Chapter 127: Asherian Viscounty [1]

The pale, golden rays of dawn finally broke through the heavy, lingering mist of the morning, painting the towering stone fortifications of the Asherian Viscounty in a sharp, amber light.

The violent midnight storm that had battered the Opark Mountain range had completely cleared, leaving behind a crisp, cool breeze and a world washed clean of blood and mud.

At the massive, iron-reinforced outer gates of the viscounty, two armed sentries stood at their posts.

Yawning heavily, the first guard stretched his arms above his head, letting out a loud sigh of relief as he stared longingly down the road.

"By the gods, I am freezing," the first guard mumbled, rubbing his stiff shoulders through his leather brigandine.

"If this shift doesn’t end in the next ten minutes, I’m going to collapse. All I can think about is getting back to the barracks, putting my feet up, and enjoying myself properly once my duty is done."

The second guard chuckled, leaning lazily against his halberd. "You and your endless appetite. Are you still thinking about yesterday’s strong liquor and that hot bowl of vegetable soup Mama T cooked at the tavern?"

"Of course I am!" the first guard laughed, shaking his head. "The spice she uses clears your sinuses right up. Nothing beats a warm bowl of soup after pulling a freezing night watch in this miserable weather."

As they continued to chuckle and reminisce, their lighthearted moods abruptly evaporated, replaced instantly by dark, bitter frowns.

The conversation naturally drifted from food and rest to the grim, tense political atmosphere currently gripping the entire territory.

"Have you heard the latest talk from the inner keep?" the second guard lowered his voice, glancing nervously around the gatehouse.

"About the strange, chaotic movements of our Lord Viscount..."

"You mean Lord Mysar Kartrina?" the first guard replied, his face tightening with anger.

"Of course I heard. How could anyone in the viscounty miss it? The Lord Viscount lost his eldest son just a week ago... butchered right inside his own bedchamber. And the whispers in the square say it was the work of those bastards from the Black Winter."

At the explicit mention of that infamous name, both guards visibly shuddered, their hands tightening around their weapons in mutual disgust and rage.

To the commonfolk and border guards of the Asherian Viscounty, the vicious propaganda distributed by Lord Mysar Kartrina’s administration had painted a very specific picture.

According to official decrees, the Black Winter was not merely a mercenary guild—they were an unbridled terrorist organization that hunted down nobles and commoners alike with total impunity.

The grim proof was still fresh in everyone’s minds.

During the brutal assassination of Lord Mysar’s eldest son a week prior, the attackers had indiscriminately slaughtered over a dozen innocent commoners who happened to be working in the inner courtyard, leaving their bodies to rot in the courtyard fountain.

The syndicate cared nothing for social standing; whether you wore silk or coarse wool, they killed with cold, indiscriminate efficiency.

Just as the sentries fell into a heavy, brooding silence over the state of the realm, a sharp, familiar sound pierced the crisp morning air.

CLOP-CLOP-CLOP-CLOP!

The distinct, rhythmic sound of heavy warhorses galloping down the winding road snapped the guards out of their thoughts.

They instantly straightened their postures, their hands flying to the hilts of their side swords as they stepped forward to secure the threshold.

"Halt!" the first guard shouted at the top of his voice, stepping directly into the center of the road and raising a hand in warning.

"Identify yourselves immediately! State your business at the gates of the Asherian Viscounty, or you will be treated as hostile terrorists!"

From around the final bend of the road, four magnificent war stallions surged into view.

At the head of the formation rode a young man whose striking, pristine silver-white hair and deep emerald-green eyes caught the morning light.

Behind him rode an older, battle-hardened man, a stoic warrior in his twenties, and a young teenage girl wrapped in a heavy traveling cloak.

Despite their imposing mounts and armed appearances, the riders did not draw weapons or accelerate. Instead, as they closed the distance, the leader—the silver-haired young man—raised both hands calmly into the air, displaying an open, non-threatening posture to signal they meant no harm.

The moment they reached the outer threshold, the four stallions came to a smooth, controlled halt, their hooves stirring up faint wisps of morning dust.

Craig von Darkstar lowered his hands, a bright, disarming smile spreading across his face.

He leaned forward in his saddle, projecting the easygoing, confident charm of a wealthy young aristocrat out on a commercial venture.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Craig greeted warmly, his voice smooth and melodic.

"Apologies if we startled you. We mean no trouble at all. I am Sebastian Ford, Lord of the Ford Merchant Group, and we are simply a traveling delegation heading north toward the coast for an extended business and trade expedition."

Seeing that the travelers possessed no hostile intent and noticing the immaculate quality of their clothing and mounts, the two sentries visibly relaxed their aggressive stances.

They stepped forward closer to inspect the group, their critical eyes scanning each member of the party.

The first sentry took stock of the older man with the weathered face—Ser Hughway—noting his calm, grounded aura.

He then glanced at the younger man in his twenties—Ser Damian—and finally at the teenage girl tucked quietly behind them—Annie Blacksun.

The second sentry crossed his arms, his gaze lingering on the companions. "You look well-equipped for simple merchants, Lord Sebastian. But standard protocol requires us to know who is riding with you. Identify the rest of your party."

Craig maintained his friendly, unbothered smile.

He turned his head slightly toward Ser Hughway.

"Ah, forgive my lack of introductions," Craig chuckled smoothly. "This older gentleman is Mister Rogers, a seasoned sell-sword I hired to provide security and sword-arm protection for our commercial caravan during our journey through these dangerous frontier routes."

Craig then gestured toward Ser Damian, whose expression remained cool and impassive. "And this is Christian Ford, my dearest cousin. Though he looks quiet, he possesses extraordinary physical strength and martial prowess far beyond ordinary men."

Finally, Craig pointed a thumb back toward Annie, who offered a polite, silent nod from beneath her dark hood. "And the young lady with us is my little sister, travelling to see the world before she takes her place in our family’s merchant holdings."

The second sentry nodded slowly, absorbing Craig’s explanations as they matched standard documentation and common merchant profiles traveling through the region.

"Very well, Lord Sebastian," the sentry acknowledged, stepping back slightly to allow room for the checkpoint gate. "Your story checks out, and your party appears orderly.

However, standard security protocol dictates that we must conduct a brief inspection of your carriage packs and verify your temporary travel permits before we grant you entry into the viscounty. Please wait here for a moment."