Alpheo had been waiting for this mont ever since he had ascended to the throne—or rather, married his way into it, only to discover the crown's lands to be woefully underpopulated. The disparity between the land's potential and its ager population had been gnawing at him like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch.
He knew why, of course. Feudal societies weren't built for mobility. In a system where most people worked land they didn't own, tied to it by the iron grip of tradition and their lord's will, the idea of packing up and moving elsewhere was nearly unthinkable. Serfs were as much a part of the land as the crops they toiled over, bound by law and custom to stay put. From birth, their world was confined to the stretch of soil they were born on, unless a disaster like a famine forced their hands.
It wasn't just a question of tradition; it was a question of power. To the feudal lords, their serfs weren't rely workers—they were the ones that paid taxes and served them during warti. And so, even in a land as rich as the crownlands, the potential for growth was suffocated under the weight of a system that kept its people tethered to the ground they plowed.
Another reason for the low pupulation lay in the crownlands' precarious location was for the most recent decade. Bordering the Princedom of Oizen, the region was a frequent target of raids. These weren't random incursions but calculated strikes, often orchestrated by fortresses along the borders during warti.
Alpheo knew this all too well. His conquered castles had themselves refrained from further raiding Herculeian lands during the critical harvest months of August and November—not out of rcy, but simply because the previous campaigns had stripped the surrounding lands bare. Any territory reachable by a garrison without venturing dangerously far from its castle had already been pillaged. There was nothing left to take.
This constant threat of raids discouraged growth and moved people away from their hos . Who would willingly settle in a region where their harvests, hos, and lives could be snatched away by enemy forces?
The typical solutions for repopulating such depopulated lands were slow to bear fruit. Encouraging higher birth rates, or offering incentives for settlers—all these were strategies for the long term, requiring years or even decades to show results. However Alpheo needed results in the short term, and that left him with only one practical option: move—or, if necessary, force—more people into the crownlands.
This was precisely why Alpheo placed such imnse importance on the diplomatic mission across the sea, to the untad lands where tribal clans lived in relative isolation. He saw an opportunity to do just that.
Alpheo's hope was simple yet ambitious: to entice so of these tribes to abandon their lives and settle within his borders. By presenting them with marvels unavailable in their holand—tools of advanced craftsmanship, the allure of fertile lands, and the promise of stability—he aid to tempt them into a new life under his rule.
The benefits were clear. More hands in the fields would an a dramatic increase in grain production co harvest ti. And, as an added advantage,or better yet the main one, tribal warriors could provide a valuable supplent to his armies—a pool of free and fiercely loyal fighters ready to defend their new ho.
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Currently, Alpheo rode steadily along the winding road of Aracina, the path ahead cleared by the city garrison in preparation for his arrival. It felt surreal to return to the city that had witnessed his teoric rise—not as a rcenary hungry for fortune and fa, but as its prince. mories stirred as he passed familiar streets, now bustling with life. He could still recall the days when desperate defenders dismantled hos for wood and stone to hurl at besiegers. Those sa houses had since been rebuilt, their sturdy fras standing as quiet witnesses to a tumultuous past.
Beside him rode Aron, the envoy handpicked for the mission across the sea . As the third son of a modest knight, he had never imagined himself in such company—riding alongside the husband of the princess, a man who was known as a warmonger as he personally led three battles in one single year. Aron kept his posture straight and his mouth tightly shut, but his unease was palpable.
The ride was far from silent. Alpheo, intent on ensuring the success of the mission, spoke with a calm yet authoritative tone as he offered Aron a stream of advice.
"When you approach their leaders, rember to keep your posture straight, but don't look too rigid," Alpheo said, his eyes scanning the road ahead. "You need to seem strong, yet approachable. Show them what we've brought—iron tools, and fabrics they've never seen. These things will catch their interest, but don't linger too much on the gifts. Make it clear we're offering more than trinkets; they will have to understand on their own that we are richer, we don't need to wipe their face on the fact"
Aron nodded occasionally, his focus torn between the prince's words and the heavy weight of his own thoughts. The prince's instructions were precise, even ticulous. How to react if they welcod him warmly. How to adjust if their response was more guarded. How to recognize the subtle shifts in tone or body language that might reveal hesitation, interest, or distrust.
"Watch their faces when you speak of the land we're offering. Tell them about its fertility, about the harvests they could have. But," Alpheo added with a sharp glance toward Aron, "never make them feel like they'd be subservient to us. As a matter of fact you just need to say they will have to give a small part of their harvest and, of course be in defense of it, which will co off as natural for them."
Aron nodded again, his heart pounding slightly as he absorbed the prince's words. He understood perfectly well what this mission ant, not just for the crownlands, but for him personally. Success would an a seat in the prince's inner circle, a role that carried influence, prestige, and—most importantly—security.
As the third son of a small landed knight, Aron had no inheritance to fall back on. No castle, no village, no legacy, not even an armor, as his father only owned a small village. He was a man poised at the edge of the commoner's world, where the lack of land or title could reduce his children to re lowborns. But this mission could change everything. If he succeeded, he wouldn't just be Aron, the knight's son. He'd be Aron, the prince's envoy—a position that brought with it work, influence, and the stability of being firmly tied to the court.
The prince continued, unrelenting in his instruction. Aron nodded again, this ti with a bit more confidence, though his nerves still simred beneath the surface. This was his chance, and he couldn't afford to fail.
As the group reached the port, the ride finally ca to an end. Before them, the harbor stretched wide, its docks bustling with activity. Ten ships stood ready, their sails furled, and their hulls loaded with provisions and goods. Soldiers moved about with disciplined precision, their armor glinting in the sunlight as they prepared for departure.
Alpheo took a mont to survey the scene, his sharp eyes lingering on the soldiers lined up along the docks. In total, 100 footn from the White Army had been assigned to the fleet. Their presence was a necessity, as the ships would have to pass near Harmway—where war was raging between the Confederation and the Rolians . The soldiers were there to ensure that no hostile fleet could intercept the mission .
Among the 100 footn, 30 were specifically designated as the envoy's personal bodyguards. They stood slightly apart from the others, their armor polished and their weapons sheathed but ready. Alpheo had been deliberate in keeping their numbers limited. Sending more might have given the tribes they sought to et the impression of hostility or intimidation.
After all, it wasn't as if a larger force would have guaranteed survival if the tribes decided to reject the envoy—or worse. If the eting turned sour, 30 or 100 would make little difference. The tribes would have certainly more n , and no amount of guards would save the mission if diplomacy failed. Instead, the 30 bodyguards were intended as a statent: a display of the strength and equipnt of those who had sent them. The polished armor, the sharp blades, and the confident stance of the soldiers were as much part of the ssage as the gifts they carried.
Aron dismounted his horse with a practiced but careful motion, his nerves hidden beneath a mask of composure. Turning to Alpheo, he stepped forward and gave a deep bow, his voice steady despite the enormity of the mont.
"Thank you, Your Grace, for this opportunity," Aron said, his words laced with both gratitude and determination. "I will not disappoint you."
Alpheo regarded him silently for a mont, his piercing gaze scanning Aron's face.
"We shall see," Alpheo said evenly.
As Aron straightened and turned toward the docks, Alpheo allowed his thoughts to wander.
Will he even return alive? The question lingered in Alpheo's mind, unspoken but insistent. It was not cruelty or doubt that drove the thought but the simple acknowledgnt of reality. The dangers Aron would face were many, his survival would be due as much as skill as to luck.
Still he hoped he would , as after all Alpheo hoped that what he was going for would be the solution he was searching for , in order to solve the problem of the small amount of cultivated land in the fiefdoms of the crown.
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