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Chapter 400: Alliance Agreement

The Hall of Sky Dome was cleared of rubble but still years from restoration. Under normal circumstances, messengers from a foreign kingdom would have been received there, in the full weight of ceremonial space.

Another gift from Roland, Timothy thought, and felt his resentment flare with the reliability of a loaded spring.

“Bring them to my study.” He straightened his expression. Whatever the Kingdom of Dawn wanted, he would receive them in the palace—not in the basement. Receiving foreign emissaries in a root cellar was the kind of indignity that traveled in diplomatic dispatches.

He had no idea why Dawn would send messengers without prior notice, and at this time of year, during the worst of the Months of Demons when travel was genuinely dangerous. If the delegation had been from Wolfheart or Everwinter, the answer would have been straightforward—requests for food, cloth, whatever they needed to survive the winter. There was a saying among the nobility: those who came in summer were friends; those who came in winter were enemies. It held among the northern kingdoms. The Kingdom of Dawn was different. Small in territory but rich in agricultural surplus, it sold food and cloth to Graycastle every year and bought perfume and luxury crystals in return. Dawn did not need to beg.

Which meant whatever this was, it was something else.

I have too many problems already, he thought. I’ll hear them out and send them home quickly.

He entered his study to find two young emissaries on their feet, the Minister for Diplomacy standing nearby. They bowed as Timothy came through the door.

“To the honored King of Graycastle, Wimbledon IV, the King of Dawn sends his greetings.”

“Return them.” Timothy nodded and gestured toward the chairs. “Sit.”

He studied the pair while they settled. Young—notably young for diplomatic work—and remarkably similar in the line of the jaw and brow. Siblings, possibly. The family insignia on their chests was an antler scepter: the Luoxi family, one of Dawn’s most prominent houses. Timothy had met the elder Duke Luoxi once, years ago.

What is Mia IV thinking, sending children?

Young nobles in diplomatic roles were typically prickly and status-conscious, unwilling to make the small concessions that negotiations required. Older nobles were worse in their way—calculating to the point of paralysis—but at least they understood the shape of a deal.

“Are you both Luoxi?” He pointed to the insignia. “I met Duke Luoxi briefly, some years ago.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The young man smiled without stiffening. “I’m Otto Luoxi. This is my sister, Belinda.”

Siblings, then. Timothy recalibrated slightly. If they’d been sent together rather than separately, Mia IV intended something that required two voices—either corroboration, or the ability to speak separately to different parties. “Since we’re all candid people, let’s not waste time. It’s the height of the Months of Demons. The Kingdom of Dawn isn’t short of food or warm cloth. You’re not here for aid—so what does your king want?”

“To address a threat more dangerous than anything the Months of Demons produces,” Otto said. The lightness was gone from his voice.

“Which threat?”

“The Church, Your Highness.” Belinda spoke for the first time. “The Church’s army has already taken the Kingdom of Everwinter and the Kingdom of Wolfheart. Refugees from those territories are still streaming into Dawn, and what they’ve carried with them is consistent: the Church doesn’t observe the rules of engagement. Those who resist are hanged or forced into exile. Only nobles who surrender outright and pledge allegiance are permitted to survive.”

“A method designed to eliminate the nobility as a class,” Otto said. His tone had the gravity of someone reporting a disease rather than a policy. “King Mia believes Wolfheart won’t be their last conquest. Given how quickly they’ve moved, Dawn and Graycastle are both within reach before another year passes. Our king proposes a mutual defense agreement.”

Timothy’s frown had deepened without his fully deciding to let it. Wolfheart was gone—he had suspected something was wrong from the long silence, but hearing it stated plainly was different. “You’re certain Wolfheart City has fallen?”

“Completely certain, Your Highness.” Both messengers answered at once.

He had caught rumors of the Church’s military ambitions, but the speed of it was startling. Two large kingdoms in what sounded like a single campaign season. That level of coordinated military capacity implied resources the Church had kept well-hidden.

He would verify it through his intelligence network—the early Months of Demons snowfall had cut his northern channels significantly—but the messengers showed no hesitation when he pressed the point, which was either confidence or excellent preparation.

“What does the agreement look like specifically?”

Otto produced a map from beneath his arm and spread it across Timothy’s desk. “If the Church moves against Dawn, Graycastle commits a force north toward the Holy City. If the Church moves against Graycastle, Dawn does the same. From Coldwind Ridge in your territory, or Northshire in ours, a marching army can reach Hermes in roughly a week. The threat of a pincer on their home seat should be enough to force the Church to abandon any major offensive—and if it isn’t, we attack together.”

“An offensive-defensive pact.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Strategically sound. The logic was sound. Hermes was the Church’s nerve center—threaten it and everything else in their campaign had to pause. If both kingdoms could credibly commit to flanking movements, the Church’s window for aggression against either one effectively closed.

But.

The pills. Timothy needed the pills of madness that only the Church supplied. Without them, he had no reliable way to crack the witches protecting Roland, and without cracking that protection, the Western Region was beyond his reach indefinitely. Sign this agreement and the Church became an enemy; the Church becoming an enemy meant no more pills.

The sequence mattered. He needed to secure his own kingdom before assuming new obligations to a foreign ally.

“This touches on matters of deep importance,” Timothy said. “I’ll need to consult with my ministers before committing. You’re both welcome to remain in the palace while I deliberate.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“One more question—what do you actually know about the conditions in Everwinter and Wolfheart? Or is this purely from refugee accounts?”

“A handful of spy reports, but not many.” Otto’s expression acknowledged the limitation. “The Church sealed the roads when they besieged both capitals. Our intelligence penetration there is thin. What we know from refugees is that the Church deployed some kind of siege weapon capable of bringing down city walls in a single day. Wolfheart City’s walls were breached before the garrison could organize a proper defense.”

A snow powder weapon. Garcia’s southern campaign—the intelligence that had leaked from Longsong—the sequence assembled itself without much effort. The Church had acquired the technique somewhere.

“I’m not interested in siege weapons,” Timothy said, moving past it. “What do you know about Garcia Wimbledon? Or the Blacksail Fleet?”

The two messengers exchanged a glance, and something passed between them—a calculation, or a decision about how much to say.

“When Garcia fled King’s City with the King of Wolfheart,” Belinda said carefully, “she was struck by the Church’s archers during the retreat. The reports suggest she didn’t survive.”

“And her body?”

“Not recovered. But given the Church’s public announcements after the siege, and the complete absence of any news from Wolfheart since—it seems unlikely she escaped.”

“I see.” Timothy let himself breathe for a moment.

There was regret in it, somewhere—Garcia had been a capable adversary, whatever else she was. But there was also the clean simplicity of one threat permanently removed. In a winter full of complications, that was not nothing.

“All right,” he said. “Rest. I’ll have a decision for you within a few days.”

When the door closed behind them, he was quiet for a moment in the study’s pale torchlight.

Hear that, Roland Wimbledon? The thought was conversational, almost gentle. Garcia is gone. And in the end—no matter how long it takes—that’s what happens to insurgents.

He almost smiled.

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