The Clown and the Judgment

A ring of dirty red spread along the edge of the clouds and sank lower.

"Faster! Loosen the reins!" The lead guard knight cracked his whip and shouted at the top of his lungs. "We have to enter the Ashen Fief defense zone before the Blood Moon rises fully!"

Dozens of heavy warhorses draped in chain mail charged across the frozen tundra.

Emon rode near the front, staring ahead without expression.

A few days earlier, when the party had entered Iron Gleam Fief to take control of its mines and six thousand soldiers, the men Valen had left behind had stalled on handing over the registers. Several officers had even rested their hands on their sword hilts to test him.

Emon had not wasted time on them. He had slapped the document onto the table and cut down the ringleaders on the spot.

The rest had immediately lowered their heads and handed over the troop rolls, mine accounts, and Workshop records.

Iron Gleam Fief was firmly in hand.

Now a second document lay against his chest: the verdict on Ashen Fief's defiance of wartime orders.

Before Emon left Blackpine Fief, Shien had given him no specific instructions. He had only said, "Go see what's happening in Ashen Fief, then handle it as you see fit."

Emon knew exactly what that meant.

How to deal with its people, how to take control of the fief, and how far to go were all his decisions. Of course, whatever followed would be his and Shien's to bear together.

When Emon had first arrived in Blackpine Fief, he had still considered himself the eyes sent by the Governor's Mansion. Not anymore.

After everything Shien had impressed upon him, Emon had a clear sense of how the Graymist Defense Zone needed to develop. Shien's relentless