Chapter 182 Fairytale Spoken; Reality

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Frost stretched itself over countless valleys, gripping mountains in sheets of white as snow flowed through the harsh, howling winds. It was a land secluded from all other kingdoms; an empire that occupied the infertile continent of cold.

[“From an outsider’s perspective, the land of Farmay may seem like a fairytale; a kingdom built from frost, secluded within mighty walls of ice that stretch towards the clouds as if trying to escape to the heavens.”]

Sitting at a desk in a cold, lonely office lined with bookshelves and a carpet from a pale-furred bear, a stern-faced man inscribed on a paper, wielding his quill with elegance. He looked outside of the window momentarily, watching the perpetual snowfall that shared the same complexion as his well-groomed beard.

In the distance, colossal walls of brilliant frost stood firm, reflecting the moonlight like an azure kaleidoscope.

[“However, this is not the case. Farmay is a prison; an eternal sentence given to those who followed Her Majesty, such loyalty was rewarded with being exiled to this land, uninhabited by humans and inhabited by great beasts and hazards around every corner. It was only because of Her Majesty’s benevolence that these walls were raised and we were given habitable lands. That was three-hundred years ago; she used up so much of her strength that she remains bedridden until this day, but has yet to age a day past her early youth. Though it is a title used as an insult, the ‘Perpetual Princess’ lives up to such a name.”]

A quiet sigh left the lips of the man as he raised his hand, resting his chin atop his knuckles as he looked down towards a map of Milligarde that was used as a tactician’s map, having figurines representing soldiers on it.

He reached over, lifting one of the figures as he inspected it.

[“While it has improved from the certain death it was meant to be, Farmay will not last in this desolate frost. There is no progress to be made here; sunlight cannot pierce the veil of frost that hangs above, nor does life reach the infertile soil. Her Majesty’s power is the only thing keeping it habitable, and her strength is finite. That is why we must retake Milligarde at all costs, and place Her Majesty on her rightful throne.”]

As if angered by the thought of Milligarde royalty, he slammed the piece down on the spot of the map representing Milligarde’s capital.

–

Amidst the storm of ice, a castle surrounded by trees clad in ice stood firm.

Within it, a council of those of power within this forgotten, exiled kingdom met for perhaps the first time in years.

Ten figures gathered in the exuberant, but cold, gloomy room, decorated with faded flags that held a symbol of a butterfly.

“My, how long has it been since we’ve all been in one place together?”

A beautiful woman, small in stature with curly, hazel locks asked with a gentle smile, guarded by three, large men clad in ivory armor. She wore a fluffed dress, reinforced by a thick, white scarf to combat the ever-present winter.

[The Tenth Viscount, Head of Weapon Development, Marylange]

“It has been quite some time, hasn’t it? Though time passes swiftly while one is deeply invested in the truths of this world,” a pale man with a silver tongue spoke, swaying a vial containing a mysterious substance.

He had well-kempt, blonde hair and keen, scarlet eyes that watched the liquid sway in the glass with a small smile. In comparison to the others present, he wore lavish attire, though covered with a protective coat.

[The Second Viscount, Head of Alchemy, Laurent]

“We ‘Viscounts’ meet here today in preparation of our Majesty’s will; the will of all of the Farmayan people,” a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and shaggy, burgundy hair spoke, resting his hands atop a cane.

[The Third Viscount, Head of Lesser Folk Affairs, Reed]

“Speaking of which…Shammoth, what of your task with the Unending Nightmare?”

Posing the question was a man clad completely in all-black armor, wearing a faceless helm with a fur-lined, silver cloak hanging from his shoulders. Though his face was unseen, black-and-white hair that came from the back of his lion-shaped, onyx helm was visible, though often mistaken as a fleece.

[The Seventh Viscount, Head of Military, Amine]

Leaning against one of the pillars that held the chamber up, the smiling, patchwork man raised his hat as his mix-colored eyes gleamed from the shadows.

“Ah…Unfortunately, some nuisances got in the way. Though Larundog has been all but wiped out in its entirety,” Shammoth replied.

[The Ninth Viscount, Head of External Reconnaissance, Shammoth]

Hitting one of the walls with enough strength to rumble the building, a woman with short, white hair that matched her snow-white uniform, paired with a fluffy, black cape showed her disdain for Shammoth’s answer.

“Weren’t you responsible for making sure the Nightmare made sure to reach all of Milligarde’s high-priority cities? If you let that playful nature of yours hinder the Majesty’s will, I will personally handle your execution, Shammoth,” the black-eyed woman promised.

[The Fourth Viscount, Head of Vanguard, Elda]

Shammoth laughed, raising his hands as if submitting, “I gave it my all, truthfully–”

A castle-quaking aura of contempt rose from Elda as she narrowed her eyes on the Ninth Viscount, though was stopped as a man stepped between them. He was dressed in jet-black attire with a crow-feathered cape around his shoulders, wearing a silver necklace that hung over his scarf. A singular earring in the shape of a frosten crystal was attached to his left ear.

“Now, now…This is not the time to fight amongst one another; it will surely sadden her Majesty. Why don’t we settle this formally over a peaceful discussion? Perhaps a reprimanding in the form of a toll should be in question.”

