Chapter 33: The Meeting

After a series of efforts, Gawain finally entered Silverkeep in the grandest fashion, under the watchful eyes of the entire realm.

The poor had no time to care, the common folk had no interest, and small merchants and townspeople only mentioned it in passing during their meals. But the nobles—almost every noble who heard the news—had been following the developments from the very start.

Yet the towering castle walls, covered in silver leaf, stood tall and impenetrable, blocking most views. The lower and middle-ranking nobles were not granted entry to Silverkeep, and the king had ordered all higher-level channels of information cut off since dawn. They could only watch helplessly as the grand procession entered the castle, then speculate over the already public, hardly secret news.

The Northern Grant Duchess Victoria Wilde had arrived at Silverkeep three days ago.

The Western Grant Duke Bertram Franklin and the Eastern Grant Duke Silas Loren arrived together just an hour ago.

Several advisors and the king’s chief minister had also entered the castle.

The gates were now firmly shut. No one knew what was happening inside.

Was it a banquet? A secret meeting? A dispute? Or even a murder?

Countless eyes fixed on the castle walls shifted nervously, noses twitching as they searched for the scent of conspiracy or opportunity. Lips moved silently, crafting new theories and rumors—though the listeners were wise enough not to take any of it as truth. Until the castle gates opened again, no one could say what a resurrected man from seven centuries ago might be discussing with the current king.

Francis II had not arranged any tiresome feasts, nor summoned Gawain to court in the usual manner. Instead, he chose to meet him in the “Oak Hall” adjacent to the council chamber—at Gawain’s request.

The Oak Hall was an ancient place, dating back to the founding of Silverkeep seven hundred years ago—back when the castle was nothing like its current silver-leafed grandeur. The name “Silverkeep” was originally just a placeholder, chosen by Charles I because he couldn’t think of anything better.

As the oldest room in a castle that had been rebuilt countless times, the Oak Hall was enchanted about four centuries ago by a powerful court druid to keep its wooden structure alive and vibrant (in fact, the magic had to be recharged every hundred years).

Though only a third the size of the main council chamber, the small, aged Oak Hall was the most extraordinary place in the castle. Only nobles of count rank or higher could appear here, and only matters that could influence the fate of the kingdom were discussed in secret within its walls.

A round oak table sat at the center. The king took the seat marked by the celestial map as the “Crown.” To his right sat his chief minister, Aiden—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a deep, steady gaze. To his left was the current Duke of the North, Victoria Wilde. Further to the sides were the Western Duke Bertram Franklin and the Eastern Duke Silas Loren. A few other noble representatives, whose names Gawain didn’t bother to remember, also sat around the table, while royal advisors occupied a row of chairs behind the king.

Only Rebecca sat beside Gawain.

Amber and Sir Byron certainly weren’t qualified to attend, so Gawain had left them back at the manor on Crown Street, number four. He hadn’t even considered bringing Amber to Silverkeep—knowing her dedication as a thief, she’d probably try to scrape off every last bit of silver leaf from the castle walls.

Apart from the chief minister and a handful of token advisors, everyone present was a descendant of the kingdom’s founding pioneers—including Gawain himself, one of those original trailblazers. From the very start, this meeting carried extraordinary significance.

As a founding ancestor, Gawain had no need to bow or show formal respect to anyone present. He simply plopped down in his seat with casual ease. Rebecca, however, looked a bit nervous. The young woman clenched her fists tightly and took several deep breaths before settling down—forgetting, in the process, that she was actually supposed to bow to the king.

But no one minded. That’s the kind of authority you get when you bring your guardian to a meeting.

From the moment Gawain entered the room dressed in his ducal robes, sword of the pioneers at his side, every pair of eyes turned toward him. Even after he sat down, those gazes didn’t waver much. It was hardly proper noble etiquette, but no one could help themselves: a man who had been dead for seven centuries had just sprung from his coffin and stood before them. Who wouldn’t stare?

While many stole glances, their minds wrestled with the reality of Gawain’s existence—or rather, with King Francis II’s attitude toward it.

At that moment, the elderly king opposite the table rose. His hair was streaked with gray, and he looked frail with age, but his splendid robes lent him an impressive presence and vitality. He stood, leading the three dukes to rise as well, prompting the others to follow suit.

