Two weeks later, the fields were alive.

Not in the poetic sense — Ludger had spent fourteen days wading through mud, frost, and back-breaking work, pushing mana into frozen soil. The grass had spread a few miles out now, and livestock pens were half-built, though still empty. He was elbow-deep in a muddy irrigation trench when the horns blew.

“Visitors from the south!” one of the sentries shouted.

Ludger straightened, wiping grit from his hands. On the horizon, a line of banners fluttered in the pale light — a crimson carriage flanked by armored riders, their polished plate gleaming even through the haze. The horses’ breath steamed like smoke.

He didn’t even need to squint to recognize the crest embroidered on the carriage: a red and silver bull.

The Torvares crest.

Ludger sighed through his teeth. “…I guess it was about time.”

Darnell glanced at him from the nearby scaffolding, smiling. “Friends of yours?”

Ludger’s tone was flat. “The loud kind.”

Kharnek followed his gaze, then barked a low laugh. “Those southerners of yours don’t travel light, do they?”

“No,” Ludger muttered, “and if the crest’s there, then it’s not just officials.” He rubbed the back of his neck, already feeling the oncoming headache. “That means Lord Torvares himself, probably Viola, my half-sister… and— tan, tan, tan, taaaaaammmm… my parents.”

Kharnek smirked. “Your father, the swordsman? I’d like to face him again sometime.”

“And that’s a problem.” Ludger said, tone dry as ash. 

The entourage drew closer, carriages crunching over the frozen soil that gave way to patches of green. The contrast was stark — the area in the distance lined with snow , the other half bursting with stubborn life. Even from a distance, Ludger could feel the curiosity radiating off them.

He could almost hear Lord Torvares already: ‘So this is where Ludger vanished to. Turning wastelands into gardens, are we?’

It hadn’t even been a month since Ludger left. And yet somehow, the rumors had beaten him home — and dragged his entire family back north to see if they were true.

Ludger crossed his arms as the banners neared, exhaling in slow resignation. “Well,” he said under his breath, “time to face the inspection committee.”

Behind the convoy, a second line of movement caught Ludger’s eye — smaller, slower, and far noisier.

Dozens of wagons trailed the main carriages, their wheels half-sunk in the thawing mud. The sound hit him next — a deep, uneven chorus of snorts, hooves, and low bellows.

Cattle.

A whole damn herd of them, trudging across the reborn grasslands with imperial handlers shouting and waving sticks to keep them in line.

Ludger blinked once. Then again. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Darnell followed his stare. “Those… are cows.”

“Sharp eyes, Captain,” Ludger muttered.

He stepped forward, boots sinking into the soft dirt, squinting toward the procession. Behind the lead wagon, a flag with the Torvares crest flapped proudly in the wind. And beneath it — crates. Packed, sealed, and stamped with southern merchant sigils.

Ludger rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t even get the notice that the purchase was approved.”

Kharnek grinned like a wolf. “So your people move faster than you expected?”

“That’s what worries me.” Ludger crouched, running a hand through the grass as if the earth itself could explain this nonsense. “We only sent shipments of froststeel a few times over two weeks ago… raw ore, still unrefined. There’s no way Lord Torvares turned that into money this fast.”

He exhaled through his nose — sharp, thoughtful. “Unless he already had buyers lined up before we sent it.”

Darnell crossed his arms. “Meaning he knew you’d succeed here.”

“Or,” Ludger said, standing, “he bet I would.” His tone was half disbelief, half reluctant admiration. “The old man’s playing his own game again.”

The convoy kept rolling closer, the herd spreading like a slow-moving tide. Steam rose from the animals’ backs, their hides thick and frost-resistant — northern breeds already mixed in. Someone had thought ahead.

Ludger’s lips thinned. “Damn. He even picked the right stock.”

Kharnek’s laughter rumbled beside him. “Then it seems that the girl’s grandfather doesn’t just believe in your miracle, boy — he’s already selling tickets to it.”

Ludger grunted. “Yeah. And now he’s bringing the whole audience.”

He watched the carriages approach — banners snapping, horns echoing, cattle lowing behind like a drumbeat of change. The alliance had barely found its footing, and already, the south was moving in to stake its claim.

He sighed, shoulders straightening as the first carriage wheels crunched over the new grass.

“Alright,” Ludger muttered, voice low and resigned. “Let’s welcome the crew.”

The convoy ground to a halt at the edge of the grasslands. Steam hissed from the horses, servants scurried to set footstools and clear mud from boots, and before long the real storm began.

One by one, they emerged.

