[10] INSULTS IN INK

Three days had passed.

“Why are you wearing a tank top in this cold weather?” Rhys asked.

“Why? Are you bothered, you oldy?” Lia barked back.

They were together in the study, reviewing the terrain maps and Cris’s notes on the centipedes.

“I am not! And at the same time, yes! It’s cold, Lia. Pick a season.” Rhys shot back.

“My wound needs air, okay? And I don’t feel cold indoors anyway. Besides, wearing a shirt all the time is suffocating,” Lia said.

“I get you, but it looks like that wound is going to scar. It’s shaped like a vertical ‘L’,” Rhys observed.

“So? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Eliana asked.

“Well, if you want. You know I was well-known in the Russia Branch as the best tattoo artist,” Rhys said, not looking up from his scribbling.

“I heard you charged them a fortune for it, you jerk,” Eliana eyed him.

“Well, you’re family, so I’d give you a discount. No—as a recovery gift, I’ll do it for free this time,” Rhys said.

“Tsk. You better do it better than Don Ed Hardy, then.”

“Anyway, Your Grace,” Rhys chuckled, sliding a document across the table. “Here’s the list of immediate repairs and allocations using the funds you documented.”

“Approximately, we have 500,000 gold coins from selling some family assets. Repairing the fortress walls from east to west will cost us 200,000 gold coins, and I’ve already deducted it. So now we’re left with 300,000.”

“I’ll gut you,” Lia said, but her tone was thoughtful. “Hmm, yeah. The townspeople are basically squatters. The wyvern attack last time made it easier for their roofs to get ruined.” She looked over the papers. “They’re flocking inside the fortress city because it’s safer, but they’re abandoning the outlying lands.” She pointed at the center of the map. “This is the safe zone, right? The walls only cover the area bordering the Void Forest, so the fortress isn’t fully enclosed.”

“I think it’s because of the mountain terrain, and there are rare animals to hunt there, too. Besides, it’s too far from the town square where wandering merchants stop.”

“About the repair project for the east-west walls, I’d like you to hire capable men from the Northern people. It’ll help them financially while we’re still looking for ways to become self-sufficient,” Lia said.

“I already factored that in. The repairs will begin when the supplies arrive. By my estimation, they’ll be here next week from the capital. They’ll use the teleportation at the temple, so we also have to pay 500 gold coins per wagon for that.”

“Seriously? Aren’t churches supposed to be generous? Those damn priests.”

“Well, that’s how sucky this world’s system is,” Rhys replied. “Also, the temple here in the North is run-down, not to mention there are only two wizards and one rookie priest sent by the head temple.”

“I was planning to relocate some of the citizens back to the safe zone. It’s wide and unused. We have a total of 185 houses here in the central area now. Relocating will cost a lot. This is a headache, and we can’t risk selling all our family assets in the capital, either.” Lia massaged her forehead.

“You guys also sold half of your personal assets, right?” Eliana asked.

“Yup. We put half of it into an emergency fund and half for soldier and knight recruitment,” Rhys confirmed.

“Do I have any assets in my name?”

“Hmm, yeah. Uncle gifted you that seaside castle in the East for your coming-of-age ceremony, right?” Rhys said.

“Well, I can’t sell it. It was Uncle’s birthday gift,” Eliana said.

Rhys stopped and stared at her, contemplating. “What about the townhouse in the West region, then? The one Uncle gifted you for your wedding.”

Lia looked at him. “Oh, I have a townhouse?”

“Yeah! Sell it!” Rhys said, smiling.

“Okay, you sell it,” Lia agreed without hesitation. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

“Well, as I recall, it cost roughly 2.5 million gold coins,” Rhys said. I remember mouthing off to Uncle about it. Ugh, the thought of working myself up over that makes me question what kind of nerd I was back then.

“That’s a lot! With that, we can fund the repairs for the small temple in the central area,” Eliana said. “Rhys, you better sell it.”

“I will. I’m already writing the letter for it,” Rhys said.

“That fast? Tsk, why do I get the idea you’ve been planning to get rid of it?” Eliana asked.

Hell, I am! I was worried you’d feel sentimental about it because it’s the townhouse near Wykenight’s castle.

[ADMIN B: DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO HINDER YOUR SISTER’S MARRIAGE?]

Shut up. No good will come from associating with that jerk.

