The Scales

After seeing Sir Kylan off, Karl did not rest. He immediately had his personal guards summon Richter, the intelligence officer who had just returned, travel-worn, from the northern front.

This loyal and capable subordinate wore the fatigue of a long journey on his face, but his eyes remained sharp as an eagle's.

The two sat facing each other in the crude yet heavily guarded office, the door shut tight to block out the noise of the outside world.

"Sit, Richter." Karl pointed to the chair opposite him and got straight to the point, his voice low and solemn. "Start with the situation around Tyrol. What's happening on the Sauron side? Harald took such a huge loss. Surely he isn't really willing to accept defeat without showing any sign of counterattack?"

Richter sat down, leaning forward slightly as he reported with certainty, "My lord, according to reports from the agents we planted in Frosgard and the covert sentries along the route, the Sauron camp has been unusually quiet so far."

"There have been no signs of Harald's main army moving toward Tyrol. Instead, some smaller units have been gathering along the western and northern borders. Scout activity around Tyrol Fortress has also decreased sharply—there are even fewer scouts than before the war."

"It seems... they really were beaten into submission. At least for the short term, they appear to have abandoned their plans to retake Tyrol."

Hearing this, Karl lightly tapped his fingers against the table, his brows knitting slightly as a trace of doubt flashed in his eyes. "It's a little too quiet... Harald isn't the sort to swallow his anger. He suffered such a huge loss, losing a Regiment Commander and thousands of elite soldiers, yet he's shown no reaction at all? That doesn't fit his character."

"I'm afraid