Asta August sat alone in his study, holding the Imperial Edict that had just arrived, his knuckles tightening.
Candlelight fell across the parchment, making the gold threads of the Empire's imperial crest gleam.
Establish a fief in the Northern Frontier. Just a few words.
There was no advice, no expression of hope, only detached third-person language and commands.
He gazed at the candle flame, but an emotion he could neither name nor explain surged within him.
Unease.
And... a secret sense of opportunity.
"So you finally remembered me?" he murmured, his self-mockery tinged with sarcasm.
It had been years. He had all but convinced himself that he would grow old quietly, silently, in this palace.
As a prince with no achievements, no real power, and no story to tell.
He had long been shut away in a blind spot of imperial power, as though his name on that page of the family genealogy existed only to make up the numbers.
It was not as though no one had warned him.
Quite a few people had advised him out of kindness, "You're not suited to competing for power."
He could find no words to refute them, but neither could he say, "I'm willing to know my place."
He had always felt something weighing on his heart.
It was not ambition, but resentment... resentment at being labeled "useless," at being denied even a single chance to try.
And now his father had suddenly reached out and pushed him into the already shattered Northern Frontier.
"What is this? A test? Exile? Or... a gamble?" Asta did not believe it came from any appreciation or affection.
He knew his father, a man of few words who tolerated no pleas for affection and offered no opportunities.
He had never heard his father say, "I have