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162. The Fake Sea King
The moment Master Fischer’s eyes locked onto Asher, a low, menacing growl escaped his lips. “So you’re the bastard who dared to lay hands on my sweetheart,” he spat, his voice thick with rage and possessiveness. Juliet stood beside him, a wide grin stretching across her face. She watched Asher with an almost cruel amusement, eyes gleaming with anticipation. She knew Asher’s reputation—his unflinching calm, his iron will. It was nearly impossible to intimidate him. Yet Juliet believed that sooner or later, they would tame him, break him down to their will. Her smile deepened as she said aloud to Fischer, “He looks calm now, but wait till we’re done with him. Then he will speak to me with respect.” Morgana’s eyes flashed with anger at Juliet’s smug tone, but before she could respond, Asher’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Morgana, Stay back,” he said softly but firmly, as if to silence her outburst. Morgana’s shoulders tightened. She bowed her head slightly, a silent
161. You Bore My General
Morgana stood in the middle of the road, her eyes fixed on the man before her with undisguised contempt. She didn’t know his name yet, but she didn’t need to. The arrogance rolling off him was enough to make her loathe him on sight—especially when she could tell, instantly, that he had no respect for Asher. That alone was reason enough to hate him. Her jaw tightened as started to speak again. “I won’t repeat myself after this. Lowlifes like you didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as the Supreme General, much less demand to meet him.” The man laughed, low and mocking, at the mention of Asher’s name. It wasn’t the laugh of someone amused—it was the laugh of someone trying to make the name sound smaller than it was. Morgana’s irritation climbed another notch. She took in the crowd behind him: nearly two hundred men, all dressed in rough, salt-weathered clothes—sailor’s garb, the kind that reeked of the sea and carried the stains of a hundred untold voyages. They weren’t locals; Drakem
160. The Sea King
The road ahead was choked with men. From the passenger seat, Morgana narrowed her eyes, scanning the cluster blocking their way. Asher sat in the back, one elbow resting against the door, expression unreadable. The faint hum of the engine filled the tense silence inside the vehicle. “General, I’ll go check what’s going on.” Morgana announced. He didn’t answer. Besides, he didn’t have to. His stillness was as good as a dismissal. Morgana pushed the door open, her boots crunching against the gravel. A breeze caught the edge of her coat as she stepped into the open. The men ahead were dressed strangely—nothing like the locals. Loose sailor shirts billowed in the wind, their trousers rugged and frayed from long use. Boots bore salt stains as if they had spent months treading decks under unforgiving seas. Their coats were weathered, smelling faintly of brine even from a distance. Her eyes sharpened. Seafarers. And not the casual, drunken kind who loitered in port towns. These were ha
159. Who Dares Provoke The General
The State Chancellor took a breath, his tone calm but loaded with weight. “Well, you might not know this,” he began, “but the princess, the ruler’s daughter—” At once, the ruler flinched. The Chancellor continued slowly, “If you remember, when she was just six, she was taken away by the Nazims… as tribute.” He paused. Asher remained expressionless. But the ruler’s gaze dropped, jaw tightening at the memory. The Chancellor resumed, not looking fully at the ruler, but aware that every word was sinking into the man’s chest like a dagger. “She’s been with them ever since. Not only that, others have followed, offered as tribute too. But let me tell you something you don’t know.” The room stilled. “The Nazims will soon celebrate their 500-year anniversary. It’s a grand season for them. And… I managed to reach out to one of the princes of the dynasty. He gave me his word, if we make him happy during the next visit, not only will they reduce the tribute required… the Prince said he could con
158. Asher Must Be Tamed
At that point, Ambrose knew he had to speak. Whatever flames the State Chancellor was trying to ignite which was meant to burn Asher or even consume him in disgrace had to be fueled. He stepped forward. “Well, General,” Ambrose said smoothly, his eyes narrowing, “to fill you in on what you’ve just walked into… the State Chancellor recommended you to oversee the visit of the Nazim envoys. They’re due in two days.” There was no shift in the Chancellor’s expression. No denial or backtracking. He simply turned his eyes to Asher with a calm, clipped stare that said it all: Yes. I said it. Asher was slow to respond. “The Nazims?” he repeated. His mind flashed. The ruler had written to him about them countless times when he was away at war. The letters were filled with warnings, requests and veiled desperation. Asher had never actually met the Nazims. He’d left home too young, left long before the Nazims grip tightened. Back then, they hadn’t dared approach Drakemont directly. His father, th
157. A Dangerous Comeback
Ambrose had always been quick to counter the State Chancellor’s proposals, but this time, something made him pause. The State Chancellor had just recommended Asher Blackmoor to welcome and oversee the envoys from Nazim. Immediately, Ambrose’s mind raced through the implications. The Nazims were known for their crudeness. They weren’t like other empires. Isolated by geography and temperament, they resided far from cities like Drakemont,separated by thousands upon thousands of miles. But distance wasn’t the only thing that kept other nations away. The Nazims were erratic, selfish, and dangerously lawless. Other kingdoms paid tribute simply to avoid conflict, not because they respected the dynasty. And so, when Nazim sent envoys, the hosting nations took extra care, lavish arrangements, exaggerated courtesies. They would do anything to avoid offense. These visits weren’t about diplomacy but survival. Ambrose shook his head slightly. Asher? Asher was to take on such a role? That was laugh
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