PH 5

The Empire of Prastos had a shape like a long, uneven, and broadly stretched-out cord. Because of this, the south was hot enough to be sweltering, the center had four distinct seasons, and the north—where half the year was winter—was cold and dark.

The southerners of Prastos were hot-blooded and passionate. They held festivals every month, enjoyed parties every week, loved passionately, and sang everywhere they went. Among sailors, those who were particularly loud-voiced and quick-tempered were all southerners. They were often drunk and preferred their fists over the law.

The centralers were quick and calculating. Goods flowing down from the north and abundant resources coming up from the south all converged in the center. With the capital located there, the center was rich in art and overflowing with sophistication. It was the Empire’s treasury.

And the north.

Little was known about the north. Even to the Empire’s citizens, the north was an unknown world.

To begin with, it had only been three hundred years since the north was incorporated into the Empire, and the people there were quite insular. So insular, in fact, that even in Galen—a port city where all races from the Empire’s continent, other continents, and beyond gathered—no one had ever seen a northerner.

Given that state of affairs, the Empire’s citizens knew virtually nothing about the north.

The most widely known rumors were the almost unbelievable tales that vast amounts of gold and jewels lay sleeping in the north, and that if you stuck a shovel anywhere, a silver vein would run beneath it.

Beyond that, what was known was that the north was plagued by unceasing wars, and that while there were rational, educated people living there just as in the center or the south, there were also barbarians who still carried clubs instead of swords and wore animal hides instead of clothes.

And for those with a particular interest in the north, they also knew that the northerners revered their lord, the Grand Duke, like a king, and that their loyalty was so strong that even the Emperor of the Empire could not sway it.

A land where gold slept, where true barbarians lived, and which belonged to the Empire yet whose people were rarely seen.

That place gave the Empire’s citizens the illusion of a dim myth—like an epic from an ancient king a thousand years ago—while existing in the same era.

A place where the magic and spirits of ancient times were still believed to be alive.

Its ruler was said to build a palace of ice on that cold land where nothing could grow, drape a bear’s pelt over an ice throne, let his blue hair and blue beard trail down to his feet, and move his icicle-like fingers to command slaughter.

Minstrels spread these fantasies about the Duke, and the fantasies about the north grew ever more entrenched. Since virtually no imperial citizen had ever seen a northerner with their own eyes, the rumors solidified into myth.

The Lord of Ice. The Grand Duke who could freeze a person with a single glance. His heart was frozen purple and did not beat, and his breath would turn to frost and freeze blue.

That was the story Nile had heard about the northern guardian lord, Magnus Sirarund.

“It’s cold.”

After tossing the promissory note stamped with the Continental Bank’s seal to the Viscount of Galen’s underling, riding for fourteen days to the capital, and then riding another month from there, Nile finally arrived in the north.

Nile was an imperial citizen born in the center and raised in the south. The climate that had surrounded him had always been warm and temperate.

‘The traveler bewitched by the Ice Maiden eventually died.’

Early October. It was chilly, but winter hadn’t really begun in earnest. No matter that it was the north—was this weather reasonable for this season? Nile was undergoing a harsh initiation into the northern cold he had never experienced in his life.

The fairy tales he had heard as a child in bed naturally came to mind. A young traveler who fell in love with winter. Winter and the traveler made love, but the traveler’s heart, touched by winter’s hand, gradually slowed.

Having lost her beloved, winter, when she found a traveler walking alone, would thrust her cold hands into their chests and feel for the vitality of life—until the traveler’s heart beat with the most tender rhythm winter knew. Winter loved the traveler, but the traveler who received winter’s love eventually died.

He had thought the cold of the center was quite severe, but compared to the north, it was nothing. It felt as though icy nails were piercing his chest. Nile tucked his hands—red even inside his gloves—into his horse’s mane.

While crossing the wilderness from the center to the north, his horse had eventually died. Fortunately, it was close to the northern gateway, so Nile was found by the border guards and, thanks to them, avoided freezing to death.

“Actually, it’s not usually this cold—it’s strange. Almost as if the north disapproves of your coming.”

