Chapter 405 Chapter 405| Merely Ten Days. And You Have Already Made Me Question.

The tenth day arrived sooner than Roland had anticipated.

The guards arrived earlier than usual, knocking on the inn’s door while the sky was still gray and the cold morning air carried the sharp scent of factory smoke. Roland had been standing by the window since dawn. His shirt had been washed clean by the innkeeper the previous night, and the wound on his left shoulder was now completely scabbed over. His hair was neatly combed—not out of habit, but by deliberate choice.

Ten days were enough to restore his strength. But that wasn’t what brought him a sense of calm this morning.

He had planned every move since the night Rianor returned from the red archives. Every word he would utter. Every pause he would allow. Every possible reaction from the Emperor, and exactly how he would counter each one.

Rianor appeared at the doorway without knocking, his shirt still grimy, his hair-fractured glasses slipping down his nose, and the Bracer on his left arm remaining entirely dead. He didn’t ask a single question—he already knew what was to come today. Roland offered only a brief nod, and Rianor took a seat by the window to wait.

Out in the corridor, Riven stood beside the Dwarf King, his massive frame occupying nearly half the hallway. The white-runed warhammer was still slung over the Dwarf King’s shoulder—never confiscated since ten days ago—and bronze rings still braided his gray beard.

Borch, Thorne, Naya, and Dom brought up the rear, their weapons still retained by the Iron Empire, not a single one returned.

Laborers trudged toward the factories with sluggish strides, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. Shopkeepers opened their stalls with hollow gazes. Not a single soul spared a glance for the passing group—as if they were merely ghosts drifting among thousands of others beginning the exact same day.

The palace loomed at the end of the avenue, its steel walls gray beneath an equally gray sky.

The throne room remained unchanged from ten days prior—soaring steel pillars, dim yellow steam-lamps casting long shadows across the polished black floor, and the steel throne standing resolute at the far end of the room like a machine awaiting its command.

Emperor Regulus sat enthroned, his mechanical respirator hissing softly.

Irina stood to the right, her jaw tightly clenched from the moment the group stepped inside. Volkov stood to the left, his expression as unreadable as ever, the brass measuring rod tucked at his waist. Anastasia stood slightly set back from the throne, her fingers quietly clutching the edge of her mantle.

Roland stepped forward, Rianor at his side, with Riven and the Dwarf King following behind.

Silence reigned. Only the rhythmic hiss of the mask filled the void.

"I have my answer," the Emperor spoke at last. He turned to Volkov. "Report."

"Northveil was not a fabrication," Volkov stated. "Rudigor did indeed fall there. The armada that was wiped out was the very fleet prepared for the southern expansion campaign. The losses were catastrophic. Northreach possesses unfamiliar technology—several aspects are far more advanced than anything we field."

The Emperor paused briefly, his eyes darting toward Adrian—for merely a split second, yet swift enough for Roland to catch—before returning his gaze straight ahead.

The Emperor tapped his armrest once, softly. "So," he said, "what is your offer?"

"It is not an offer," Roland replied. "It is a bill. Your Majesty promised during our first audience—resolve the rebellion, then we talk."

"You have not resolved it."

"That depends on your definition of resolved," Roland said. "If it means complete subjugation of the Dwarves, that is impossible—three hundred and twelve years proved that much. But if it means the Dwarves remain quiet, that can be achieved right now. A ceasefire. No war. No casualties. No cost."

He took half a step forward, his voice not rising a single decibel.

"One question, Your Majesty. If the Dwarves were to fully submit tomorrow morning, would you still require a military budget of this magnitude?"

The silence that fell afterward was no ordinary stillness.

Volkov straightened his posture ever so slightly. Anastasia stopped clutching her mantle. Irina snapped her gaze toward the Emperor, as if awaiting an order to vent her fury—yet no such command came.

The Emperor remained motionless. His respirator hissed softer, like a breath deliberately held.

"You are sharp," he said at last.

"I am a diplomat," Roland replied.

Irina could contain herself no longer. She stepped half a pace forward, her fists balling up.

"This is an insult!" she barked. "They harbor rebels, bring General VII as a captive, and now stand here as though they have the right to demand answers—"

"Enough," the Emperor said, without looking back.

That single word sufficed. Irina snapped her jaw shut and stepped back into place, her face tight as she suppressed her unspent fury.

The Dwarf King stepped forward, standing alongside Roland.

"I have waited ten days," he said. "I did not come to this city to stand idly by while others decide the fate of my people."

"What is it you wish to know?" the Emperor asked.

"Whether my people still have a future."

The hiss of the mask filled the silence before the Emperor responded. "A ceasefire. Thirty days. No attacks, no troop movements. After that, we speak again."