There was a smile that hardly veiled the man’s true self as he adjusted his glasses with a simple press of his fingertips, clad in dark, silken gloves. Lavish rings, embroidered with precious jewels were worn on each of his fingers.

[The Fifth Viscount, Head of Monetary Affairs, Montmirail]

A certain sordid air gave off from Montmirail’s glass smile, holding a gentle expression that hid the true corruption sitting behind the glasses of the youthful man’s face. Only briefly did his eyes part, revealing his snakey, amber irises.

“Is money all that’s on your mind, Montmirail? Delegates should stay out of personal matters–this is about loyalty,” Elda said bitterly.

Chuckling to himself while still swaying his precious vial, the Head of Alchemy seemed amused by the animosity between the Viscounts.

“What’s so funny?” Elda asked, turning to look at the blonde-haired man of science.

Laurent tucked his vial away beneath his pale coat, “Oh, nothing. I was just reminiscing about when you were once a timid, new recruit to the Order, dear Elda.”

“You–” Elda gritted her teeth in embarrassment.

“A fight? I wanna watch! My money is on Elda!”

A feminine boy cheered, watching with a delighted, bubbly smile as he rested his chin on his hands. Despite the cold nature of the land, the boy with curly, ginger locks wore shorts, supplemented by only knee-high, black socks as he tapped his shoes against the rich tile.

Still, despite his seeming childlike nature, there was a wisdom past his apparent years inlaid in his cross-shaped, amethyst irises.

[The Sixth Viscount, Head of Spiritual Alliances, Floraison]

Flipping a coin in his hand, a man with a scar etched across his left eye, holding emerald irises, responded as his golden ponytail swayed behind his rich, black cape, “In that case, I’ll bet on Shammoth. It’s natural to favor family, isn’t it? One must have faith in his younger siblings; that much is a given by the bond of blood.”

Though Shammoth seemed somewhat annoyed to be referred to as simply a ‘younger sibling’ by the scar-faced gambler.

[The Eighth Viscount, Head of The Hunting Party, Amariah]

“You aren’t fooling anybody, Amariah,” Montmirail said, holding his hands together, “If we have anything in common, it’s that we both value the importance of wealth above all else. ‘Family’ has no sway over that.”

Amariah laughed, “Read like a book? Well, perhaps not all of us are as cold and ruthless as you, Montmirail, ‘The Blood Broker.'”

“It simply comes with the job, I’m afraid. In the world of blood and trade, one must leave their emotions at the doorstep,” Montimrail adjusted his glasses with a soft smile, “With that being said, my own mission has been going smoothly; I’ve established firm business relations with Transluvia and Bellmisa.”

“It seems we’re not the only ones who wish to see Milligarde crumble–how intriguing. What a blessing it is to be able to witness the times to come,” Laurent remarked.

Arriving from beyond the heavy, steel doors that were caked in a light-layer of frost, a stalwart man with no semblance of leeway on his expression silenced the conversations between the Viscounts with his imposing steps.

“Enough of your theatrics. I will not tolerate any bickering amongst each other, nor will any ‘executions’ be permitted–if you must die, do it while furthering Her Majesty’s will,” the man spoke with a deep voice that commanded respect.

Exemplifying his seniority was his snow-white beard and matching locks that fell on the shoulders of his silver cloak, possessing a singular, icy-blue eye while the other was covered by a jeweled eyepatch.

He wore the butterfly symbols of Farmay on his coat, which had cobalt strings hanging on its expertly-tailored fabric.

[The First Viscount, Leader of Her Majesty’s Viscounts, Hiver]

They all gathered around the snow-white table that was etched with the symbol of a frosted butterfly; the eccentric lords of Farmay stood in silence while the First Viscount was present.

“After countless sacrifices and biding our time in the cold, the time has finally come to enact our plan now that Milligarde has been properly weakened,” Hiver said, “…The strength of Her Majesty’s Viscount will not fail. If there is one shared connection between all of us, it is our commitment to Her Majesty and her dream: We will retake our home, away from this frosted coffin, and eliminate the self-proclaimed ‘God In The Sky’–the Element King, Aelor.”

It was with those words that all of the Viscount closed their eyes in agreement of this wish, nodding their heads in silence.

Hiver took the chess piece from the wartime table, moving the ‘Queen’ forward, “No longer will we be anchored by past betrayal. ‘The Perpetual Princess’–let us erase that belittling name given to Her Majesty in history books; let the betrayal of her brothers and sisters, who rule Milligarde with brittle claim, come full circle. Let us give back to Her Majesty the luscious land she was promised.”

It was a promise made between the outcasts of the world; a covenant made with the forever youthful empress of the Farmay Empire. Stemming from a land forgotten by time, burned from scriptures, and hidden, known only by the royalty responsible for the creation of the exiled kingdom.

This was the ‘Bond of Frost’–marking the beginning of a war to come that would reshape Aracius forevermore.

[“Her Majesty will have her rightful kingdom, even if it shall be burnt and rebuilt from the ashes anew; an empire forged of ice and blood will become the ‘new order’, free from the gods’ authority.”]