Lord Torvares stepped down first — posture straight, eyes already scanning the horizon with that sharp, calculating gleam that never dulled with age. His cane bit into the soft earth as if he meant to stake a claim right there.

Viola followed, cloak snapping in the wind, hands already on her hips. “Well,” she said, half awe, half disbelief, “so the rumors weren’t exaggerating.”

Behind her came Ludger’s parents — Arslan with that relaxed warrior grin that said he’d been looking forward to this, and Elaine with the serene poise of a woman trying not to step in mud as she walked slowly thanks to her visible belly of four months already..

And then the rest spilled out — Arslan’s old party members, grinning like veterans on holiday, and somehow even Aronia and Yvar trailing behind them, the former blinking at the landscape as though she’d just walked into an illusion, the latter wordlessly nodding as if cataloging it all for later.

They stood there together, boots sinking slightly into the fertile ground, staring out over the stretch of rolling green. The border’s once-frozen expanse shimmered under sunlight, wind sweeping through fresh grass like waves over steel.

Their expressions were almost identical — disbelief bordering on wonder, mixed with a kind of cautious respect.

Torvares broke the silence first. “…You actually did it.”

Arslan whistled low. “He didn’t just do it — he is taming the north.”

Viola crossed her arms, eyes narrowing at the distant irrigation lines and wooden watchtowers. “Tamed it? More like bullied it into submission.”

Elaine smiled faintly, shaking her head. “Either way, it’s beautiful.”

Ludger stayed where he was, a few paces off, hands in his coat pockets as the wind brushed through his hair. Watching them all react felt strangely surreal — like seeing strangers stumble into a dream he hadn’t realized he’d built.

He exhaled, voice dry. “Welcome to the border.”

Darnell leaned closer, muttering just loud enough for Ludger to hear, “Their faces all say the same thing.”

“Yeah,” Ludger murmured. “Shock. Followed by paperwork.”

Kharnek chuckled behind him. “They look like priests seeing fire for the first time.”

“Close enough,” Ludger said, expression unreadable. “They came to see if I’d lost my mind. Instead, they found proof.”

The group continued forward, fanning out across the grasslands, nobles and warriors alike trying to make sense of what they were seeing. Frost still clung to the hills in the distance, but here—under their feet—the world had changed. And Ludger could already feel the questions forming.

Lord Torvares took the lead without a word, his cane tapping the earth in measured rhythm as the entourage followed. The others—Arslan, Elaine, Viola, Aronia, Yvar—fanned out behind him, but there was no mistaking who led this particular march.

The Baron’s eyes were sharp, scanning everything—the soil, the grass, the makeshift watchtowers, the half-built pens in the distance. Each detail he absorbed like a man reading a battlefield. He didn’t ask questions yet. He simply walked, calm and certain, until he saw Kharnek waiting near the field’s edge beside Ludger and Darnell.

The northern chieftain stood like a wall of muscle and scars, fur-lined cloak swaying in the wind, club haft resting against his shoulder. He was the kind of man who looked like he’d rather headbutt a problem than discuss it—but even he straightened slightly as the old nobleman approached.

Ludger’s breath fogged as he muttered under his breath, “Oh boy. This’ll be fun.”

Torvares stopped a few paces away, studying Kharnek in silence. The two men couldn’t have been more opposite—one groomed and deliberate, the other wild and blunt. Yet for a moment, neither spoke. They just looked at each other—the kind of long, assessing stare shared by men who’d both commanded others through blood and winter.

Something in that silence clicked.

Torvares finally nodded once, then extended a gloved hand. “Lord Torvares. Steward of the borderlands and patron of this effort.” His voice carried clear and steady through the cold air, firm without arrogance. “And you must be the northern leader Ludger spoke of.”

Kharnek blinked, then huffed out a short laugh that could’ve been amusement or surprise. “Aye,” he said, grasping the offered hand in a grip like iron. “Kharnek of the Broken Pines. Chieftain of the northerners who survived the last war.”

The handshake was brief but solid—old soldier’s respect wrapped in new diplomacy.

Kharnek’s tone softened just a fraction as he added, “You don’t look like a man who hides behind walls.”

Torvares’ mouth twitched. “And you don’t sound like one who charges without thought.”

Their grips tightened once before releasing.

Ludger watched the exchange from a few meters away, arms crossed. “That went better than expected,” he muttered.

Darnell smirked. “You were expecting shouting?”

“With those two?” Ludger said. “I was expecting someone to test the handshake with a knife.”

Kharnek stepped aside, gesturing toward the open fields. “Your little friend done fine work here,” he said, voice rough but genuine. “The land breathes again.”

