CHAPTER 23: HOME OF SINNERS

The Northrend Empire, by all means, was the clearest definition of a powerful sovereignty. It held the farthest north, and it was said that most wars brought against it died before ever reaching its borders.

Unlike the Elven Empire of Sylvanna, the Northrenders were not isolated by choice, but because most were terrified of them—brutes and warriors bred from a constant fight for survival, against both the beasts that surrounded them and against themselves.

Their lives were built on a simple ideology: a man’s worth could only be decided in blood and ash.

Nothing would be taken from their hands unless they were dead and cold, and nothing from their empire unless it was reduced to ashes. These men of constant cold were as harsh and brutal as their climate.

And as if they weren’t terrifying enough, they possessed martial artists of realms most could not even fathom.

It was an unspoken rule, but one most knew well: life was always better when the men of winter were left alone.

However, the Byzeth King had become cocky... greedy.

Most refrained from engaging in any business with the Northrenders, given their nature. Trade with them was dangerous yet profitable. For that reason, they dealt only with the Draken Empire—the dragon riders.

Like the Northrenders, the Drakens were to be feared, for they had managed to obtain the secret of taming sacred beasts such as dragons.

This balance of enormous power maintained a level of fear and respect between the Drakens and Northrenders, allowing them to trade for many years.

However, the Drakens sold to the Northrenders at heavily inflated prices. The Northrenders had no choice but to buy from them, as no one else would trade with the men of winter.

This knowledge gave Aszer Hait, King of Byzeth, a brilliant idea: if he chose to sell to the north at market price—which was almost fifteen times less than the steep prices of the Drakens—the Northrenders would surely choose the Byzeth Kingdom as their preferred trade partner, granting Byzeth the trading power of an entire empire.

This was Aszer’s first vital step in his plan to seize the Valerian throne.

And it was also what had gotten him and his people slaughtered, their kingdom reduced to rubble, igniting one of the many wars Aric would one day fight.

That outcome was still years in the future, but the knowledge was vital.

"Isn’t there a single town where we can stop?" Lerai groaned, leaning further back into the carriage seat.

"Yeah," Serina agreed. "This path is far more desolate than I expected."

Since the start of the journey, she had always scolded Lerai’s complaints, insisting it wouldn’t be as long or tiring as he assumed. She had been wrong.

It had been forty hours since they had set off. After sitting in the carriage for so long, their muscles and bones ached. To make matters worse, they had also run out of food and water.

Aric did not indulge in any of it—neither eating nor complaining. His cultivation level left him with fewer needs than the mages, and he was far too deep in thought to notice the agonizing stretch of their journey.

In fact, he only paid attention now because there was business to handle in a town they should have already reached.

"The town should be close now," Aric offered, though it wasn’t much reassurance.

They had been traveling along Ezra’s Path for many hours. It was a long, brutal stretch of road with nothing but dry land. This desolate route ran through the Valerian Empire, connecting many of its kingdoms.

Over the years, towns had sprung up near it, eventually thriving and becoming havens for bandits and criminals alike.

As the most traveled path within the empire, Ezra was a prime target for those seeking to profit through unethical means—kidnapping, robbery, assassinations. Crimes occurred there daily, and since the surrounding land was barren, criminals made the nearby towns their base.

Before reaching Byzeth, Aric needed to see a particular criminal who would prove useful to him.

So far, their carriage had not been assaulted, simply because most knew better than to attack anything leaving the imperial city—it was assumed to be well-guarded.

"I need to eat... and sleep in an actual bed," Lerai groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Aric sighed. "Ask the driver if we’re close to the town."

As though he had been waiting for the prince’s command, Lerai stuck his head out the window. His hair whipped violently in the wind as he opened his mouth to ask, but then he saw it in the distance.

"We’re here," Lerai announced excitedly, pulling his head back into the carriage.

---

A few moments later, their carriage turned into the nearby town. The dry land gave way to uneven cobblestone roads. As they rode through, many passersby cast sidelong glances at the carriage.

Some were simple townsfolk, assuming it carried yet another captured criminal, while a few sharper eyes wondered if some unsuspecting prey had stumbled into their den.

The carriage stopped, and Aric stepped out, followed by Serina and Lerai. He turned to Alan and the driver.

"Secure the carriage. We’ll be back."

Both men nodded, and the driver guided the horses toward a corner.

The two mages followed the fourth prince, who walked with certainty, as though he had been here before—because he had. With his face partially hidden, he navigated the town almost expertly.

They reached a building much like the others in the town—wooden, plain, unremarkable. The difference was the strong, revolting stench of alcohol wafting from within, mingling with the noise of rowdy conversation.

Aric entered the tavern with Lerai and Serina close behind. Eyes turned toward them, noting their difference from the usual clientele. Ignoring the stares, Aric walked to the bartender.

"Please, a large pint of beer," he said, sliding over a gold coin.

The bartender nodded and quickly turned to fulfill the request. As he did, Aric raised his voice.

"Pardon me, but I’m looking for a gentleman by the name of Borag."

At once, tension rippled through the tavern. Some tried to hide their unease, others didn’t bother—hands slid toward weapons.

"No?" Aric glanced around, meeting eyes one by one. "He’s not in? Out in the field, perhaps? A shame."

The bartender returned with the drink, setting the large pint before him. The jug was bound with iron.

"Thank you, good sir," Aric said, taking a sip.

"Then perhaps Twicher is present?" he added, wiping beer foam from his mouth with his sleeve.

"You’re one audacious bastard, aren’t you?" a man sneered. He had long brown hair and a scar across his forehead.

"Ah, Twicher." Recognition flashed across Aric’s face as he approached, beer in hand.

"Most know better than to speak those names so freely," Twicher said, drawing an axe and placing it on the table. "The blade still carries warm blood, and that man had done far less than spout my name. I thought the foolishness of men would eventually see its limit, but I guess it is imp—"

The sickening crack of wood against skull silenced the room. The wooden jug in Aric’s hand shattered as he smashed it into Twicher’s head, knocking him unconscious in a single blow.

"You talk too damn much... I forgot how much it pissed me off."