Morgiana's room was, predictably, the best room in the monastery. Yet, its furnishings were sparse, resembling Ryan's tent: a single bed, a cabinet, and a rotting wooden table with a candle. Clearly, Morgiana was writing something, as a quill rested in an inkwell.
A black magic book, now purified by the power of the Lady of the Lake, lay sealed in holy water on the table. The cover bore the name Heinrich Kemmler, indicating it was his spellbook or journal. Ryan glanced at it with interest but didn't delve further. "I thought you'd be at the victory feast, my lady."
Morgiana's golden hair flowed silk-like over her shoulders. Upon seeing Ryan enter, she cast a spell on the door. Hearing his words, she frowned, her tone icy. "If I were there, would they celebrate like that?"
"...Probably not," Ryan admitted after a moment's thought. He chuckled helplessly. Morgiana was right; François could celebrate freely with his subordinates, but her presence would certainly chill the atmosphere.
"You reek of alcohol..." Morgiana's expression showed slight distaste. She gestured for Ryan to sit. "Never mind, the victory was worth celebrating. Sit down."
"Okay, what's this about?" Ryan, knowing he had indulged too much, got straight to the point and sat down.
Morgiana checked the door and the windows before her icy demeanor softened. Today, she wore a silky, plum-colored dress and white high heels. She relaxed slightly, sat on her bed, and removed her heels. "I need your opinion on something, Ryan. What do you think about reducing Duke Théodoric's punishment?"
Her legs, clad in flesh-colored stockings, extended forward. The stockings had fine, barely noticeable folds at the ankles, giving her feet a delicate, polished look. Her toenails, painted a soft pink, wiggled slightly before Ryan's eyes.
Ryan stroked his chin, thinking it over. "So, you plan to lessen Duke Théodoric's punishment?"
"Yes, to some extent. Regardless, Théodoric played a commendable role in this war. It wasn't his war, but he still joined the fight. The battle didn't require him to charge, yet he did so, almost dying to attack Kemmler," Morgiana explained. "Emotionally and rationally, I must acknowledge his efforts."
"So...no punishment at all?" Ryan joked.
"Not quite. I plan to extend his house arrest for another year or two. After that, he can return to ruling Bréton. Rules are rules," Morgiana responded. "What's your take?"
"Duke Théodoric's support was opportunistic, but his bravery in battle was undeniable," Ryan pondered. "Given that, a two-year suspended sentence sounds fair."
"But many knights still hold a strong bias against Théodoric. After his sentencing, several knights from Bréton expressed their dissatisfaction with my decision. Some even believe Théodoric deserves harsher punishment or should abdicate," Morgiana shared her concerns, clearly aware that public opinion was against leniency. Many feared that if released too soon, Théodoric would reoffend.
Ryan shook his head. "Morgiana, you can't think that way."
He reached out and took Morgiana's hand, explaining the situation to her.
Rules were rules. Morgiana's decision to send Duke Théodoric to Bastogne Abbey served to remove him from his previous life and political turmoil—a form of protection and a method of penance and punishment.
Whether Théodoric truly repented was debatable. Ryan doubted it, but his actions in seeking redemption were commendable and aligned with the knightly virtues of sacrifice and honor.
He had significantly impacted the battle and nearly died in the process. For his penance, he led the charge, risking his life.
Théodoric achieved what he set out to do, and thus Morgiana had to consider reducing his punishment.
Ryan had seen many "armchair judges" in his previous life. They would read about a case, get enraged, and call for severe punishments, often defaulting to extreme penalties like the death sentence. Others would argue for leniency, sometimes absurdly suggesting no punishment at all, under the guise of mercy.
This black-and-white thinking amused him; it reminded him of an old warrior code from another country—where apologies sufficed for minor offenses, and ritual suicide for grave ones. Was that true justice? Hardly, it was just an outlet for their frustration.
"Alright... I understand. Let's go with that decision," Morgiana nodded. She then raised another issue. "And about giving Blackstone Hold to the dwarves—are you sure?"
"Is there another option?" Ryan smiled. "Would you rather let the vampires keep it? Or maybe the orcs?"
"How about we garrison Blackstone Hold ourselves?" Morgiana suggested, clearly troubled by the matter.
"How would we garrison it? With three hundred men? Transporting food for a thousand each time? Can three hundred men defend such a large stronghold against orcs and bandits?" Ryan shook his head. "For now, letting Belegar and his kin establish a base there is more practical than us trying to hold a mountain fortress."
"If you insist, so be it," Morgiana conceded, though she seemed to have her own thoughts on the matter. "What will the dwarves expect from us in return?"
"Food," Ryan folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. "The main issue is food. The dwarves have a large appetite, and the mountains produce little. Belegar plans to call all his kin to Blackstone Hold, restore its functions, and the biggest challenge will be feeding them."
"The food problem is manageable through trade," Morgiana acknowledged, but then brought up another point. "Besides that, we need to respond to his call and launch a knightly crusade... When does he plan to?"
