Chapter 18: The North Wind Approaches

The imperial council chamber in Aldrian was only used for discussions of war and national mourning. A rule established by the founding emperor—every grain in that twenty-four-foot black ironwood table should bear witness to decisions worthy of the history books.

Adarian Victor Lucien Dan sat at the table's north end. He wore no court robes—a dark blue military-style coat, collar fastened with precision. Three reports lay open before him: the legion's northern patrol records, the treasury guild's Norvic tax estimates, and an analysis of Death City's mana fluctuations sent from Etheran that morning.

Six people sat along the table's length. To his left: the Minister of Military Affairs and the Minister of Finance. To his right: the Northern Legion's deputy commander and the Adventurers' Guild's liaison officer in the capital. Emmedia sat at the far right, his dark grey robe's cuffs hanging past his knees, hands folded in his lap, posture correct, expression mild. He was the only attendee not serving in the imperial administrative structure.

"Two weeks have passed since the undead outbreak in Norvic." Adarian opened one of the reports and slid it to the center of the table. "The legion's patrol records show undead activity in Death City's Outer City is increasing. Rottenbone Riders—once only encountered in the Inner City—have now been sighted in the Outer City. In the past two months, at least four adventurer parties have gone missing in that area. No bodies recovered. Norvic's local adventurers attribute it to bad luck. Adventurer casualties aren't worth making a fuss over. But that's not our biggest concern."

The Minister of Military Affairs nodded.

"During this outbreak, a new type of undead appeared. Capable of converting corpses—through contact or other means—into more undead. Extremely fast. Can move freely on vertical surfaces. Witnesses describe a flat torso, reversed joints, no skin on the lower half of its face. It was destroyed in combat, but no usable tissue remained on the corpse."

"That kind of thing shouldn't be inside city walls," the Northern Legion deputy commander said.

"But it was."

A brief silence. The Minister of Finance tapped the table lightly. "Norvic is the largest adventurer hub in the north. Adventurer-related trade accounts for thirty percent of the Northern Region's tax revenue. Tight restrictions could hit the local economy hard."

"Norvic's walls weren't built to keep adventurers out. They were built to keep Death City's undead out. Now the undead have appeared inside the city. We cannot pretend nothing happened."

"Gentlemen, if I may interrupt—"

Emmedia cleared his throat and continued.

"Regarding that undead—I have found some records. Scholars of a previous age called it a 'Peelchant.' Few sightings on record. Extremely rare—"

Adarian tapped the table once with his index finger, turning to Emmedia.

"Headmaster. You have studied Death City for many years. Do you consider the Norvic outbreak an isolated incident, or a precursor to a long-term threat?"

Emmedia raised his chin slightly.

"Your Majesty—the Norvic outbreak, at this point, does appear isolated. But Death City itself is not an isolated phenomenon. It has stood for centuries, and it has never ceased its contamination of the outside world. Academy monitoring data shows that Death City's mana concentration has been rising slowly over the past thirty years. The Norvic outbreak is a natural result of that upward trend. If not this outbreak, there would have been another. From that perspective, tightening controls is a necessary preventive measure. At the same time, I believe we should not overrestrict adventurer activity. Adventurers are a vital buffer force against Death City's threat. My recommendation is targeted control—access restrictions on high-risk zones, open routes for normal trade, and no interference with regular Guild commissions."

Adarian listened. A few seconds of silence. Then he announced his decision: three hundred royal troops would be transferred from the capital to Norvic to strengthen perimeter management. Travel permits would be required for the three main roads leading toward Death City, issued only by the legion or the Guild. High-risk zones within Norvic would be closed to free entry. Regular Guild commissions would continue unaffected, but requests involving Death City's Outer City or deeper zones would require additional reporting.

Orders given. No objections.

---

The carriage yard held four idle wagons, two already harnessed. Late-autumn wind swept dry hay through the gate, rattling the price board against the wall. Vaste stood at the counter, her adventurer badge in hand.

"Norvic direction. No need for a full carriage—even a shared ride will do."

The driver—a bald man in his fifties—was wiping brass fittings on a bridle with a dirty rag. He looked up at Vaste when he heard the destination, then at Glaze behind her.

"Norvic? The roads aren't good right now."

"What do you mean."

"New rules came down two days ago. The northern roads to Norvic need permits now. Royal army checkpoints. Regular adventurers without special clearance aren't allowed into the restricted zone—though the highest ranks might be an exception. Us merchants are completely locked out."

Vaste turned her badge over. The A-rank stamp was clearly visible in the daylight.

The driver glanced at it, then shook his head.

"Sorry—those are the orders from above. We're just hired hands."

Vaste looked at him for a moment, then tucked her badge back at her waist. No argument. No "why." Not even a frown. She stood there for a breath of silence, then turned and walked toward the gate. Glaze followed—the green stripes of her scarf lifting and falling in the wind.

They reached the street outside the yard before Glaze spoke.

"That man said the highest rank might be an exception. How far are you from that?"

Vaste didn't answer. She stood at the roadside, watching the flow of people and carriages, silent for a long time.

"The empire is serious this time," was all she said.

---

That night, back in the inn room. Vaste sat at the table by the window, a map of the empire's northern territories spread before her—twenty copper coins from the Guild.

Norvic sat at the northernmost point. South of it: Oldbridge and Graveltown. Further south: Seville. She tapped Norvic's position with her knuckle, then dragged her finger south along the road, stopping at Seville.

The way back to Norvic was closed for now. It wasn't about "can't get in"—it was that even if she returned, she couldn't take jobs. The army would be handling Death City's clearing operations from now on. Staying in Norvic would cut off her main income. Returning was pointless.

Glaze sat cross-legged on the bed, drying her hair from the ends up—the way Vaste had shown her, much gentler than before. She draped the towel over her neck, walked to the table, and looked at the circled cities on the map.

"We can't go back." She paused. "For now."

"So where are we going?"

Vaste didn't answer immediately. Her gaze moved across the map, her finger slowly shifting between cities in the empire's central region. Not looking for the highest-paying job—looking for which roads were still open. The jobs weren't choosing her anymore. She had to choose direction.

Before, she'd just follow the destination on the commission. Wherever the job said, she went. Now the jobs had stopped, and no one was telling her where to go. She had to decide for herself.

"Staying here won't get any easier," she said.

Glaze tilted her head, walked back to the bed, and sat down, folding the towel and placing it beside the pillow.

"Is this how you always traveled?"

Vaste folded the map and tucked it into her pack's side pocket. "Traveling?"

"Deciding where to go alone. Preparing alone."

"That wasn't traveling. That was work."

Vaste turned to look at her. Glaze sat on the bed, her white hair still damp, a few strands sticking to her cheeks, the scarf folded neatly on her lap.

"Adventurers are just mercenaries in the end," Vaste said.

She pulled the pack's drawstring tight and turned to check the window lock. Outside, Seville's paper lanterns swayed in the night breeze.

Behind her came a soft sound—bare feet on wood. Two steps. From the bed to where she stood. Then they stopped.

Two steps. Now it was two.

"Vaste."

"Yeah."

"The new coat is warm."

Vaste's hand paused on the window lock for a moment. "Sleep."

She turned down the oil lamp and placed her cleaver beside her pillow as always. In the dark, she heard Glaze fold the coat at the head of her bed, place the scarf on top—light, careful movements. The blanket rustled. Then her breathing evened out, slow and steady.

Vaste closed her eyes. Norvic's lockdown, the permits, the northern restrictions—all of it was still in her head. But for now, the sound of breathing in the room pressed them down.