[ADMIN B: TSK, YOU SIBLINGS AND YOUR PAST.]

You guys always act like you know everything, right? I’m pretty sure you know why I’m being like this, so shut your trap if you ain’t helping us financially.

[ADMIN B: FINE! SO ATTITUDINAL.]

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Eliana’s voice rose.

“Oh, yeah. What is it?” Rhys asked.

“Those two wizards—I want them to learn more about magic, but it’s too risky to send them away. They’re always our distance fighters for Level Three threats, so…” Eliana trailed off.

“I’ll try to find a solution for it,” Rhys said, finally folding the letter and placing it on the trademark Javier parchment—yellow with intricate designs, sealed with emerald wax.

‘To Jill Teleston’

Rhys walked toward the trained messenger falcon and slipped the letter into its small leather backpack. The bird wore a collar bearing the crest of House Javier: a stylized sun partially eclipsed by a crescent moon, all within a circle of interlocking silver chains. As the bird took wing, its shadow briefly crossing the pale sun, the fate of a seaside castle and a neglected townhouse began its flight south—and straight into the heart of Wykenight.

»»---------❈---------««

「WYKENIGHT DUKEDOM — Wykenight’s Castle」

It was already late afternoon, and Jill looked drained inside the massive tactical study room of Wykenight’s Castle. Because of the Javiers’ sudden resignation, he hadn’t been able to return to his free life at the Capital manor and was instead managing logistics.

“Jill, are you alright?” Madam Alice asked, carrying a tray of snacks.

“P-please h-help m-me… Your Grace…” Jill slumped over the table, exhausted from staying up all night helping Alistair and Dante with Malcorian probing attacks.

“Oh, you poor child. You gentlemen, halt those papers and take a break for a moment,” Alice chided Alistair and Dante, who were both busy reviewing the neutral zone map.

NEUTRAL ZONE: Located between the western Solarian border (Wykenight’s Dukedom) and the eastern border of the Malcorian Kingdom. The size of a small country, it was once a neutral buffer but had become a war zone after Malcoria broke the treaty in an attempt to claim it—a conflict that had spanned generations and continued to this day.

“This is madness. I wonder how Lord Marcus was able to so easily approach Malcorian defenses. Their prowess in magic is no joke—they have wizards of advanced level,” Dante said.

“It is weird, isn’t it? How were they able to recruit such exceptional wizards? They’re known to be isolated in their towers and usually don’t participate in political conflicts,” Alistair mused.

“Right. Aren’t the wizards seen in wars usually mercenaries? What do they call them again?” Dietre asked.

“They call them ‘impure,’” Alice said. “Wizards who manifest their talents after the age of thirteen are called ‘impure,’ and those who manifest without coming from a wizard clan are called ‘decoy’ by them.”

“See that? They love to discriminate. So how can Malcoria have sway over them?” Dietre pressed.

Alistair looked out the window. “Malcoria… this dark kingdom and its greed know no bounds.”

A knock sounded at the door. One of the letter-receiving knights stood there with an envelope in hand.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have a letter, Lord Jill,” the knight said.

Jill sat up straight. “A letter? From whom?”

“It was sent by a falcon. If I remember correctly, it was wearing a collar with the crest of a sun and moon, and chains—”

“How can you not know that crest, you brat?!” Dante yelled, making the soldier flinch. “It’s from the North itself!”

Jill immediately went to the knight. “The North? Could it be the Javiers…? It must be a response to the letter I sent last week.”

Alistair finally set down the paper he was holding, anticipation tightening his expression as he awaited the response to the letter he’d instructed Jill to send to Eliana.

“Father, why are you so mad at that poor knight?” Dietre asked.

Alice sighed. “Son, there are only two families who use a ‘sun’ in their crest: the imperial family and the Javiers’. The sun and moon with chains is the Javiers’ trademark crest. It’s considered more sacred and mysterious than even the Emperor’s crest of the rising sun and lion.”

“Why is that?” Dietre asked.

“Because nobody knows the meaning of the Javiers’ crest except for the first Emperor and the first Duke. Every noble family’s crest is recorded with its meaning, but the Javiers’ is strangely absent. The siblings have been using the imperial crest since they were raised in the capital. For them to use their own crest now… it’s a declaration of the depth of their seriousness in taking back the North,” Dante explained.

