The sun rose with a soft, golden hue, painting the sprawling gardens of Ashford House in gentle light. It was a day for meticulous precision, one where every action could ripple into consequences that would define the future conquest. For Doralice, the Northern Border was not just a target—it was a puzzle to unravel, a masterpiece to deconstruct into pieces she could manipulate.
Seated in her study, the room adorned with heavy velvet drapes and shelves filled with military and political texts, Doralice sifted through maps, cultural documents, and the reports her spies had gathered. The Northern Border was a land of warmth and trust—a kingdom that thrived on openness and sincerity, ruled by a king whose benevolence mirrored the golden fields of daisies that adorned their countryside. It was a stark contrast to Alden, where every smile was a dagger, every kind word a trap.
"This is a delicate matter," Doralice murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "To plant seeds of doubt in a soil so pure, the roots must grow unnoticed, yet deep enough to split the foundation."
A knock at the door broke her concentration.
"Enter," she commanded, her voice effortlessly shifting into a warm, cheerful tone.
The door creaked open to reveal Eryndor, her appointed companion for the journey. He was a young scholar, plucked from the Ashford House's loyal ranks, trained in linguistics and anthropology. His lean frame and unassuming demeanor belied the sharp mind that had earned him the trust of Duke Ashford himself.
"My lady," Eryndor greeted, bowing respectfully. "The preparations for the journey are complete. The identities have been forged, and the carriage awaits."
Doralice regarded him with a scrutinizing gaze. Eryndor had been chosen for his expertise in cultural studies, but also for his quiet loyalty. He was the perfect balance—brilliant enough to assist her, yet humble enough never to challenge her authority. His selection had not been arbitrary; it was a calculated decision to ensure the success of the mission.
"Good," she said, standing gracefully. "You know your role?"
"Yes, my lady. I am a wandering scholar from the Southern Isles, accompanying you, my sister, on your pilgrimage to the famed temples of the Northern Border."
She smiled, a gesture so disarmingly genuine that even Eryndor, who knew her true nature, felt its warmth. "Perfect. Remember, Eryndor, in this land, we are not wolves. We are lambs. Harmless. Meek. Trustworthy."
"Yes, my lady," he repeated, though the words felt heavy.
The journey to the Northern Border was uneventful but gave Doralice ample time to refine her observations. As the carriage crossed the final hills, the landscape changed. Rolling fields of golden flowers stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with cottages painted in bright yellows and whites. Children played in the meadows, their laughter carried on the breeze, and farmers waved cheerfully as the carriage passed.
It was as if they had entered another world—a world so removed from the cunning and brutality of Alden that it felt almost nauseating to Doralice. Yet she wore her mask perfectly, her blue eyes sparkling with what seemed like genuine awe.
"Such beauty," she whispered, leaning out of the carriage window. "It feels like a dream."
Eryndor, seated beside her, nodded. "It is remarkable how their culture thrives on trust and kindness. Even their justice system is built on rehabilitation rather than punishment. It's… admirable."
"Admirable," Doralice echoed, her smile unwavering. But inside, her thoughts churned. Such naivety would be their downfall.
Their arrival at the capital was met with warmth. Disguised as siblings, Doralice and Eryndor were welcomed by the townsfolk with gifts of flowers and fresh bread. They settled into a modest inn, blending seamlessly into the crowd.
The next few days were spent observing, listening, and learning. Doralice wandered the bustling markets, her laughter ringing like a bell as she bartered for trinkets. She visited the temples, her demeanor humble and devout, asking questions that painted her as an eager pilgrim.
Eryndor, meanwhile, gathered information from local scholars, scribes, and merchants. Together, they pieced together a picture of the Northern Border's culture, one that revolved around honesty, familial bonds, and an almost childlike faith in humanity.
"They believe in the good of others," Eryndor remarked one evening as they reviewed their notes in their inn room. "It's a strength, but also a vulnerability."
Doralice's smile turned sharp for a fleeting moment, but she quickly masked it. "Vulnerabilities can be exploited. But it must be done with precision. We are not here to shatter their trust outright, Eryndor. We are here to plant a shadow where none existed before."
Eryndor hesitated, then nodded. He had sworn loyalty to the Ashford family, and he would see this mission through, even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
As the chapter drew to a close, Doralice sat alone by the window of her inn room, gazing out at the moonlit fields. She allowed herself a moment of stillness, her mask slipping to reveal the cold, calculating mind beneath.
The Northern Border was a masterpiece of innocence, a delicate balance of warmth and trust. And Doralice was determined to unravel it, thread by thread, until it was hers to control.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulled her from her thoughts. She turned, her mask back in place, as Eryndor entered with a fresh report.
"Tomorrow," she said, her voice soft but firm, "we begin laying the groundwork. The Northern Border may be pure, but every light casts a shadow. It's time we showed them theirs."