As Wolfenburg faced an impending siege, the city of Herzig in Hochland remained a stark contrast—bustling with activity and an air of distorted prosperity.
It was early March, and while the biting chill still lingered, the cold had become tolerable. Ryan's army had stationed itself in Herzig for rest and resupply, and the influx of resources from the Empire's southern provinces created a strange boom. Far from chaos, the presence of disciplined Bretonnian forces brought unprecedented order to Herzig, to the relief of Elector Count Aldebrand.
Ryan's strict discipline ensured the Bretonnian forces remained a model of conduct. The knights, managed by Duke Berchmond and Morgiana, adhered to rigorous training schedules and maintained decorum, leaving the townsfolk untroubled. Even the often-rowdy White Wolf Knights of Middenheim, led by Boris Todbringer, kept their excesses—drunken revelry and harmless catcalling—relatively contained.
Inside his quarters, Ryan was buried in a mountain of paperwork. Despite being both king and supreme commander, he had no time for leisure, not even to share moments with Morgiana, Veronica, or Theresa. He dealt with a constant stream of requests, logistical challenges, supply manifests, and scattered intelligence reports from scouts who had ventured into Ostermark.
Although the workload irritated him, Ryan understood the importance of personally reviewing key matters to maintain the army's efficiency and curb corruption. He adopted a pragmatic style of governance: handling significant issues directly, conducting random checks on minor ones, and being ready to intervene decisively if needed.
"Delegation is crucial," he mused, thinking of the classic failures of over-control and unchecked autonomy—exemplified by certain chancellors and emperors in history.
Among his correspondence was a letter sealed with an unmistakable crimson lip mark.
"To the mighty Lion of Gene, the illustrious Knight King, Ryan-Malcador, whose miracles are the stuff of legends:
I send my heartfelt congratulations on your victory at the Battle of Three Kings.
You are my beloved, the object of my deepest admiration. My affection and adoration for you are boundless.
As I write, I have resolved to personally journey to Herzig to reunite with you. I long to embrace the man who once sheltered and cherished me.
My dearest, await my arrival.
—Emmanuelle von Liebwitz-Bernardino
Duchess of Nuln"
Below the signature, a delicate red lip print adorned the parchment.
"Ah, love letters. Isn't that sweet?" Veronica, clad in a revealing snow-white rose gown with a plunging neckline and sheer black stockings, dramatically read the letter aloud. "Ryan, you seem to have plenty of time to exchange romantic correspondence with your Lady Duchess. How delightful!"
Theresa, Ryan's personal secretary, looked up from her work. She wore a sharp office ensemble: a tailored coat over a white blouse, paired with a pencil skirt and patterned tights. Her silver hair was styled in a practical bun, contrasting with the flush of annoyance on her face.
"Ryan's never written me a love letter," she muttered, glaring at the Duchess's flamboyant prose.
"I've only received two!" Veronica huffed, jealousy tinting her voice. "And now he's playing favorites with his fancy court ladies!"
Ryan sighed, caught between amusement and exasperation. He set aside the documents he was reviewing. "I've already promised you both one letter each. Why the sudden demand for two?"
"Morgiana said you'd write her two!" Theresa retorted, her frustration showing.
"Fine, fine. I'll write two for everyone," Ryan relented, laughing.
Satisfied for the moment, Veronica pivoted to another matter. "Speaking of which, there's a supply shipment arriving soon. Shall I oversee it?"
"Yes," Ryan replied, handing her a note. "It's crucial to inspect the goods at the docks. Bertrand and Raymond will assist you—remember to conduct random checks."
With a nod, Veronica took the note and sauntered out, leaving Ryan alone with Theresa.
Theresa eyed him warily, knowing that look in his eye. She tried to stand, but Ryan pulled her into his lap with practiced ease. "Why did you send Veronica to do it? Couldn't Lauen or Talleyrand handle it?"
Ryan laughed, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "Lauen is a military noble. Logistics and bureaucracy aren't his strengths. As for Talleyrand... let's just say he'd use the opportunity to skim an extra share for himself."
Theresa relaxed slightly, though her legs still trembled from exertion. "So you trust Veronica more than me?"
"You have a different assignment," Ryan teased.
Before she could protest, Ryan's hand found her waist, sending a shiver down her spine.
At the Herzig docks, Veronica led Bertrand, Raymond, and a contingent of Old Guard soldiers to inspect the latest supply shipment. Despite the frigid air, her commanding presence in a stylish yet revealing ensemble drew lingering stares.
"This city thrives on our presence," Bertrand remarked as they walked. His well-trimmed mustache gleamed under the winter sun. "Without us, they'd be in ruins."
Raymond, a former serf turned officer, nodded. "The market revolves around our soldiers. Merchants, beggars, even... other businesses, all rely on us."
Veronica sighed. "We can't solve every problem, but maintaining discipline is paramount. The last thing Ryan needs is another distraction."
Bertrand assured her that the Old Guard maintained strict standards. Still, managing conscripted infantry and their interactions with the desperate populace was an ongoing challenge.
Amid their conversation, Bertrand and Raymond shared a peculiar anecdote:
The Bretonnian soldiers, unaccustomed to the Empire's pungent Black Forest sausages, often left them untouched. Seizing the opportunity, Talleyrand began collecting the surplus and selling it to Herzig's impoverished residents at a token price.
The arrangement proved mutually beneficial. The soldiers avoided waste, Talleyrand turned a tidy profit, and the locals had access to rare meat, which they cooked into hearty stews.
This practice earned the nickname "Army Stew."
Veronica found the tale amusing, though she made a mental note to monitor Talleyrand's schemes more closely.
The group reached the docks just as several Imperial transport ships unloaded supplies. Among them were grand warships and a luxury vessel flying the banners of Reikland and Nuln.
Descending the gangplank was none other than Reiksmarshal Helborg, his polished armor gleaming like a mirror. Behind him marched the Reiksguard, Greatswords from Carroburg, and the elite Blazing Sun detachment.
Accompanying them was Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the Emperor's stoic Champion, his imposing presence commanding respect.
Before Veronica could greet them, another ship bearing Nuln's black-and-gold crest docked.
The Ironclad soldiers of Nuln disembarked in disciplined rows, flanking a striking figure in crimson and gold. Her fiery gown and black cape exuded regality and divine authority.
"Long time no see, Veronica," Emmanuelle von Liebwitz called out, her voice honeyed yet commanding. "How have you been?"
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