“So, what’s the letter about?” Alistair asked from his seat, his voice calm but expectant.

Jill broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and began to read.

His jaw dropped.

“What’s the matter? Isn’t it a response to the letter I asked you to send last week?” Alistair pressed.

“N-no… ahem. As a matter of fact, it is not from Her Grace. It is from Lord Rhys,” Jill said. He looked acutely uncomfortable and sweaty, as if all his fatigue had been replaced by a cold, dreading alertness.

“Is it too personal?” Alice asked, sensing Jill’s distress.

“Uhm… it is? Your Grace, would you like to read it yourself?” Jill offered weakly.

“Read it aloud. If it was meant for me, then Lord Rhys should have addressed it to me,” Alistair said, his expression stern and unyielding.

“Alright then… here is the content of the letter…”

Jill cleared his throat, his voice trembling slightly as he read:

“Hey, Jill.

Tell the Duke it’s time for him to pay his dowry. We are in a tight spot here in the North, so you’d better send it before I spam you with letters.

Ah, given you’re a lackey of that man, I’d also like you to process and sell the townhouse of Lia’s there—the one gifted by the Emperor for their wedding.

Ps. Don’t give me any shit about it being jointly owned. I remember nagging the Emperor for a month while finalizing the asset under Lia’s name.
Pps. Eliana agreed to it.
Ppps. Tell your boss to stop fucking sending letters to Lia if he wants to keep his jaw intact.

Yours truly,
Rhys Javier.”

A tomb-like silence followed Jill’s recital.

Deitre was the first to break it, a choked sound escaping his lips that was halfway between a gasp and a snort of horrified laughter. He immediately covered his mouth with his napkin, his shoulders shaking.

Alice Wykenight’s hand had flown to her chest, her eyes wide as dinner plates. “He… he did not just…”

Dante Wykenight stared into the middle distance, his face a mask of profound, philosophical disbelief. ‘Pay his dowry.’ ‘Stop fucking sending letters.’ ‘Yours truly.’ The sheer, unvarnished crudeness of it, wrapped in the formality of the eclipse-and-chains seal, was a cognitive dissonance so violent he felt his understanding of nobility quietly shatter.

Alistair had not moved.

He sat perfectly still in his high-backed chair, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrests. The calm, expectant mask was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous: a glacial, building fury. His eyes, usually a cool, assessing golden, had darkened to the color of a fury fire.

“He…” Alistair began, his voice deceptively soft, the only sound in the room besides the crackle of the fire. “He dares…”

Then, the dam broke.

“HE DARES?!” The roar tore from him, explosive and raw. He surged to his feet, his chair screeching violently against the stone floor. “PAY HIS DOWRY?! HE THINKS I OWE HIM A DEBT?!” He snatched the letter from Jill’s paralyzed hand, his eyes scanning the offending script as if to burn it from the parchment. “Sell the townhouse? The Emperor’s wedding gift? As if it were a piece of discarded furniture?!”

He looked up, his gaze sweeping the room, landing on each stunned face. “And this… this postscript.” He held the letter aloft, the paper trembling with his rage. “‘Tell your boss to stop fucking sending letters to Lia if he wants to keep his jaw intact.’” He repeated the words slowly, each one dropping like a shard of ice. “Is that a threat? From the Minister of Finance? To a Duke of the Realm?”

Deitre finally lost his battle with composure, a full, helpless laugh escaping before he could stifle it. “I’m sorry, brother, it’s just… the audacity… it’s so…”

“IT IS NOT FUNNY, DEITRE.” Alistair thundered, rounding on him. “This is a calculated, deliberate insult! They are not just abandoning their posts and crippling the West! They are now robbing me and threatening me in my own home! Using that… that barbaric language!”

Jill, pale as a ghost, finally found his voice. “Y-Your Grace… the dowry… technically, since the marriage was not annulled and Her Grace is reinstated in her title… the Wykenight treasury did set aside a substantial marital allocation for the Duchess’s maintenance and household. It was never sent because… well, she never established a household separate from the capital.”

Another beat of silence.

“So he is technically correct,” Dante murmured, the former Duke’s political mind cutting through the outrage. “It is not a demand for a new payment. It is a demand for the release of funds that are, by law and contract, hers.”

