In the prison cell, the embers of the torch cast the last wavering shadow across the stone wall.
Helson sat in the dark corner, his thoughts like underground currents slowly converging into shape.
He recalled the conversation in the marquis's study before they had set out.
At the time, Paul Greiman had stood before a massive map, his finger tracing the outline of the Rocky Mountains as he said in a low voice, "We Aldo People have always believed that ridge was a natural barrier granted by the Lord of Light. As long as this colossal wall stood, the barbaric orcs on the grasslands couldn't break into our garden of civilization. But the orcs still got in. They crossed mountain paths we knew nothing about and pounced into the heart of the kingdom like wolves. That was when I understood—the mountains aren't a wall unless they belong entirely to us."
He remembered the look in the marquis's eyes when he turned around. "Helson, as long as those mountain paths capable of supporting the passage of a sizable army aren't in our hands, Aldo will never sleep soundly."
At the time, he had asked, "But those neutral clans have never been our enemies. Do we really have to resort to force against them as well?"
The marquis hadn't answered him directly. He had merely said, "I don't want enemies. What I want is control. Whoever controls those mountain passes controls the fate of the north. The Stonemason Clan stands with the orcs, and Alba can take a shortcut to attack the heartland at any time, while we can only circle around that massive mountain range connecting east and west if we want revenge."
Helson knew that the Stonemason Clan might be willing to negotiate peace, but as long as they still