By midday, the riders reached the crossroads.

  From Greenfall to the capital, there had always been two routes.

  The first led through Ironvale.

  Once, it had been the favored path — wide roads, gentle slopes, and weather kind enough that even winter rarely bit too hard. Travelers spoke of its views, its rivers, the way the land seemed to open itself willingly to those who passed through.

  But Ironvale was no longer what it had been.

  After House Aerendyl was wiped out for treason, the land was left in an uneasy state. King Rowan had never formally granted it to another house. By law, it was now jointly managed by House Morcant and House Velmont — yet everyone knew the truth.

  Ironvale belonged to no one.

  And because it belonged to no one, it was watched by everyone.

  The second route passed through Blackmoor.

  Few chose it.

  Blackmoor lay high in the mountains, where roads narrowed and mistakes were costly. Travel was slower, harsher. The wind was sharp, and villages were sparse. Merchants avoided it when they could. Nobles almost always did.

  The riders explained both options carefully.

  Alaric listened.

  The choice, to him, was not difficult.

  He had heard the gossip about the Duke of Blackmoor long before this day.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  A man nearing seventy. Never married. Surrounded by mistresses and illegitimate children, yet acknowledging none of them as worthy to inherit his seat. A lord who trusted no one enough to share his power.

  There were darker rumors too.

  They said the late queen’s father had stolen the duke’s favorite woman—the only one he had ever wished to marry—not with force, but with a smile and gentle words. She followed him south and bore three beautiful children. However, she died in childbirth while giving birth to Queen Lysandra’s youngest brother.

  Blackmoor remembered.

  Ironvale, however, remembered more.

  House Aerendyl had been… different.

  They never had many children. Yet every generation produced heirs who were clever, composed, and well-regarded. Alaric’s maternal grandfather had been an only child. So had his great-grandfather.

  It was almost tradition.

  And yet Lysandra’s father had three children.

  She was the eldest.

  Her two brothers had been slaughtered by the king’s order, and neither had living children at the time of their deaths. With them, House Aerendyl ended.

  Except it hadn’t.

  Alaric remained.

  The only living Aerendyl — and at the same time, an Eryndor.

  A son of the house that had destroyed his mother’s.

  The thought lingered, sharp and bitter in its irony.

  He gave his answer without hesitation.

  “Blackmoor.”

  ————

  There was another reason Blackmoor could never be ignored.

  House Morcant stands at a very special position compare to other houses:

  Half of Blackmoor’s standing army did not answer to the duke at all.

  They belonged to the crown.

  More precisely, they belonged to House Eryndor.

  Most of the Eryndor seat lands lay in the north, closer to the Wildlands. Hundreds of years ago, before courts learned the comfort of stone walls and sealed records, the Wildland houses had poured south in a vicious tide. Villages burned. Borders collapsed. It was the Eryndor family who drove them back—pushing the invaders to the very edge of the north and reclaiming most of the land that would later form the kingdom’s backbone.

  The houses quarreled endlessly among themselves—over titles, marriages, precedence—but on one matter they had always agreed: none wished to be ruled by a people so unlike themselves.

  Power followed defense.

  And defense followed Eryndor.

  That was how the family rose—not through divine right, but through blood spilled where others would not stand.

  To maintain the northern armies, the crown decreed a standing requirement: every house was to contribute one-sixth of the tax drawn from its own lands to Eryndor, to be used solely for training and defense.

  Most complied without protest. It is safer and easier that way.

  Blackmoor did not.

  The Duke of Blackmoor at that time had requested an exception—Instead of coin, he proposed joint training and shared command. His men would train beside Eryndor soldiers, bear the same standards, answer to the same discipline.

  It had been like that for hundreds of years. Nobody questioned it.

  I’ve always wondered why, compared to Chinese (and Asian) history in general, European history seems more peaceful. In Chinese history, almost every generation has some kind of rebellion, or brothers killing each other to become emperor.

  After doing some research, I feel the key reason may be that kings in most periods of ancient Europe did not have enough centralized power. Being a duke was already powerful—you owned your own army. That army belonged to you, not the king’s. You could choose whether to follow the king or not, and the king couldn’t touch you unless he was absolutely confident it wouldn’t backfire. So what was the point of fighting to become king?

  Chinese history is completely different. There’s a saying in Chinese that basically means, if the emperor tells you to die, you must die. Because of that level of authority, fighting for the throne was far more rewarding.

  If you think about it, this historical structure also kind of affects the modern political systems on both sides of the world.

  Because of this, I made my own rule in the story and gave the Eryndor royal family more power. Therefore, the fight of throne, which is the main part of this book, would make more sense. I’m not sure how readers will feel about this setting—would it seem strange, or refreshing?