“I DON’T CARE IF HE’S TECHNICALLY CORRECT!” Alistair roared, slamming a fist on the table, making the silverware jump. “The manner! The disrespect! ‘Hey, Jill’? ‘Yours truly’? This is how one addresses a tavern wench, not the right hand of a sovereign Duke!”

He began to pace, a caged predator. “And the crest… Father, you said it was a declaration of seriousness. This,” he waved the crumpled letter, “is a declaration of war. A personal, petty war. They have fully shed their imperial skin. They are no longer the Emperor’s polished nephews. They are… they are…”

“They sound like bandit lords with a grudge and a surprisingly good clerk,” Deitre supplied, earning himself another scorching glare.

Alice spoke up, her voice gentle but firm. “Alistair. Breathe. The question is not the insult. The question is your response. Will you let them provoke you into a reaction that makes you look small? Or will you handle this with the dignity of your station?”

Alistair stopped pacing. He closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath. When he opened them, the storm was still there, but now contained, focused, and lethally cold.

“Dignity,” he repeated, the word a blade. “Very well.” He turned to Jill, his voice dropping to a terrifying calm. “Jill. You will do two things.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“First. You will release the entire marital allocation. Have it ready not as coin, but as actual practical supplies—medicinal herbs, quality steel ingots, hardy seed grain. Things that can help a territory, should they choose to use them wisely.”

“A gesture of support?” Deitre asked, surprised by the apparent pragmatism.

“A gesture of scrutiny,” Alistair corrected, his gaze sharp. “I will not be accused of sending useless trinkets. Let them use the resources. Let us see what they build with them. Jill,” he continued, “your second task. You will personally deliver it.”

Jill stiffened. “Your Grace? To the North? Personally?”

“Yes. You will use the Capital Temple. A direct teleport. I will secure the Emperor’s clearance. You will be there in a day.”

A stunned silence fell. Using the imperial teleport for a personal envoy was an almost unheard-of expense.

“You want me to observe,” Jill stated, understanding dawning.

“I want you to see what madness those four are truly engaged in,” Alistair confirmed. “Are they heroic redeemers or reckless traitors? Is the North a lost cause or a burgeoning threat? Your eyes are my eyes, Jill. Do not fail me.”

“Then let my eyes be yours as well, brother.”

All heads turned to Deitre. He had leaned forward, his earlier amusement replaced by a keen, serious interest. “Jill is your right hand, and his judgment is flawless. But he sees the world through a soldier’s lens—logistics, fortifications, troop morale. Send me with him. Let me see what he cannot. The spirit of the people. The shape of their… odd governance. A second perspective, from a different angle of the house, could prove invaluable.”

Alistair studied his younger brother. Deitre was often dismissed as clever but unserious. Yet his mind was sharp, and he possessed a disarming charm that could open doors Jill’s stern demeanor might shut. Sending the Duke’s own brother was an even greater statement—one of grave concern, not just pique.

“Very well,” Alistair said after a moment. “You will go. But you are an observer, Deitre, not a player. You do not engage, you do not negotiate, you do not provoke. You watch, you listen, and you report. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Deitre said, a faint, intrigued smile touching his lips. The frozen hell of the North had just become the most interesting place in the empire.

“Then it is settled,” Alistair said. “You do not leave at dawn. You leave in three days.”

The slight correction held weight. This was not a rushed, angry reaction. It was a deliberate deployment.

“The imperial teleport requires scheduling and a hefty donation to the temple coffers. The supplies must be gathered from our own reserves—useful supplies, as I said. Medicinal herbs from our greenhouses, steel from our forges, grain from our stores. We will not appear desperate or hurried. We will appear prepared, deliberate, and in control. You will arrive not as frantic messengers, but as official envoys of a sovereign Duke.”

He looked at both men, his gaze imposing finality.

“In three days, you will depart. In three days, you will arrive at the Northern Fortress. You will deliver the goods, deliver my message, and bring me back the truth.”

Unbeknownst to Alistair, his calculated timeline had just forged a cosmic coincidence. In exactly three days, over a thousand miles to the north, four siblings and a giant silver wolf would shoulder their packs, check their strange weapons one last time, and step beyond the fortress wall into the mist-shrouded, rotting teeth of the Void Forest.

The messengers would arrive at the exact moment their quarry vanished into the legend they were sent to investigate.

–TO BE CONTINUED…–