Torvares glanced across the grass, then back to Ludger. His eyes softened—just slightly. “He does have a habit of overachieving.”

The two leaders stood side by side, different as fire and frost, but united by one truth neither needed to say aloud: the borderlands were no longer a line of war—they were becoming a shared frontier. For the first time in generations, an Imperial noble and a Northern chieftain stood on the same side of the wind.

Ludger let the older men’s handshake linger a moment longer before stepping forward, hands in his coat pockets, tone deliberately casual.

“Well, before anyone starts discussing border policies or cattle breeding strategies, might as well get the introductions out of the way.”

He gestured toward the pair standing a little behind the group. “These are my parents — Arslan and Elaine.”

Kharnek turned toward them, his broad grin returning. “Ah! The ones who raised the little mage who turned winter into farmland.” He started to take a step forward, hand already lifting — the same brutal, back-slapping greeting he gave Ludger every morning.

Ludger raised a hand like he was warning a man about to step on a rune trap. “Kharnek, I swear—if you greet my mother the same way you greet me every morning, you’ll lose more than your hand.”

The northerner blinked, then roared with laughter, head thrown back. The sound echoed over the grass. Everyone else froze mid-breath — Viola went pale, Darnell pinched the bridge of his nose, and even Lord Torvares looked like he wasn’t sure whether to scold or laugh.

When Kharnek finally caught his breath, he grinned wide enough to show teeth. “I wouldn’t slap a woman in the back like that, boy — much less a pregnant one.”

A ripple of tension broke as every Imperial attendant promptly forgot how to breathe. Elaine tilted her head, serene smile never faltering.

Ludger’s jaw clicked. “…You noticed, didn’t you?”

Kharnek chuckled. “Hard not to. She’s got an aura around her.” His grin faded into something more thoughtful, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. “The kind you don’t see often — someone strong, even if she looks like she’s never drawn a sword.”

Ludger gave a small, knowing smirk. Star Widow’s Wrath, he thought dryly. Still the strongest imaginary skill in the family.

Elaine only offered a polite nod, her voice gentle as ever. “Thank you, Chief Kharnek. For looking after my son.”

The chieftain rumbled approvingly. Then his gaze shifted to Arslan — and the atmosphere hardened just a bit.

“You,” Kharnek said, grin sharpening into something like respect. “I still remember our last fight. You nearly split my shoulder in two.”

Arslan laughed, clapping a hand to his own hip. “And you cracked my ribs like firewood.”

Kharnek stepped forward, extending an arm. “Then I hope next time we duel, we do it without trying to kill each other.”

Arslan’s grin widened into something boyish. “That’d be new. But sure — could be fun.”

Their handshake was rougher than the one Kharnek had given Torvares — less diplomacy, more mutual challenge.

Darnell leaned toward Ludger. “Your family’s idea of bonding is terrifying.”

Ludger exhaled, tone flat. “Yeah. Welcome to dinner at our house.”

The wind swept through the fields again, carrying the sound of their laughter across the reborn border. For the first time since the war, Northerners and Imperials stood side by side — not as enemies, not as wary allies, but as people finally starting to understand each other.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the borderlands looked like something out of a story — campfires burning against, laughter echoing between half-built walls, and the smell of roasted meat cutting through the northern winds.

Lord Torvares, ever the strategist, had come prepared. Wagons were unloaded, barrels cracked open, and entire slabs of spiced meat roasted over open flames. “A proper celebration,” he’d declared, “for the first step toward peace.”

The Northerners hadn’t needed convincing.

Within minutes, the air turned into a storm of cheers and tankards clashing. The northern warriors mingled freely with Torvares soldiers, their voices rising in mismatched songs and drunken boasts.

Kharnek was, predictably, at the center of it all—already red-faced and grinning as he tossed back his third mug of ale. Across the fire from him, Harold was puffing up like a rooster.

“Chief Kharnek!” Harold shouted, slamming a mug down hard enough to splash half of it out. “Rematch! For my honor!”

Kharnek barked out a booming laugh. “Honor? You mean the puddle you drowned last time?”

“Rematch!” Harold roared, already reaching for the next jug.

The crowd whistled and cheered. Two mugs were filled to the brim and slammed onto the table between them.

“Drink!” someone shouted.

They did.

And it didn’t take long.

By the fourth round, Harold’s expression was glassy. By the fifth, his head wobbled like it was trying to escape his neck. By the sixth, he collapsed forward, face-first into the grass with a soft thud.

The Northerners howled with laughter.

“His honor’s sleeping!” one yelled.

“Dreaming of mercy!” another added.

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