Chapter 431: A Moment of Inspiration

The moment the steward of the Grant territory uttered the words, “They’ve arrived,” the assembled nobles of the southern lands all involuntarily drew in a sharp breath. When he went on to say that the forces of Cecil had successively taken control of Grant, Konsko, and Carol, the nobles shook their heads in sorrow, their faces etched with despair. The Viscount of Konsko, already crushed by the weight of defeat, lost all composure—covering his face and muttering curses under his breath.

Before Sir Mariland could speak, Lady Ropeni Grant broke the heavy silence. Clenching her fists tightly, she fixed her gaze on the steward. “What of my daughter? And the others in the castle?”

“They leveled the entire fortress with those weapons they call ‘cannons’… nearly half the town was burned to ashes,” the steward said, his voice thick with grief. “Almost no one escaped… they’re all dead… every last one of them…”

Ropeni’s body trembled twice before she seemed to lose all strength and began to collapse backward. Fortunately, one of her guards was quick to catch her before she fainted. The guard whispered softly beside her, “Close your eyes.”

“I know,” Ropeni replied quietly, then covered her face with her hands as if overwhelmed by sorrow.

Sir Mariland, upon hearing this devastating news, showed only a flicker of emotion before scrutinizing the steward who had miraculously fled from Grant all the way to Rockhold Fortress. “A pitiful fate—but how did you escape? Grant to here isn’t a short journey.”

The steward’s expression was a mix of shame and sorrow. “I’m ashamed to say… the Cecilians let me go.”

“The Cecilians let you go?” Sir Mariland asked, surprised. “Why?”

“They issued a declaration of war,” Lady Ropeni said, forcing herself to steady her voice despite the redness in her eyes. She stared directly into Sir Mariland’s eyes. “They’re declaring war! They want us to know what’s happening in the south, to know that everything we’ve built over centuries has been utterly destroyed! They want to break us completely.”

Sir Mariland looked at this formidable woman—one who had led the last surviving southern nobles in a desperate flight to Rockhold Fortress. In her eyes burned a fierce hatred, but little sorrow. This was the look of someone who had lost everything and now sought only revenge. He was moved. “Lady, your ordeal stirs my righteous anger. Rest assured, we will fight the Cecilians—this fortress will be our battleground!”

His words were firm and resolute, but the southern nobles present barely responded. Most were still reeling from the steward’s shocking news; some were already consumed by fear of the approaching Cecilian forces. Suddenly, Viscount Mario Lan stood up, waving his arms excitedly. “We can’t just wait here to die! This fortress won’t hold against their fire!”

The nobles stirred restlessly, many echoing his sentiment. Mario Lan seized the moment to urge Sir Mariland, “Sir, please, do what you can—ask Count Pompey to open the northern gate. We must flee to the Holy Spirit Plains for refuge!”

Sir Mariland’s face darkened more than ever. He could barely conceal the contempt in his eyes. These frightened men were no longer worthy of the title ‘noble.’ They were no better than peasants who would kneel at the sight of soldiers. At a time like this, they still thought of running?

Did they really believe the few coins left in their pockets would buy them more than a few days of stale bread on the Holy Spirit Plains?

Before Sir Mariland could respond, Lady Ropeni stood up, glaring fiercely at everyone present. Her voice rang with unyielding resolve. “Have your bones all dissolved in alcohol?!”

Except for her, all the nobles who had fled here were men—and yet not one dared meet her gaze. Their eyes shifted guiltily. Ropeni raised her voice. “What are you afraid of? Have you lost every shred of courage? Don’t forget—this is Rockhold Fortress, protected by a magical barrier! Just this morning, you were boasting in the banquet hall about how impregnable it is, how we’d watch the Cecilians be trampled on the walls—how could you forget so quickly?”

“Lady Grant… Viscountess,” one noble finally spoke, “what can we do against the Cecilians? If we go to battle, we’ll only be a hindrance. Leaving here is to avoid bringing trouble to Rockhold’s defenders…”

“Nonsense!” Ropeni shot back, fixing him with a fierce stare. “Is that what you all think? Have you forgotten that when you fled here, you still had thousands with you? Those loyal knights and soldiers are still inside, waiting for your orders! They didn’t run—why should you?”

