Chapter 368: Shifting Tides

Francis II, the longest-reigning monarch since the founding of the Second Dynasty of the Kingdom of Ansu, stood atop the lofty terrace of Silverkeep. From here, he gazed down upon the ancient city that had been under the Morn royal family’s rule for seven centuries. The radiant sun, imbued with magical energy, bathed the old king in a soft, shimmering glow. Its light scattered across his ornate crimson-and-gold cloak, merging seamlessly with the faint glimmer that danced over the castle walls and the city beyond. In that moment, the wise and patient king seemed to become one with the fortress, the city, and the entire kingdom itself.

After a long, contemplative silence, the faint sound of footsteps approached from behind. Though aged, Francis’s hearing remained sharp. He turned to face the newcomer.

A middle-aged man stood there, clad in a black coat trimmed with gold. His short, wavy hair was a pale gold, his features unremarkable, and his demeanor modest. His eyes held a respectful warmth, tinged with a hint of reverence.

“Wales, have you met with Aiden?” Francis asked calmly. Though the man before him was his eldest son, the king’s tone was as indifferent and composed as if speaking to a mere servant.

The man was Wales Morn, Francis’s firstborn. Before Prince Edmond’s arrival, Wales had been the kingdom’s sole legitimate heir. Yet, in the upper echelons of Ansu’s court, this once-promising prince was far less active than even Veronica Morn, who had long since left the royal circle to join the church. A man of mediocre talent and weak will, Wales was like a shadow of the Morn dynasty, quietly fading from public view.

The “Aiden” Francis referred to was Aiden Alfred, the king’s chief advisor.

“Yes, Father,” Wales replied with a slight bow, his voice steady. “The chief advisor briefed me on some matters regarding life here in Silverkeep.”

“Good,” Francis said lightly. “After Edmond and I depart, Silverkeep still needs a Morn heir to hold the seat. Veronica has devoted herself to the Light, so that role falls to you. Do you understand?”

Wales was silent for a moment before answering softly, “I understand.”

“Don’t worry. You only need to remain here. There’s nothing more required of you,” the king said, shaking his head ever so slightly as he regarded his unremarkable son. “The Dukes of the North and West will handle everything else.”

Wales bowed deeply. “…Yes.”

The door connecting the terrace to the castle opened, and Edmond Morn, dressed in light knight’s armor, stepped out. The young heir approached Francis with a slight bow. “Father, everything is ready.”

The old king cast one last glance at Wales before turning toward the door. “Let us depart.”

Francis II and Edmond left the terrace, descending the stairs and passing through the castle’s long corridors. In the great hall, two nobles in fine attire awaited them.

One was Bertram Franklin, Duke of the West, draped in a deep blue cloak, his scholarly demeanor evident. The other was Victoria Velde, Duchess of the North, clad in a white gown with a silver fox fur shawl, her presence cool and distant as winter’s chill.

These two powerful nobles, second only to the king in influence, bowed slightly before Francis. Bertram spoke first: “We wish you a successful journey.”

“I will strive for peace,” Francis replied solemnly. His gaze lingered on the icy, aloof duchess for two seconds before he added with weight, “May Ansu endure in lasting tranquility.”

Victoria nodded faintly. “Ansu will remain peaceful for a long time.”

With that, they parted ways.

As the royal procession, bearing the Morn crest and escorted by cavalry and battle mages, departed Silverkeep, Wales remained on the wind-swept terrace. He watched the splendid convoy roll through the castle square, a faint trace of melancholy shadowing his face.

A sudden cold gust blew from behind. The former heir shivered slightly and turned to find Duchess Victoria standing before him.

So cold—like the northern mountains themselves. Wales inhaled the sharp chill that had suddenly filled the air, and his mind drifted back twenty years to when he was still the kingdom’s sole heir. He had stood on this very terrace when a young Victoria, dressed in a white princess gown, had suddenly run up and pointed at his nose. “You’re a prince, right? I’m the future Duchess of Velde! I’ll be watching you!”

A snowflake, crystallized from magic, drifted onto Wales’s cheek, snapping him back to the present. He nodded respectfully to the northern duchess. “Duchess Victoria, I’ll be relying on you during this time.”