"Not until he gathers his kin, trains and organizes them, forges enough weapons, and is ready for a long campaign," Ryan smiled. "We've also suffered significant losses. François and I need to rest for at least two to three years."
"Understood. Let me know when you think the time is right. I will then issue a chivalric war decree in the Lady's name, rallying the knights to join the expedition to Eight Peaks Mountain. The dwarves have helped us, and the knights must repay them," Morgiana agreed, shifting her focus to another matter. "You reek of alcohol. Go bathe, and then come back. I'll join you tonight."
"But…" Ryan hesitated, already knowing where this was going.
"No buts. Clean up and come back. I'll be waiting," Morgiana blushed and leaned close, whispering in his ear. "Didn't you say you wanted to try again with me...? I've already washed. Hurry up."
"Oh, oh, oh!" Ryan's eyes lit up with excitement.
...And so, the troops began their return journey the next day.
"Ryan, sometimes we dwarves really envy how humans can ride horses." King Belegar of Eight Peaks Mountain sat at the front of a wagon, drinking Bugman's Ale, and commented to Ryan. "For obvious reasons, it's very difficult for us to ride mounts."
"Heh, heh, heh~" Ryan, his face still flushed with joy from the previous night, responded absent-mindedly. "I've heard that long ago, dwarves and humans in Averland got along well because the dwarves needed cavalry, and the Averlanders needed weapons and armor."
"Exactly. Even before Emperor Sigmar established the Empire, several dwarf clans in the World's Edge and Black Mountains traded with humans. The people in Averland then, called Brigundians, were straightforward and warm-hearted like dwarves. Averland was a fertile plain, rich in grain and quality horses. Though, I must say, Averland's horses were never as good as your warhorses. Anyway, from those times, dwarves and humans have had a solid trade relationship. We needed human food and cavalry, and humans needed our weapons and armor," Belegar reminisced, continuing, "To rebuild Blackstone Hold, we'll need significant food support. I'm counting on you for that."
"We'll provide some initial food support, and once everything's in place, trade will solve the food problem," Ryan agreed, understanding the bargaining was starting.
"We'll also need manpower, lots of wagons, meat, and fresh vegetables. In return, we'll train your engineers and craftsmen...as much as they can learn," Belegar added.
"Agreed."
Outside the wagon, Ryan and Belegar were deep in negotiations. Inside, Morgiana and Veronica lay on a small, swaying bed. Morgiana, blushing deeply, buried her face in a pillow. Her entire body ached, and she could barely move.
Veronica, too, was in a similar state, having fallen asleep already.
Morgiana gritted her teeth, cursing Ryan for his enthusiasm that left her so exhausted she couldn't even move. Yet, she also felt deeply satisfied and at peace, her magic gradually restoring.
Morgiana's next goal was to recover the Holy Grail of Potions and fully regain her powers.
For now, she would lie in wait, gathering her strength.
The army continued its journey home.
Meanwhile, beyond the endless Warp storms, in the Material Universe, Holy Terra, the Imperial Palace, the Throne Room.
The familiar crackle of ozone and the hum of cables filled the air. Magnus the Red, the Thousand Sons Primarch, sat on the Golden Throne, reading a book and laughing uncontrollably.
"Citizen
! The Emperor needs you!"
"To serve the Imperium is the highest honor!"
"The Emperor knows all! He watches over you!"
"Only in death does duty end!"
"To die for Him is better than to live in shame!"
"Identify the heretic, kill the heretic!"
"Obey without question!"
"Doubt is a sign of weakness!"
"A true Imperial citizen never falters!"
"Bwahahaha!" Magnus's laughter echoed through the Throne Room until a psychic bolt struck his forehead. He yelped in pain and complained, "Father! Wasn't this all that bastard's doing? Why hit me?"
Not far from the Golden Throne, an apparatus designed to imprison a C'tan shard held a daemonic prince captive. The Emperor of Mankind and the Raven Guard Primarch, Clarkson, were monitoring its stability. Hearing Magnus's complaints, the Emperor remained impassive, while Clarkson turned and snapped at Magnus, "Shut up, Magnus, unless you want me to do to you what I did to Lorgar."
"Hmph! Damn albino Clarkson, always threatening me!" Magnus grumbled, though he continued reading, muttering, "Lorgar's case is different; he was easier to handle."
Previously, the Emperor had led a strike on the Eye of Terror with the Custodes and Clarkson. Their mission: to capture the traitorous Word Bearers Primarch, Lorgar.
Surprisingly, the operation went smoothly. Lorgar was stunned to see Clarkson, and before he could react, the Raven Guard Primarch publicly humiliated and subdued him in front of his sons. Beaten unconscious, Lorgar was dragged out of the Eye of Terror and imprisoned in the device meant for the C'tan.
"Father, what should we do next? With this traitor?" Clarkson hesitated before asking, "Jonson is fighting on Armageddon, and Guilliman is leading the Indomitus Crusade."
"You and I will visit Ryan to purify Lorgar," the Emperor decided after a brief pause, his eyes sparking. "It's time to meet Ryan's wife and the Eldar's Farseer, Fugen."
"Yes!"
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