Sacred Calendar Year 819, late January (the Month of Beginnings), at noon.
The leaden sky revealed flashes of azure blue, as if the blizzard that had seemed capable of burying the world had finally relented.
Thick snow was piled high in front of the distinctive half-domed houses of the city — in some places it reached half a man's height, blocking doorways entirely. Residents of the Shahran Empire clambered out through their windows one after another, tossing back shots of strong liquor as they shovelled away the snow.
They were predominantly golden-haired, sandy-haired, or raven-haired, and most were broad and heavyset. The young women tended to be fair-featured, though the older ladies had let themselves go considerably — many were twice the width of their husbands. Snowballs that would take several strong men to push could be handled with a single hand by these women.
On the second floor of an elegantly decorated dark-green inn along the street, two young people were watching the lively scene outside through a window. The beautiful blue-eyed blonde girl rubbed her hands together and said with a playful grin, "I've never seen snow this deep in the Ural region. And it's already been almost a month since New Year."
The Ural region belonged to the Kinov Province of the Shahran Empire, situated in the empire's southwest, separated from the Vorlite Principality's northern fortress by two provinces. It was renowned for its smiths, ore, and weaponry, and provided logistical support for the Marinov defensive line.
Looking at the girl's soft, lovely face and the curves visible beneath her fire-fox fur coat, the rugged young man beside her — his sandy hair shaved to a crew cut — hesitated, opening and closing his mouth several times before finally mustering the courage to speak. "Lena, don't you... are you still spending a lot of time with that Mr. Peter?"
Lena turned her head, puzzled. "Igor, is there a problem? Mr. Peter is a knowledgeable, well-traveled gentleman with a sharp sense of humor. He's wonderful to talk to."
When she said "wonderful," the corner of Lena's lips curved slightly upward in a faint smile.
That smile made Igor profoundly uncomfortable. He paced back and forth irritably, abandoning all pretense of composure. His voice grew rushed and slightly high-pitched. "Lena, he's a nobleman. His wife will certainly have to be of noble birth."
Lena's delicate brows knit together in a slight frown, a note of displeasure entering her voice. "What does that have to do with me? Mr. Peter and I are simply friends. Igor, can you stop letting your imagination run wild? If Mr. Peter were here, he'd be talking to me about blizzards in other lands, or fun games that go along with heavy snow — he'd never make me angry or upset."
"Mr. Peter, Mr. Peter — Lena, can you stop bringing him up?! Noblemen like him are all hypocrites! In public they maintain this elegant, dignified air, but behind the scenes there's nothing rotten they won't do. You can tell from the two showy long swords he carries, from the way he's equally polite and courteous to every pretty girl in the caravan — he's actually a fickle, womanizing scoundrel. And he hasn't even awakened the power of his bloodline — sooner or later he'll lose his noble status!"
This sort of conversation had played out between the two young people several times before. But watching Lena carry on chatting and laughing with that Mr. Peter without so much as putting any distance between them, Igor could no longer contain the tidal wave of jealousy. He spat out every last sour feeling he'd been bottling up inside.
Then he said, sulky and morose, "I only bring these things up because I care about you — that's the only reason I make you unhappy. A man whose elegant consideration never wavers no matter the situation can only mean he doesn't truly have you in his heart. He's just trying to trick you, to trick you..." Although years of mingling with mercenaries and adventurers — all in pursuit of awakening his bloodline power — had made his speech rough on occasion, in Lena's presence he still instinctively kept any profanity in check.
Lena's face fell. Shimmering tears swirled in her bright blue eyes. "Igor, Mr. Peter is not the kind of person you imagine. Two single, pretty girls in the caravan once tried to seduce him, and he turned them both down. Besides — am I really the kind of person you see as vain and easily lured away?"
With that, she sniffed, spun on her heel, and stalked off to her room, slamming the door shut behind her. All that remained was Igor outside, remorseful and apologizing over and over to no one.
At the other end of the hallway, around the corner, someone else was watching through a glass window the lively scene of snow-clearing below.
"Mr. Peter, the etiquette of the Vladimir family is truly exemplary — and you are the most upright nobleman I have ever encountered when it comes to women." The red-nosed old man in the gray coat spoke with a smile. His name was Byelov, Lena's father and a member of the caravan.
Currently posing as Peter...
To match the characteristics of the Vladimir family, Lucian had dyed his hair golden with an extract from a certain tree and changed his eyes to deep blue with backup contact lenses. The overall effect made him look considerably more radiant.
"That's all flattery — stories written to deceive young girls into willingly becoming nobleman's mistresses," Byelov said with exaggerated expression, then chuckled. "Mr. Peter, shall we have lunch together? I still have a bottle of black hawthorn wine."
Lucian withdrew his right hand and shook his head. "Thank you for the kind offer, Mr. Byelov. I injured my body while traveling in the north, so I'm unable to drink."
"Haha, Mr. Peter, that's the least charming thing about you. Wine and battle — now those are a man's romance!" After over a month of acquaintance, an old fox like Byelov had more or less figured out Lucian's temperament and could joke around with him in relative ease.
The Shahran Empire was known as the Kingdom of Knights, because the proportion of its population who awakened their bloodline to become knights exceeded that of the Vorlite Principality, the Holm Kingdom, and similar realms by nearly fifty percent. This was the only reason they had been able to sustain their fight for centuries, even though the power of their clergy was considerably weaker than that of the southern Church.