After the uproar had subsided.
Veylin stood in the gallery, a glass of red wine in his hand, looking down at the people still queuing in the hall below to sign their registration forms.
Roland stood beside him, watching with a conflicted expression.
"Is this the 'touchstone' you mentioned?"
Roland asked quietly.
"Look at them."
Veylin swirled his glass. Red wine clung to its sides like streaks of blood.
"On the surface, they're cunning and treacherous, shrewd to the last detail. All they talk about is profit and risk."
His gaze fell on a baron who was pushing his son toward Caroline, urgently giving him instructions.
"But in truth, they're no different from Sarah's children."
"Everything they do puts the survival of their race and family above all else. For that chance to 'flourish,' for their bloodlines to take root across a wider stretch of land..."
Veylin tipped his head back and drained his glass.
"They'll leap into the fire without hesitation, even if it means sacrificing themselves and burning through their family fortunes."
Roland remained silent for a long time.
He had to admit that Veylin had seen through these nobles to their very core.
"What do we do next?" Roland asked.
"We split up."
Veylin turned, took a file he had prepared earlier from inside his coat, and handed it to Roland.
Roland took the file and skimmed it, raising his brows slightly. "You want me to go back to Fertile Plains Province and hire mercenaries?"
"Yes."
Veylin nodded.
"These noble brats may be well equipped, but they're meant to break through enemy lines. We still need plenty of line troops and auxiliaries to hold the front, transport supplies, and... draw fire."
He pulled a slip bearing a thorn emblem from his pocket and placed it in Roland's