Chapter 4 : The Northern Threat

The rain that had plagued the city for three days finally broke on the morning of the fourth, leaving the palace courtyards washed clean and the air sharp with the scent of wet stone. Cedric was in the training yard, working through the drills Michael had shown him, when the messenger arrived.

He saw the man first—a rider on a lathered horse, his cloak dark with mud and rain, his face pale with exhaustion. The horse stumbled as it entered the courtyard, its breath coming in ragged gasps. The rider dismounted awkwardly, nearly falling, then staggered toward the palace doors where guards moved to intercept him.

Cedric watched as words were exchanged, too far away to hear. Then one of the guards turned and ran into the palace. The messenger was helped inside, his legs barely supporting him.

Something was wrong.

Cedric wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He considered following, but remembered Michael''s warning about curiosity. Instead, he returned to his drills, but his focus was gone. His eyes kept drifting to the palace doors.

Less than an hour later, a page found him. "Sir Cedric. You''re summoned to the war council. Immediately."

"War council?" Cedric''s heart quickened.

"The King''s orders." The boy was young, perhaps thirteen, but his face was serious. "The northern border has been breached. Vikings."

Cedric followed him into the palace, his mind racing. Vikings. The word carried weight, history, fear. He had heard stories since childhood—raiders from the north, fierce warriors who came in longships to burn and pillage. But those were stories from his grandfather''s time. The border had been quiet for years.

The council chamber was not the throne room but a smaller, more functional space on the palace''s second floor. A long oak table dominated the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Maps were spread across the table, weighted down with daggers and inkpots. The air was thick with tension and the smell of wax and old parchment.

Cedric entered to find the room already half-full. He recognized some of the men—Lord Blackwood, the Duke of the Eastern Marches; Sir Gareth, commander of the northern garrison; Michael Yang, standing near the head of the table. Others were strangers, their faces hard, their eyes assessing.

He took a position near the door, unsure where he should stand. He was the youngest in the room by at least ten years, and the only one without a title or command. A knight, yes, but newly made. What was he doing here?

The door opened again, and the King entered.

Alexander wore no crown, no royal robes. He was dressed as he had been in his study—dark tunic, practical breeches, boots scuffed from use. But there was a difference in his bearing today. A tension in his shoulders, a sharpness in his eyes. This was not the king who held court or presided over feasts. This was the commander.

"Report," he said without preamble, taking his seat at the head of the table.

Sir Gareth stepped forward. "Your Majesty. Three days ago, a Viking raiding party struck the village of Blackrock. They came at dawn, twenty longships. They burned the village, took what they could carry, killed those who resisted. Thirty dead. Twice that many taken as slaves."

A murmur went through the room. Cedric felt a coldness in his stomach. Thirty dead. A village burned.

"Blackrock is fifty miles inside the border," Lord Blackwood said, his voice tight. "How did they get that far without being seen?"

"Our patrols were light," Gareth admitted. "It''s been a quiet season. We thought—"

"You thought wrong." The King''s voice cut through the room. "What else?"

"The raiders didn''t retreat back to sea. They moved inland. Toward Silverwood."

Another murmur, louder this time. Silverwood was a mining town, rich in silver ore. Its loss would be more than symbolic.

"How many men can you raise?" the King asked, his eyes on a map of the northern border.

"From the northern garrisons? Two thousand, perhaps twenty-five hundred. But it will take time to gather them. A week, maybe more."

"Too long." The King''s finger traced a line on the map. "If they take Silverwood, they''ll have a fortified position. And the silver to buy more ships, more men."

"We could send the Royal Guard," Michael said quietly. He had been standing silently until now, his eyes on the map. "Five hundred men. They could be on the road by tomorrow."

"And leave the capital undefended?" Lord Blackwood''s voice was sharp. "With the Dowager''s faction growing bolder every day?"

"The Dowager is not burning villages," Michael countered, his voice still calm. "The Vikings are."

"Both are threats," the King said, ending the argument before it could escalate. "But one is immediate. The other... political."

Cedric watched the exchange, understanding dawning. This was not just about military strategy. It was about power, about alliances, about the delicate balance of the court. Send the Royal Guard north, and the King''s power in the capital weakens. Leave them here, and the north burns.

"The Royal Guard goes north," the King said finally. "But not all of it. Three hundred men. Michael, you''ll command."

Michael bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"The remaining two hundred stay here. Under..." The King''s eyes scanned the room, passing over the nobles, the commanders. They came to rest on Cedric. "Under Sir Cedric Chen."

Silence fell. Cedric felt every eye in the room turn to him. He kept his expression neutral, but his mind was racing. Two hundred men? In the capital? Under his command?

"Your Majesty," Lord Blackwood began, his voice tight with disapproval. "With respect, Sir Cedric is—"

"Newly knighted. Yes." The King''s voice held a warning. "He''s also a tournament champion. And he''s proven himself discreet and observant. Qualities that will be needed here."

The message was clear. This was not just about military command. It was about trust. About having someone in the capital who answered directly to the King, not to any faction.

Cedric stepped forward. "I''ll do my duty, Your Majesty."

"I know you will." The King''s eyes held his for a moment. "You''ll have your orders by tonight. For now, dismissed."

The council broke up, the men filing out in small groups, talking in low voices. Cedric waited, unsure if he should leave or stay. As the last of the nobles exited, Michael approached him.

"A word," the commander said quietly, leading Cedric to a corner of the room.

When they were alone, Michael''s expression grew serious. "This is a test, Cedric. And a dangerous one."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Michael''s eyes searched his face. "You''ll be responsible for the security of the capital with half the usual guard. And you''ll be doing it while the King''s attention is divided. While the Dowager''s faction sees an opportunity."

"What should I do?"

"Watch. Listen. And remember that not every threat comes with a sword." Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. "The King trusts you. Don''t make him regret it."

He left then, leaving Cedric alone in the empty council chamber. The maps still lay on the table, the daggers holding them down gleaming in the light from the windows. Cedric looked at them—the northern border, the villages marked, the possible routes of the Viking raiders.

He thought of the messenger, exhausted and mud-spattered. Of the thirty dead in Blackrock. Of the people taken as slaves. This was what war looked like. Not glory, not honor. Burning villages and stolen lives.

And yet, part of him—a part he was ashamed to acknowledge—felt a thrill at the King''s trust. At the responsibility given to him. Two hundred men. The security of the capital.

He left the council chamber and made his way to the barracks. The men were already gathering, news of the Viking raid spreading through the palace like wildfire. He could see it in their faces—fear, excitement, determination. They were soldiers, and soldiers understood war.

In his small room, he sat on his cot and looked at the silver spurs on the table. They gleamed in the afternoon light, the lion seeming to watch him with empty eyes.

Three days ago, he had been watching a merchant in a dockside tavern. Today, he was preparing for war. The world had shifted, and he was still trying to find his footing.

He thought of the King''s words in the study. "Information can be more lethal than any blade." Now he understood. The Vikings were the immediate threat. But the real danger might be closer to home. In the whispers of the court. In the ambitions of nobles. In the silent, watching presence of the Dowager Queen.

And he, Cedric Chen, newly knighted, was now standing between them all.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, his expression was set. Resolute.

War had come to Arcadia. And he would meet it as a knight of the realm.