I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 1462: The Capitals of Ashes And Constellation

The journey back to the capital of the Reimgard Empire took three weeks, and for every mile the North Guards marched south, the air grew warmer and the tales grew taller.

Northern walked in the middle of the Eleventh Squad in his black uniform with his hands tucked into his pockets, listening to the carters and the Gate Wardens tell the story of the Forest Hunters.

By the time they reached the outer ring of the Central Plains, he had heard that Rian the Mercenary stood nine feet tall, that he breathed lightning from his nostrils, and that he had frozen a whole river with a single glare.

"They’re saying you ate one of the big ones," Han said on the eighteenth day, limping beside him with a grin that made his cracked ribs ache. "Raw. On top of the pile."

"It was cold," Northern said, not looking up from the frozen ruts of the road. "I needed the calories."

Baletta snorted, though her hand rested near her sword hilt as the passing merchant wagons slowed to stare at their column.

"You shouldn’t joke. The carters are writing songs about it down in Hollin’s Ford. Commander Vanessa had to threaten to burn the third inn they visited just to get some peace."

The corner of Northern’s mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon ahead.

He was not interested in the songs. He was interested in the shape of the Empire’s crown. Every word that spread, every exaggerated detail of the massacre in the northern valley, pulled another stone from the foundation of the Emperor’s quiet authority. While the Emperor emptied his treasury and spent the blood of his legions on grand campaigns to conquer the Eastern lands, his own northern backyard had been left to rot.

And now, a nameless mercenary with black hair and a single talent had done what four hundred years of Imperial garrisons had failed to do.

It was a very satisfying kind of poison. A present for his father, wrapped in silver tales and delivered straight to the heart of Reimgard.

On the twenty-second day, Reimhold appeared.

The Crown City did not sit upon the earth so much as it crushed it. Walls of pale granite, three times the height of the Castle Keep’s ruined ramparts, stretched across the valley of the Crimson Tide, and banners of gold and vermilion snapped along every length of battlement. Above the slate roofs, the grand cathedrals of the Twelve Worthy climbed into the grey sky, their spires packed as close as needles in a cushion.

The highest of them all, the white tower of the Luminance Spire, caught the afternoon sun so brightly that its tip burned like a second star above the river. Here, more than anywhere else in the world, the churches of the Constellations prospered.

Vast stone statues of ancient patrons stood along the upper terraces and stared down at the streets below, stars of iron, of stars, and of the deep heavens. Their sculpted eyes were inlaid with reflective glass, and wherever the sun struck them, they threw hard white light across the tiles of the lower districts.

"So this is it," Jalsket muttered, his hair fading to a nervous, pale silver as he stared up at the iron gates. "Looks expensive."

"It is," Doron said flatly. "And every copper came out of the northern grain tax."

The gates opened for them without a fanfare, swinging back with the unhurried precision of an Empire that tolerated its border guards only when they were useful. Yet as the Eleventh Squad and the surviving North Guards marched through the outer archway onto the cobbled avenues, the quiet did not last.

The news had already beaten them there.

People lined the balconies of the timbered tenements. Merchants left their stalls, and shrine-servants in white robes paused on the marble steps of the Church of El Fach to watch the soot-stained column pass. The whispers ran down the avenue ahead of them, from stall to stall and balcony to balcony, so that every new street already knew who was coming.

"That’s them... the ones from the North..."

"Which one is Rian?"

"Is that the boy? The one who left eleven thousand dead?"

Northern kept his head down and his shoulders loose, but his senses were wide open. He felt the weight of hundreds of eyes, and more importantly, he felt the distinct, sharp pulses of essence watching from the high towers. The guilds were watching. The high priests of the Starward Court were watching from their marble balconies, their golden censers swinging lazily in the breeze.

And deeper within the inner city, where the banners of the Imperial Legions hung from the garrison keep, someone far more dangerous was taking notice.

They reached the eastern barracks by nightfall. The North Guards were quartered in a low-ceilinged hall meant for auxiliary troops, its stone walls beaded with damp, and before Northern could even unbuckle his sword belt, the door to the courtyard creaked open.

Peaker stepped inside, his long face pale in the torchlight.

"Rian," the assistant captain said, his voice pulled tight. "You have a visitor."

Northern raised an eyebrow and stepped out into the courtyard, where the flagstones shone wet under the torches.

Standing near the weapons rack was a woman in a thick coat of dark navy wool trimmed with white fur, the double-headed hawk crest of the Imperial Line pinned to her collar. She was an Ascendant, with the weathered skin of a soldier who had spent years on the Eastern front. Behind her stood two guards in full plate, their gauntlets resting on the pommels of broadswords.

Captain Ysolde Vaertia of the Sixth Legion.

The Sixth, nicknamed the Winterward, was the Legion currently gathering its banners and provisions for the grand expedition into the Northern Continent.

Ysolde did not offer a polite greeting. Her dark eyes swept over Northern, taking in his lean frame, his black hair, and the easy way he stood in the wet cold with his hands still in his pockets.

"You’re the boy from the valley," she said, her voice dry as parchment. "The one they call the Mercenary."

"Rian," Northern said simply. "And you’re a long way from the Legion Fields, Captain."

Ysolde pressed her lips thin. "Rian you say..."

Her gaze sharpened for a moment, but she shifted and spoke. "The Sixth has need of men who don’t freeze when ten thousand things come out of the dark. The expedition marches for the Northern lands before the winter sets in. We are gathering the strongest talents across the provinces. Nobles, guild masters, Drifters... it makes no difference to us."

She took one step closer, and the smell of oiled iron and pine resin drifted off her coat.

"A boy like you, wasting his youth holding a broken wall for a handful of copper coins... it’s a waste. In the Sixth Legion, under the banner of the Emperor, a Sage with your body count doesn’t stay a private for long."

Behind Northern, Baletta and Han had slipped out of the barracks door and stood watching with their jaws set.

Northern looked at Captain Ysolde for a long moment.

He didn’t smile. He let his expression stay plain, arrogant, and slightly bored, which was exactly the look a lethal sellsword ought to carry in front of an Imperial officer.

"The Sixth Legion," Northern said slowly, tipping his head. "Does the pay cover my squad?"

Ysolde glanced past him at the ragged Drifters standing in the doorway, and her eyes lingered on Han’s bandaged chest before she let out a short, practical grunt. "The Legion takes soldiers who can march. If they can keep up with the column, they get the same coin as the rest."

She turned on her heel, the hem of her coat swirling around her boots, and walked toward the iron gates.

"Think on it... Rian," Ysolde called over her shoulder without looking back. "The capital is full of priests and guildmasters who will offer you copper for small errands. But if you want real blood, real glory, and a ship to the Northern continent... you come to the Sixth."

Northern watched the gates swing shut behind her.

In the quiet of the courtyard, Baletta stepped up beside him. She looked up at his face the way the crowds on the avenue had looked at him, and her thumb worried at the callus on her sword palm. "Are you really going to join them, Captain? The Imperial Legions... they don’t care about the North Guards."

Northern turned his head slightly. High above the rooftops, the glass eyes of the Constellation statues threw back the moonlight, and a thin cold sliver of it caught in his own dark eyes.

"I know," Northern said softly, his voice flat as a flagstone. "That’s why I’m going to make them pay for the ride."