Gawain met his gaze as the king spoke solemnly: “May the gods protect Ansu. Today, seven hundred years later, we are honored to witness the hero of the founding era in person. We thank you and your generation for the sacrifices and dedication that ensured humanity’s survival. This land and all who dwell upon it will never forget the great pioneers. On behalf of the Morn family descendants, and alongside the heirs of all the founding pioneers, I pay tribute to our ancient hero.”

The king bowed deeply, and every descendant of the pioneers—including the three dukes—followed suit.

The king had made his stance clear: Gawain Cecil’s resurrection was real.

As for whether it was proper for a king to bow to a duke, there was no issue at all. After all, Gawain, who had been dead for seven centuries, was no longer just a duke—he was a symbol. Every year, when they visited the graves, everyone bowed multiple times before the portraits of Gawain Cecil and the other founding ancestors. Now, with a living, breathing man standing before them, what was wrong with a bow?

Still, Gawain felt something was off. A second later, he realized why and grimaced: “The last time so many people bowed to me at once, I was lying in a coffin…”

Everyone: “…”

The atmosphere turned awkward for a moment.

Fortunately, everyone present had weathered many storms before (though perhaps not quite this kind of storm), and they quickly recovered, standing upright again. The king smiled and said, “It is customary for juniors to bow to their elders.”

Gawain laughed along, though despite looking much younger than Francis II, his tone was that of an elder: “Though the age gap is huge, your expression when making excuses is exactly the same as Charles’s back then.”

Gawain Cecil had made his position clear as well—Francis II’s Morn bloodline was genuine.

They exchanged a smile, and it was clear the king felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, even seeming a bit elated.

Everyone present was sharp (except maybe a few stubborn descendants), skilled at reading character traits from the smallest cues. From this simple exchange, they grasped the tone of the meeting and could even deduce that the king and the ancient duke had likely reached some form of understanding.

The woman seated to the king’s left furrowed her brow slightly, though her expression quickly returned to neutral. As the only female grand duke among the three, her very presence caught Gawain’s attention.

She was a woman in her early thirties, mature and beautiful like Hetty, but with a colder, more indifferent aura. Dressed in a white gown, draped with a silver fox stole over her shoulders, wearing matching white silk gloves and sporting silver-white curls, she seemed wrapped in ice and snow. This icy queen stood out vividly in the Oak Hall, proving one thing—white really does reflect light.

The entire left side of Francis II’s body was noticeably brighter than the right…

This was the current Northern Grant Duke, Victoria Wilde. Gawain matched the freshly crammed information in his mind with the woman before him, recalling the founding of the Second Dynasty: it was the Wilde family from the North who had supported a bastard son’s rise to power.

But now, it seemed that the descendants of that bastard were no longer under the Wilde family’s control.

Noticing the gaze from across the table, the “Ice Lady” gave a stiff nod, likely a greeting. Gawain waved it off: “Like your ancestor, you’re a bit of a poker face. I told Wilde back then to marry a lively southern girl to soften that expression of his. He wouldn’t listen. Now look—trouble for the descendants, huh…”

The Northern Grant Duchess’s cheeks twitched slightly.

Gawain then turned to the Western and Eastern Grant Dukes, chatting briefly about their ancestors. Finally, his gaze settled on the empty seat between the chief minister and the Northern Grant Duchess—there was no chair there.

That had been the seat of the Cecil family, but it had been removed a century ago. Since then, only three dukes remained for the four regions; the southern part of Ansu no longer had a grand duke. The royal family’s direct nobles had become the ruling group in the south, while the Cecil family was pushed to the kingdom’s most remote corner.

Everyone noticed Gawain’s gaze linger on that spot. Even Francis II held his breath. The atmosphere tightened instantly, shifting from friendly small talk to the main business of the meeting—the stage for bickering, accusations, and slamming fists on the table.

But Gawain merely glanced there once, then relaxed with a natural, even slightly disdainful smile. He looked back at the king across the table: “Let’s get to the point. Next, my descendant, Rebecca Cecil, will explain the disaster that struck the southern kingdom. Ladies and gentlemen, that is the real trouble.”

(End of chapter)