"Marquis Charles?"
"Marquis Charles is the eldest legitimate son of Duke Saint Hild, the heir apparent…"
"No kidding! Of course I know who Marquis Charles is. But why are his knights here? And why are we being urgently conscripted?"
"Isn't Marquis Charles supposed to be fighting trolls at the border? Are we being sent to the frontlines?"
"No way. The border's too far from here. Even with an emergency draft, they wouldn't come all the way here. And look, the conscription order clearly says we're to report to Mirror Lake within two days."
"Where's Mirror Lake?"
"Not far. Follow this small river north for about 50 kilometers."
"So… are we going or not?"
"I don't want to go to war!"
"But… but it's an emergency conscription order from the Saint Hild family!"
"It's not signed by the Duke himself though."
"Still, Marquis Charles will be Duke someday, won't he?"
"Someday, yes. But until then… I'm not risking my life for it."
"Maybe it's a chance to gain some glory and promotions."
"Ha! Idiot!"
"Who are you calling an idiot?!"
"You, obviously!"
⸻
When Saru brought back the emergency conscription order issued by Marquis Charles, the camp instantly erupted in chaos.
Some supported it, some opposed it. Arguments flared.
The root of the chaos was that the order came from Marquis Charles, not his father—the true lord of the North, Duke Saint Hild.
Charles Saint Hild's title of marquis was honorary, with no actual fief—it simply acknowledged his status as heir, much like a crown prince in ancient China.
But a crown prince, however noble, is still not the emperor.
If the conscription had come directly from the Duke, no Northerner would dare defy it.
But coming from Marquis Charles…
Well, the turmoil in the Foxfire Mercenary Company spoke volumes.
"Enough! Shut your mouths!" Saru bellowed, silencing the arguments.
He turned to Oliver and asked, "Does Marquis Charles even have the authority to issue emergency conscriptions?"
"I don't think so…" Oliver looked uncertain and turned to Colin for help. "Sir Kaen, am I right?"
"Legally speaking, you're correct—Marquis Charles doesn't have that authority," Colin said after searching his memory. "However, there have been precedents in Northern history."
Oliver's face darkened again.
He definitely didn't want the Foxfire Mercenaries conscripted. Without them, his trade caravan would be defenseless—sitting ducks on the road to Hawkfall City.
"So… Captain Saru…" Oliver spoke carefully. "Are you going to comply with the conscription order?"
Saru's brows were tightly furrowed. He clearly wasn't happy about it. After a long pause, he finally shook his head.
"No."
Oliver's face lit up with relief, but several senior mercenaries immediately exploded in protest.
"Captain, you can't just ignore Marquis Charles' order!"
"Yeah! The Saint Hild family won't forgive us!"
"And those knights… they really looked like they'd kill us!"
Saru whipped around and shot a fierce glare at the dissenters.
Silence returned.
"Do you even know what we're walking into if we accept this and go to Mirror Lake?" he asked.
The mercenary leaders exchanged glances.
"We're going to fight, right? Dangerous, sure, but better than defying Saint Hild's command…"
"Fight?" Saru sneered. "We're walking into a slaughter."
"What?"
"Why?"
"Even if it's battle, that doesn't mean death. We could earn merits—"
"You're dreaming!" Saru cut them off sharply. "Think! Why would Marquis Charles' army be at Mirror Lake?"
The mercenaries looked at one another in confusion.
Colin's eyes gleamed—he seemed to get it.
Oliver, less subtle, said it aloud: "Exactly! I suspect Marquis Charles has been forced to retreat all the way back to Mirror Lake!"
"No way!"
"How could the Marquis lose?"
The disbelief was understandable.
For decades, the trolls had been on the back foot in the north.
Five years ago, they were even forced to relocate their royal court northward, making much of the southern Skysnow Tundra a hunting ground for the Northern army.
If the environment weren't so harsh, unsuitable for farming or building castles, the Northern border would've moved even further north.
With such victories in recent memory, no proud Northerner could believe the Saint Hild family had suffered a major defeat.
But Saru and Oliver's theory made sense.
For months, no good news had come from the frontlines. Border towns had fallen one after another. Entire noble families had lost their fiefs.
People thought it was just raiding parties sneaking behind the front lines.
Private armies managed to repel some incursions, and everyone assumed Marquis Charles' main army would soon return and crush the trolls.
But now…
Charles' forces had shown up at Mirror Lake.
That wasn't the frontier—it was the heartland.
Not once in living memory had the trolls advanced this far.
Most mercenaries fell silent, clearly unnerved.
But one spoke up: "Even if that's true, we could still go to Mirror Lake and help Marquis Charles fight off the trolls—"
"Fool!" Saru snapped. "The army is already retreating and you think we can turn the tide? Us? Emergency-recruited mercenaries?"
"There must be other mercenary groups heading there too…"
"Just more cannon fodder," Saru said coldly.
He knew his men well. They had trouble just handling bandits—accidentally killing their own allies.
Calling them a ragtag bunch was a compliment.
And they wanted to go up against trained troops?
Madness.
Saru made his decision. He ignored the protests and turned decisively, walking toward the Saint Hild knights.
The crowd watched in silence, expressions mixed.
Colin, meanwhile, suddenly remembered: his father, Baron Angley, hadn't written in months.
That's not normal.
It felt like someone was deliberately blocking news from the front.
Was the war really going that badly?
⸻
"You dare refuse the Marquis' conscription order?" the lead knight of Saint Hild suddenly roared.
"Sir Knight, I merely want to understand—"
"Enough! Refusing an emergency draft is treason!" the knight cut him off and shouted at the Foxfire Mercenaries:
"Whoever kills this traitor right now will be promoted to centurion!"
Gasps.
Some were outraged. Some scoffed.
But some… their eyes flickered.
"Sir Knight!" Saru didn't look back. He confidently turned his back on the crowd and continued, "I respect the Saint Hild family and honor Marquis Charles, but we have a right to know where we're being sent and why—"
He never finished.
A longsword pierced his chest.
"Guh… guh…" Saru coughed blood, struggling to turn.
When he saw the young man behind him, his expression turned strangely complex.
Thud.
The body fell.
"Excellent," said the knight, nodding in approval as he looked at the young man holding the bloody sword. "Tell me your name."
"Honored knight, my name is Sar."
"Sar? What's your relation to this Saru?"
"He was my father, sir."