That night, dinner was served.


    It consisted of hard bread and a watery soup.


    Some soldiers from noble families immediately complained about the lack of proper meals. "Is this what we''re expected to eat?" one shouted.


    But no one paid them any mind.


    Lucian quietly ate his meal. He had lived off worse.


    After dinner, the soldiers returned to their tents, exhausted from the journey.


    Meanwhile, inside the Duke’s office, Count Oliver—his aide—entered.


    "What do you think of him, Duke?"


    Laniel Delmar stood by the window, gazing out at the snow-covered land. His mind was unreadable.


    After a long pause, he finally spoke.


    "He is young."


    His voice carried no sympathy. No interest. Just a statement of fact.


    "Too young."


    The Duke’s cold eyes narrowed slightly.


    "I don’t think he will survive."


    Oliver hesitated. "Then why did the King send him here?"


    There was no answer.


    Then, quietly, Oliver added, “From what I’ve heard, the King does not care for him. Even if he dies here, it will not concern him.”


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    The Duke clenched his jaw.


    "I know that." His voice was firm. "But I am more concerned about the Queen."


    Oliver frowned. “The Queen?”


    The Duke pulled open his desk drawer.


    Inside was a sealed letter. The elegant handwriting belonged to Queen Elsa.


    He had read it before. And yet, he found himself reading it again.


    "Please look after him. If nothing else, at least let him live."


    Laniel Delmar never involved himself in palace affairs. He had no interest in the games of nobility.


    But something about this situation felt different.


    What was truly happening in the capital?


    As the wind howled outside, the Duke’s gaze lingered on Lucian’s tent in the distance.


    For now, he would watch.


    And wait.


    Because something told him…


    That child was not ordinary.


    And the North had just gained a warrior the kingdom was not ready for.


    The Northern Border had been stable for months, but the soldiers knew peace never lasted long.


    As winter arrived, the landscape became a death trap. Snow covered every inch of the mountains, the air cut like daggers against the skin, and the wind howled like a beast in agony.


    Some soldiers began to regret coming to the North.


    The icy paths were treacherous, the endless training gruelling. Every night, the freezing winds seeped into their bones, reminding them that death here would be slow and unforgiving.


    Then, one day, everything changed.


    A soldier, panting and drenched in sweat despite the cold, came sprinting into camp. His eyes were wide with panic.


    "ENEMY TROOPS HAVE STARTED MOVING!"


    A chill far worse than the winter air settled over the camp.


    The enemy nation had begun its attack.


    The worst part?


    They had the advantage.


    The Northern Army was trapped in the mountains, where the harsh terrain slowed their movements. Meanwhile, the enemy had smooth plains at their back, allowing them to strike without difficulty.


    This was not just an attack. It was an extermination.


    The Duke of the North, Laniel Delmar, wasted no time.


    “Everyone, prepare for battle! We march to the border now!”


    The army moved out, but the conditions were nightmarish.


    The blizzard raged, making it nearly impossible to see. The wind howled violently, and soldiers struggled to move through knee-deep snow.


    Then, the first attack came.