The Dwarf King held his gaze for a long moment. "That is not peace."

"It is more than anything you have received in three hundred and twelve years," the Emperor countered.

The Dwarf King did not argue. He offered a slow nod—not a gesture of agreement, but an acceptance for the time being.

The Emperor shifted his gaze back to Roland. "Anastasia will journey to Northreach to witness Project Legion firsthand and verify its truth. Meanwhile, the Princess of Northreach shall remain here as collateral."

"Agreed," Roland said.

"Regarding your letter," the Emperor continued, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather, "the one dispatched a day before you arrived at my gates. The truth behind Project Legion, complete with intelligence even my red archives lack. If you did not return within ten days, it was to be leaked across the entire continent." He paused briefly. "That letter remains in the courier’s hands. I have yet to open it."

"I know," Roland replied.

"Why did you still come here," the Emperor asked, "without guarantees, without troops, without weapons?"

"Because I wanted you to hear it directly from me," Roland answered. "Not from a letter. Not from a report. From me."

The Emperor stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment, the hiss of his respirator the sole sound filling the pause. "You are far more dangerous than I anticipated."

"I am a diplomat," Roland replied once more, as though the phrase had become his automatic response to every compliment or threat alike.

The Emperor tapped his armrest. "I agree. But there is one additional condition." He paused, letting the silence stretch longer than necessary. "You will remain in the Iron Empire as a second collateral. Should Anastasia fail to return in time, Rumina will not be the only one to suffer the consequences."

Rianor turned sharply toward Roland, his mouth opening as if to object, but Roland raised his right hand slightly—a quiet signal to remain silent.

"Agreed," Roland said.

Rianor snapped his mouth shut, his jaw tightening, yet he refrained from protesting before the Emperor. Behind them, Riven tensed as well, his hand clenching into a fist for a brief second before catching himself and loosening his grip.

Volkov escorted the group out through the side exit.

Riven walked with his hand reflexively reaching for a sword hilt that was no longer at his waist. Grigori cast a single lingering glance toward the Emperor before following, his face remaining entirely unreadable. Adrian stepped forward with a stride far steadier than ten days ago.

Anastasia remained rooted to her spot. Her eyes followed Roland’s retreating back until the heavy door clicked shut behind him.

The hall fell empty once everyone had departed.

Emperor Regulus sat alone, his respirator mask the sole sound echoing in the vast chamber. He stared toward the door where Roland had disappeared.

"Would I still require a military budget of this magnitude," he murmured, repeating Roland’s question, "if the Dwarves were to fully submit."

He tapped the iron armrest once more. Tap.

Roland was far more dangerous than he had imagined.

"Volkov," he called out.

Volkov reappeared at the threshold.

"Keep watch on that envoy," the Emperor commanded. "Every movement. Every word he utters. If he touches anything he shouldn’t, drag him down to the subterranean levels."

Volkov bowed his head and withdrew without asking further, long accustomed to receiving orders without explanation.

In the quieter corridor, Roland had only walked a few paces when footsteps echoed behind him.

"Roland."

He halted and looked back. Anastasia stood a few paces behind him, her face as stoic as ever, yet her eyes lacked their usual composure.

"I will not be traveling alone," she said, stepping closer, lowering her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I already knew the Emperor’s answer ten days ago," Anastasia whispered, even though the hallway was deserted. "He will send me. And he will send others alongside me. Uninvited shadows. Someone is tailing me."

Rianor listened silently from the side without chiming in.

"You know who sent them," Roland stated.

Anastasia gave no answer.

"Anastasia," Roland repeated softly.

She met his gaze for one second. Two seconds.

Then she turned and walked away without answering the question. "Tomorrow morning," she said at the corridor’s end, without looking back. "Once preparations are complete, we speak again."

She vanished into the shadows, her footsteps never hesitating for a single instant.

Roland stood rooted to the spot. Rianor stepped closer, standing beside him.

"We don’t have much time," Rianor said, his voice calm despite the faint tension lingering in his jaw.

"I know," Roland replied.

"You just made the Emperor suspicious."

"I know that too." Roland stared down the corridor Anastasia had just departed. "But if I didn’t ask, he would still have a pretext to refuse. Now he knows that I know. And he knows I won’t simply stand by."

Riven approached from behind. "Are we going home?"

Roland nodded. "We’re going home." Though this time, even he wasn’t certain it would be that simple.

Back in the hall they had left behind, Emperor Regulus still sat enthroned, gazing at the closed doors—the very doors that had just swallowed the boldest, or perhaps most reckless, man to ever stand before him twice.

He closed his eyes. The hiss of his mask continued—rhythmic, cold.

"Merely ten days," he murmured. "And you have already made me question."