Victoria’s expression remained unreadable as she nodded. “You needn’t worry about the kingdom’s affairs. Duke Bertram and I will manage everything. You just need to stay in Silverkeep and live in peace. Rest assured, I will watch over you.”

Her final words echoed that childhood memory so sharply that Wales’s face twitched slightly. Yet, as always, he lowered his gaze and replied evenly, “Very well.”

Victoria frowned slightly at the prince, then said nothing more. A sudden swirl of snowflakes enveloped her figure, and with the whirling cold wind, she vanished from the terrace.

In mid-Renewal Month, news spread through Ansu like a sudden warm breeze shifting the season’s chill—at least among the nobles with access to reliable intelligence channels. The message traveled swiftly, like the wind.

King Francis II and Prince Edmond had left Silverkeep, leading a delegation.

Of course, “swift” was relative. Without griffon messengers or magical communication, news still traveled at the pace of mounted couriers. The distant region of Cecil had yet to establish a network of griffon riders and magical towers connecting the far southern border to Saint Suniel. The journey crossed numerous southern fiefdoms, the Rockfort stronghold, and the politically entrenched Holy Spirit Plains—complexities that made such an undertaking costly and difficult. So when Gawain finally received the news, it was already ten days old.

This was thanks to the swift efforts of Cecil’s merchant guild nodes and intelligence agents, who had expedited the message along trade routes. Even so, Gawain’s information arrived faster than most southern nobles—faster than even Viscount Andrew of Tansan.

Upon receiving the intelligence, Gawain immediately summoned Heddy, in charge of internal affairs; Amber, head of intelligence; and Byron, Philip, and Solderin, responsible for military matters, to the lord’s manor’s grand hall.

“The royal delegation left with a carriage convoy,” Gawain began, holding up the sealed letter—sent by an intelligence agent stationed on the Holy Spirit Plains, carried along merchant routes, and finally handed to him by Amber. “To synchronize with Typhon, they won’t rush. They should just be leaving the Holy Spirit Plains now, not yet entering the Eastern Territories. If all goes well, formal talks will begin at the end of Renewal Month or the start of Fire Month. According to the intel, Ansu and Typhon have jointly constructed a ‘Treaty Fortress’ on the border for these negotiations.”

Byron glanced at the letter, surprised. “Our intelligence network has reached Saint Suniel?”

“Not last year,” Gawain nodded. “But since spring, our alchemists have entered the Holy Spirit Plains—thanks to Mr. Patrick’s efforts and the assistance of Lady Ropeni Grant. The prince traveling with Francis II is Edmond Morn, while Wales Morn remains in Silverkeep.”

“The king’s eldest son?” Heddy blinked, puzzled. “I heard he’s mediocre, politically inept, and has been distant from royal affairs for years. He’s just a prince without much real power. Why would the king leave him in the capital instead of Prince Edmond?”

“Francis II probably doesn’t trust his exceptionally gifted heir to be out of his sight—especially when he himself is away from the capital,” Gawain smiled wryly. “I’ve met Prince Edmond. He’s insightful, but perhaps too much so. As for Wales, whether he can govern well is irrelevant. The Duke of the North, Victoria Velde, and the Duke of the West, Bertram Franklin, have already arrived in Silverkeep. Plus, the king’s chief advisor Aiden stands as a pillar of royal authority. Silverkeep remains stable.”

“…That poor prince,” Solderin shrugged. The seasoned ranger, who had witnessed seven centuries of Ansu’s history, seemed unimpressed by the current “royal family of bastards,” showing little respect. “He’s just a figurehead in the castle.”

“For Francis II, it doesn’t matter. The entire Second Dynasty was built with the support of the Duke of the North. Whether the Velde family is in Silverkeep or not, the Morn name is just a symbol. In this context, having the more controllable Wales there saves the king a lot of trouble,” Gawain waved off the matter. “It’s none of our concern.”

Amber looked puzzled. “Then why did you call us here?”

Gawain ignored the half-elf woman beside him and turned to Byron. “How is the spring expansion of the combat corps and the deployment of new weapons progressing?”

The question hung in the air, leaving everyone momentarily stunned.

From Gawain’s tone, they sensed a troubling undercurrent.

(End of chapter)