Chapter 200: A new group in the village

Jaenor was roused from his house, where he’d spent a few hours in fitful sleep. His body still ached from the battle with Draelusa, though Morgana’s healing had addressed the worst of the damage.

“How many?” he asked the scout as he strapped on his gear.

“Perhaps fifty soldiers. Elite cavalry by their equipment and formation. And someone important at their center—the soldiers are arranged in protective formation around them.”

Not an attack force then.

Fifty cavalry couldn’t take a fortified village defended by five hundred soldiers plus Ba’narussa. This was an escort. Someone important traveling with appropriate protection.

Jaenor gathered his friends and headed toward the southern approach.

The militia and Brotherhood forces were already mobilizing, taking defensive positions while trying not to appear overtly hostile. Attacking imperial forces without provocation would create complications none of them wanted.

The approaching group became clearer as they drew near. The soldiers wore armor that marked them as Imperial Guard, not the ceremonial troops that protected the palace, but actual elite fighters trusted with the royal family’s safety in the field. Their horses were quality breeding stock, and their weapons showed the maintenance of professionals who expected to use them.

And at their center rode a woman who commanded attention without effort.

She appeared to be in her early thirties, though with people of power and privilege, age could be deceptive. Her face was striking rather than conventionally beautiful—strong features, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth that suggested both intelligence and carefully controlled cruelty. Her eyes were her most arresting feature—pale grey, almost silver, holding depths that suggested she missed nothing and forgot less.

Her hair was dark brown shot through with premature silver, worn long and loose despite the practicality issues that presented. It was a deliberate choice—a statement that she was confident enough to prioritize aesthetics over function because she had subordinates to handle actual threats.

She wore traveling clothes of exceptional quality—dark fabrics that probably cost more than most villagers earned in years, cut to emphasize her figure while maintaining appropriate dignity. A cloak of deep purple—an imperial color—hung from her shoulders, and the rings on her fingers bore stones that would feed a family for months.

Everything about her presentation spoke of wealth, power, and absolute confidence in her position.

The force stopped perhaps thirty feet from where Jaenor and his companions waited. The woman dismounted with practiced grace, and immediately two guards moved to flank her—close enough to intervene against threats, far enough to give her space.

Morgana sucked in a sharp breath.

“That’s Princess Gwendolen,” she whispered urgently.

“The Empress’s eldest daughter. Jaenor, that’s—”

“I know who she is,” Jaenor said quietly, though he actually hadn’t until Morgana identified her.

But he recognized power when he saw it, regardless of titles.

Gwendolen approached with measured steps, and her pale eyes swept across the assembled group, cataloging each person with the efficiency of someone trained to assess threats and assets instantly.

When her gaze landed on Jaenor, it lingered. Evaluation flickered across her face too quickly to fully read, but he caught hints: surprise at his youth, reassessment based on the power radiating from him, and calculation of how he might be useful.

“Lord Jaenor Arkwright,” she said, her voice carrying aristocratic precision. Each word was carefully formed, the accent marking her as educated in the imperial court’s highest circles.

“How fortuitous to find you here. It saves me considerable travel.”

“Your Highness,” Jaenor said, bowing appropriately.

“This is unexpected. I received your letter, but I hadn’t yet responded.”

“Yes,” Gwendolen said, and something in her tone suggested complicated feelings.

“But when I learned you were heading west, I decided waiting for formal correspondence was inefficient.”

She gestured to the village around them.

“If you wouldn’t come to meet me, then I should come to meet you. Besides, this region faces demon threats. My presence demonstrates imperial concern for even our most remote territories.”

The implication was clear: this visit served multiple purposes, and meeting Jaenor was only one of them.

“We’re honored by your presence,” Valara said, stepping forward with the formal courtesy expected when hosting royalty.

“Though I apologize for the accommodations. Frostvale is a simple village, not prepared for—”

“I require very little,” Gwendolen interrupted smoothly.

“My soldiers can make camp outside the village. I’ll need only a private space for discussions with Lord Arkwright and minimal staff to attend to my needs.”

It wasn’t a request, despite the polite phrasing.

Valara recognized that and inclined her head.

“Of course, Your Highness. We’ll prepare the chieftess’s residence for your use.”

“Excellent.” Gwendolen turned her attention back to Jaenor.