“Right now, Rockhold is short on manpower. We should be pooling our strength. We have strong walls and a magical barrier—surely moving a few catapult stones behind the shield is possible? Guarding the mage towers and arrow towers is doable, isn’t it?”

Sir Mariland was stunned by Lady Ropeni’s passionate speech, but then a spark of hope lit within him. These southern nobles, though mostly cowardly and weak, still represented some force.

To be honest, before arriving, he had hoped the Cecilians wouldn’t attack here. After all, Rockhold Fortress was technically outside the southern lands, and Duke Gawain Cecil had no reason to invade. But after learning of the “ancestors’ breach of tradition,” he increasingly regretted sheltering these useless southern nobles. If not for the gold and silver they still carried—and the many promises they made—he would have long since found a way to expel most of them.

But now…

The Cecilians were truly coming. These useless nobles would have to pay their due for the sanctuary they received.

He looked at Lady Ropeni, who was rallying the southern nobles to arm themselves and defend the fortress. Aside from Viscount Carol, she was the only southern noble he respected. Having just lost everything to the Cecilians, her thirst for revenge burned fiercely—making her a valuable ally.

He stood and said, “Lady—will you help me defend this fortress?”

Ropeni turned, her eyes alight with fervor. “Yes, Sir. I will do everything in my power to defeat the Cecilians!”

At that moment, Viscount Carol, who had remained silent, stood as well. He scanned the wavering nobles and raised his hands. “Gentlemen, you should be ashamed. Your combined courage doesn’t match Lady Grant’s. Remember, we are under Rockhold’s protection. When the fortress is in peril, it is our duty to stand up. I answer Lady Ropeni’s call—even though I have only two knights and a few dozen soldiers left, I will stand on the walls and defend this fortress to the last moment!”

Once the first man stood, more were inspired. These nobles, whose spirits had been nearly crushed by the bombardment at Shattered Stone Ridge and the southern pursuit, somehow found a flicker of courage. They began to respond in waves, pledging to bring their remaining dozens or hundreds of followers to the walls, to live and die with the fortress—ready to resist the Cecilians to the bitter end. Though many would regret their fiery words once they left the hall, at least in this moment, they were stirred to rise.

And for nobles, once they stood, it was hard to sit back down.

Ropeni Grant watched this scene with satisfaction. Sir Mariland nodded approvingly. These southern nobles and their remaining retainers might not be a great force, but they could at least ease the shortage of manpower. At the very least, having nobles who understood magic to recharge the mage towers was possible. With their help, Rockhold Fortress could hold out longer.

Perhaps long enough for the kingdom’s fortunes to turn.

He never doubted his fortress could withstand the Cecilian assault; his worry was that a prolonged siege would wear down the isolated Rockhold.

With the admirable Lady Ropeni once again leading the southern nobles—just as she had when guiding their escape from the south—Sir Mariland said, “Lady Grant, your bravery embodies the spirit of nobility. I hope you can organize the southern nobles’ forces and lead them. I will assign you and your men to defend the inner mage towers and the second wall. I trust the gentlemen here have no objections?”

The southern nobles all voiced their agreement.

Sir Mariland then summoned his guards to begin organizing the fortress’s defenses. “First, evacuate all scattered farms south of the fortress—bring everyone inside the walls. Burn what’s left, fill in the wells…”

“Clear all the woods along the southern hills—burn or cut down every tree. Nothing must block our line of sight.”

“Double the patrols…”

After leaving the main hall, Ropeni Grant walked alongside her steward.

Sir Mariland no longer had time for trivial matters. Ropeni was to lead her people to find rest, which suited her just fine.

She looked at her steward, ragged and worn, and the trusted men who had fled with him. Their tattered clothes were real, stained with mud and grime. Beneath the rags, the scars were real too.

When no one else was around, she whispered, “You’ve all worked hard.”

“It’s our honor,” he replied.

“How are things?”

“The eagle has left the nest. The fledglings are safe.”

Ropeni nodded faintly, then lifted her gaze through the tall, narrow window of the castle corridor, watching the distant sky flush with the first hints of sunset.

“This long list is finally coming to an end.”

(End of chapter)