread across the entire northern front."
"You honor me too highly. I was able to accomplish what I did only because of an exceptional commander and the comrades who stood with me. There is nothing I could have done by my strength alone."
"Modest. But I like a man of that sort—one who does not grow arrogant, yet does not deny what he has done."
He raised a hand and slowly pushed aside the papers near him.
"I know the eyes of men who have fought on the field. Yours hold not fear, but responsibility."
For a moment Arteon found no words. It was not simple flattery. The man seemed to read a person through the eyes alone.
"You honor me, Your Highness. But what I did was only what my position required of me."
Sedrian inclined his head slightly.
"I was told you have not yet turned twenty… Is that true?"
"…I am ashamed to say so."
"There is nothing to be ashamed of. I am merely astonished that you have reached such a height at that age. Do you have a master?"
"Every battlefield I endure becomes a master to me."
"…The battlefield."
Sedrian smiled. But his gaze drifted somewhere far away. Then he rose from his seat.
"Your achievements will be recorded in the history of the Empire without fail. And for the victory in this war, a great commendation will be bestowed upon you."
Sedrian stepped closer to Arteon. Svein tensed and started to move, but Sedrian paid him no mind and closed the distance. He lightly took hold of the cloak fastened at Arteon's shoulder.
"I wish the Empire had more men like you."
"It is an honor."
"I shall look forward to great service from you in the Empire's name."
"Yes. I understand."
At Arteon's answer, Sedrian looked to Velkain.
"Prepare the awards ceremony before long. In the meantime, distribute the supplies I brought among the soldiers."
In the same breath their eyes met—only for a fraction of a second, yet as though something passed unspoken between them. Velkain bowed his head.
"We are grateful for Your Highness's consideration."
"You have all endured much. But there is still a great deal to be done here. Do not let your guard down."
"Yes, understood!"
Every man in the tent answered in a strong voice. Then Sedrian stepped out, and Svein and the soldiers who had come with him followed.
Watching that departing back—
"…"
Arteon felt a strange, heavy thud in his chest. As though he had looked upon a commander from his former life—one who had thrown his own life away for his men, who had truly wanted victory for the North.
…Perhaps.
Something flashed through his mind, but Arteon shook his head at once. It had been only a single meeting. No one could take a man's full measure from that alone.
Still, it was true that their first encounter had been far from a poor one.
"Hah."
Outside the tent, Arteon let out a quiet breath. For now he would watch, and watch again. On this merciless battlefield, no one could predict what variable might next appear.
But then—
"Arteon."
At the voice behind him, Arteon turned his head.