“Lord Arkwright, I’d appreciate the opportunity to speak with you privately. There are matters of realm security and mutual interest we should discuss.”

“Of course,” Jaenor agreed, though wariness crept through him. Powerful people rarely sought private conversations for benign reasons.

“Shall we say this afternoon? That gives me time to settle in and you time to…” She glanced at his friends, at the obvious signs of recent combat, “…recover from your recent exertions.”

“This afternoon works,” Jaenor confirmed.

Gwendolen smiled, a controlled expression that showed exactly what she wanted it to show and nothing more.

“Wonderful. Until then, Lord Arkwright.”

She departed toward the village center, her guards falling into formation around her, leaving Jaenor and his companions to process what had just occurred.

“Well,” Rena said once the princess was out of earshot.

“That was terrifying.”

“She’s dangerous,” Morgana agreed.

“More dangerous than her sister in some ways. Baelyna is ambitious and strategic, but Gwendolen is… calculating on a different level. She doesn’t just play political games; she rewrites the rules to suit her purposes.”

“Why is she really here?” Taeryn asked.

“There’s no way she traveled all this way just to talk to Jaenor.”

“Multiple reasons, probably,” Baren said, his tactical mind working through possibilities. “Demonstrate imperial presence in threatened regions, assess the demon situation personally, and establish relationships with local forces. And meeting Jaenor is an opportunity, not an obligation—she’s turning an existing journey to her advantage.”

“Which means she’s been planning this,” Jaenor said slowly.

“Watching my movements, waiting for an opportunity that would seem natural rather than contrived.”

“Exactly,” Morgana confirmed.

“And that level of attention from someone like Gwendolen is… concerning. She doesn’t waste time on people unless she sees significant value in them.”

Jaenor looked toward where the Princess had disappeared into the village.

“Then I’d better figure out what that value is before this afternoon. Because going into negotiations blind with someone like her is suicide.”

*

Snow fell steadily as Jaenor waited at the agreed meeting point, the northern edge of the village where paths led into the evergreen forest. The snow here was eternal, Frostvale’s most distinctive feature. Some ancient powers saturated the region, keeping winter perpetual regardless of season elsewhere.

Jaenor had dressed simply but well, in clean clothes that marked his status without excessive display. His merged power was carefully controlled, not manifesting visibly but always ready.

Gwendolen arrived precisely on time, which somehow didn’t surprise him.

She wore different clothing now, still expensive, but more practical. Heavy cloak against the cold, boots suitable for walking in snow, gloves of supple leather. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid that kept it from her face.

She’d dressed down, matching his own relatively casual presentation. Another calculated choice—putting him at ease, suggesting this was an informal discussion rather than a formal negotiation.

“Lord Arkwright,” she greeted.

“Shall we walk? I find conversation flows better with movement.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

They began walking along the forest path, and Gwendolen gestured to her guards to maintain distance. The soldiers obeyed, falling back perhaps thirty feet—close enough to intervene against physical threats, too far to overhear quiet conversation.

Jaenor noted the discipline that required. Most guards would protest leaving their charge so exposed. That these didn’t suggest either supreme confidence in their Princess’s safety or absolute obedience to her commands. Probably both.

For several minutes they walked in silence, the only sounds the crunch of snow beneath their boots and wind through the evergreens. Gwendolen seemed content to simply observe her surroundings, taking in the eternal winter with an expression that suggested she was cataloging everything for later analysis.

Finally, she spoke.

“This snow—it’s beautiful, in a melancholy way. Permanent winter, never changing, never progressing. One could see it as stagnation or as preservation of something pure.”

“I’ve always seen it as both,” Jaenor said carefully.

“Beautiful but limiting. The crops that can grow here are restricted; the hardships it creates for people living here are real. Beauty doesn’t negate difficulty.”

“An admirably pragmatic view,” Gwendolen said.

“Most people romanticize their homes, overlooking the hardships in favor of sentiment. But you see clearly.”

She glanced at him, those pale eyes assessing.

“Though perhaps that’s your Arkwright bloodline. I’ve studied your family’s history, fascinating reading, truly. A bloodline that’s produced some of the realm’s greatest heroes and most terrible monsters, often with little to distinguish between them except the choices they made.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep