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Chapter 869: The Eastern Front Offensive

“Is that Valencia?”

Iron Axe adjusted his telescope and studied the city resolving in the distance—a mass of grey and brown against a pale sky, indistinct at this range but unmistakable in its size.

“Has to be, according to the map.” Bearpaw leaned on the rail beside him. Like Iron Axe, he was a former hunter from Border Town, one of the original batch of Roland’s militia soldiers—a man who had known Iron Axe since before either of them had worn a uniform. “There’s only one Sanwan River in the region. Hard to mistake it.”

“It looks strange,” Iron Axe said.

“How so?”

Iron Axe kept the telescope to his eye. “Valencia is one of the three great cities of the Central Region—the old king’s city, Eagle City, and this one. A major trading center. I knew its name even in the Southernmost Region.” He lowered the glass. “And yet in three days on this river, I have barely seen a merchant vessel.”

Bearpaw shrugged. “The pirate attacks a couple years back probably scared them off. Maybe they haven’t fully recovered.”

“That was two years ago. Merchants recover.”

The city walls, even at this distance, told a complicated story. The original brown stone had been thickened—but not uniformly, not systematically. Someone had plastered the existing wall with red mud mixed with gravel and wood, doubling the width in sections while leaving other sections untouched. The result looked like a scar—rough, swollen in patches, nothing like the clean construction of a city known for its wealth. The surface caught the light oddly. Something glittered on it, too small to identify from here.

It was not the appearance of a city going about its normal business. It was the appearance of a city that had been frightened and had done everything it could think of with the materials available.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bearpaw said cheerfully. He produced a fire lantern fruit from somewhere on his person and bit into it. “We’re here to take it. His Majesty’s orders cover all of the Eastern Region, which means every city we find, regardless of what it calls itself.”

Iron Axe shook his head. Bearpaw had always been this way—a straight line from target to strike, no detours, no deliberation. In the old days in Border Town’s forests, the other hunters would still be laying traps and working their hounds when Bearpaw came back with his catch. Even the black bears, which no sensible hunter pursued directly, had reportedly found him to be a problem they preferred to avoid. It was how he’d gotten the name.

It was also, Iron Axe reflected, why Bearpaw was a lieutenant and Van’er was commander-in-chief of the Artillery Battalion.

“What matters isn’t the battle,” Bearpaw continued, still eating, “but what comes after. If we make a mess of the Eastern Region, City Hall will find fault with us. But if we go too easy on them, the officials we send here won’t be able to maintain control.” He paused, then added with the slightly self-conscious tone of a man revealing that he has been thinking more than usual: “Did His Majesty tell you how to handle these cities?”

Iron Axe registered the question with mild surprise. “He entrusted me to make decisions based on circumstances.”

“That’s a headache for you, then.” Bearpaw grinned. “But you’re the boss. I follow your lead.”

“What do you mean—a headache?”

“You really don’t know?” Bearpaw leaned his palm against his brow with theatrical exasperation. “You’re going to have a headache when you start dealing with the nobles. They’ve held these lands for years, waiting, watching Roland get stronger and stronger, with nowhere to push back. The situation here is complicated. When you take a city, most nobles will surrender—but without Lady Nightingale, how do you know which ones mean it?”

Iron Axe nodded once, listening.

“And this Eastern Front doesn’t have unlimited soldiers. We can only leave a limited garrison in each city, barely enough to hold the inner walls—but this was Timothy’s territory. The nobles who are still waiting for their chance? If they’re willing to cooperate, fine. But if they’re nursing a grudge and biding their time—even a handful of them—you’ll get no peace after we leave. They have options we don’t: poison, assassination, bribery. They can hollow out any City Hall we build here from the inside, make it a puppet or kill the officials we send. Flintlocks don’t solve those problems.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Boss, that’s your business.” Bearpaw rolled his eyes and spat his seeds in a neat arc into the river. “But—hypothetically, if I were commanding—”

“Assume you are. Talk it through.”

Bearpaw spent a while with the problem. Then he exhaled. “There’s no perfect answer. Without Lady Nightingale, you have to rely on time and incremental pressure. Build police teams like the ones in Neverwinter. Use as few local nobles as possible in any administrative role until the war is fully over. Hire more Rats for intelligence. And then—wait.”

“Sure enough,” Iron Axe said quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He lowered the telescope and stowed it. “Go tell the other boats to prepare for landing. We’re approaching the suburb wharf.”

“Finally!” Bearpaw’s face lit in the specific way that meant combat was near. “I’ve been floating on this river for too long. Time to use my feet again.” He was already moving.

Iron Axe watched him go, then leaned over the command room porthole and let himself be still for a moment with his thoughts.

What Bearpaw had laid out was not unfamiliar. Edith had said nearly the same things—more precisely, more coldly—in a private room at Evelyn’s tavern in Neverwinter, before the fleet had departed. She had arranged the meeting herself, and had been alone when he arrived, which had surprised him. He had expected congratulations, or the standard overtures of an official who wanted to cultivate a military relationship. Instead, Edith had opened the conversation with a question he had not anticipated.

Do you know why His Majesty chose you to command the Eastern Front Army?

Iron Axe had said: I obey orders and do not ask for reasons.

Edith had said: Orders do not include all details, especially those which cannot be made explicit.

She had sipped her Chaos Drink and continued with the calm precision of someone who has prepared what she wants to say. You assumed you were chosen because you were most suitable. But think carefully: any well-trained regular battalion commander could suppress the Eastern Region’s defenses. The military challenge here is minor—dry weeds and rotten wood. The real fight is the one Bearpaw just described to you. If you were simply a good combat commander, His Majesty would have kept you at the Western Front, where the opposition is the Holy City of Hermes. He sent you here instead. That means there is something specific about you.

Iron Axe had known, even then, that she was right.

Your attitude toward the Graycastle nobility, Edith had said. As a Mojin man, you have no inherited deference toward them. No instinct to soften your approach because of their titles. And managing the nobility of Timothy’s former territory is the key to actually securing the Eastern Region.

What she had described next was detailed, systematic, and had left him no room for ambiguity. She had analyzed the problem the way an engineer analyzes a failing structure—identifying the load-bearing elements, predicting where it would collapse, and prescribing the solution without sentiment.

His Majesty needs the Eastern Region’s people and materials. He cannot afford to spend months managing a slow bleed of assassination and corruption after each city is taken.

She had added, near the end: His Majesty is merciful and cannot give explicit orders for what the situation actually requires. So he needs us to act for him. He did, in fact, hint at it. City Hall is sending 265 trained officials with you to the Eastern Region—more than twice the number of Eastern Front soldiers. You should understand why.

The lightning-flash of comprehension when she had said that. He still remembered the exact sensation.

Don’t disappoint His Majesty, she had said, and then excused herself.

“My lord!” A voice from outside the command room. “The First Army is ready. We can approach the dock at your order.”

Iron Axe straightened. He breathed in once, deliberate and slow.

“Land and make camp,” he said. “Prepare for battle.”

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