The guard who had boiled soup for Nile said. Nile, who had nearly been stranded, couldn’t even manage a courtesy smile. This must have been a northern joke, apparently.

“That’s an interesting story.”

“It’s not just a story—it’s a legend that’s been passed down among the northern border guards for a long time. They say that when someone who would harm the north tries to cross into this land, the northern guardian spirit blocks their path.”

An older guard who had been listening chimed in.

“There’s also a legend that when someone who would benefit the north tries to leave, snow and wind rise up to keep them from leaving. They’re all just legends, though.”

Nile swallowed the warm soup. All the guards inside the barracks were staring at him.

So this is what they meant by northerners being wary and exclusive, Nile thought as he set down the soup bowl and smiled gently.

“Could you take me to Sirarund Castle now?”

The border guards wasted no time. After confirming the envelope stamped with Count Nuveri’s seal, they immediately escorted Nile to Sirarund Castle.

Arriving at the castle, Nile opened his mouth and took in the endless walls and the mountain-like outer gates. It was a majestic castle. So vast and enormous that he couldn’t take in the whole exterior at a single glance.

As the gatekeeper opened the gates to receive Nile, first the iron gate opened, then the portcullis was raised, and then the main gate, with its massive crossbars, swung open. Only then could Nile enter Sirarund Castle.

Walking into the Duke’s castle, Nile was spellbound at every turn. The towering spires were sharp and high, like dozens of longswords driven into the ground upside down. The castle was built of grand granite, with outer walls and defensive fortresses encircling the inner keep like plate armor.

Escorted by five soldiers bearing spears and swords, Nile was led to the castellan. As they ascended, the view rose, revealing roofs that seemed to pour downward toward the center of the castle.

Nile had never seen such a rugged yet grand castle. The barbicans and battlements stretched out like mountain ranges. The roofs plunged downward toward the castle’s center, and above them, dozens of crows flew up like tragic installations… On the banners waving heavily in the wind, the family crest emblazoned was a black demon tearing out a heart and roaring.

And what of the interior? The vaulted corridors soared as if to touch the sky, and following that gaze, stained glass appeared, blazing with brilliant light like a crushed rainbow.

Not as delicate as what he had seen in the capital, but powerful—like a single bold stroke drawn straight down. Solid as a clenched fist.

Nile felt overwhelmed. The stained glass depicted the great deeds of the former dukes. In the glass, the Duke drove a spear into an enemy’s heart, split heads, and chopped off noses with an axe.

The Duke’s face, rendered in a few rough lines amid blazing crimson, was as impassive as a god. They felt neither the joy of slaughter nor the tragedy of the battlefield—they simply annihilated their enemies.

‘The Duke of Sirarund, with his blue hair like the color of a corpse’s face, has a heart frozen purple…’

Nile suddenly recalled the old tales about the Duke of Sirarund that wandering minstrels sang. The Duke’s heart was purple. The Duke’s breath was frozen frost. Nile was not so naive as to believe such childish tales, but seeing the Duke’s face in that stained glass sent a chill down his spine.

“You’ve had a long journey getting here. You must have been very cold, haven’t you?”

The castellan, who had served the House of Sirarund for a lifetime, was an elderly man with snow-white hair. Though old, he was as tall and broad-shouldered as the best fisherman in Galen. Perhaps even his grip strength was as strong as Nile’s, who was in his twenties. Nile smiled faintly.

“My horse died from the cold while crossing the wilderness. Strangely enough, once I crossed the wilderness and fully entered the north, it felt somewhat better.”

“Indeed, we received a report from the border guards that an unseasonable cold snap had struck the wilderness. Next time you pass through there, it will be after spring has come, so it should be fine. Now, come this way. Mr. Giles’s room is this direction.”

“Call me Nile.”

“Mr. Giles, are you not a guest sent by Count Nuveri? I cannot address you so casually.”

The castellan spoke in a kind but firm tone. Nile scratched his cheek. It was true that Count Nuveri had sent him, but he was by no means an honored guest.

No matter how it was dressed up in words, his purpose was one thing: to have sex with the Duke. He was little more than a male prostitute for that purpose.