Chapter 453: How to Respond
The deteriorating situation in the southern territories was an unexpected crisis.
It wasn’t that the Second Dynasty had neglected the Cecil family in the south. In fact, ever since the Mistmoon Rebellion a century ago, the new royal house—fraught with questions of succession—had remained vigilant over the southern lands. Among the four great Protector Dukes, the Cecils were the only family to have declined as a result of that rebellion. Even at the height of their decline, their remaining power was enough to shake the very foundations of the kingdom. It took the combined efforts of the other three Protector Dukes a full hundred years to divide and suppress the south to its current state. This alone showed how seriously the dynasty regarded the southern territories.
After Gawain Cecil rose from the ashes, that vigilance only intensified.
Francis II ordered southern nobles to increase surveillance on the Cecil faction, but all they uncovered was that the Cecils were trading potions to buy slaves. The royal aid sent to the south included spies, but these informants soon went silent. The garrison at Rockhold Fortress had been increased by thirty percent over the past six months, yet the additional troops saw no action. Royal advisors even investigated the number of craftsmen the Cecils had hired in the capital to estimate construction progress in their lands, concluding that housing was still insufficient—never suspecting that those craftsmen had been trained into magi-technicians and mechanists once sent south.
Silverkeep had done everything by the book, yet received no accurate feedback. Their greatest mistake was applying traditional noble logic to predict the actions of a “satellite spirit” from another world—whose knowledge, experience, and mindset were utterly alien.
They misread every move Gawain Cecil made, misunderstood how the Cecil family was rising, and finally, misjudged how quickly Rockhold Fortress would fall.
When your direction is wrong, all effort is wasted.
The situation had worsened to this point.
“Your Graces, Your Highness, I must speak frankly,” said Cromwell Whiteshield in a grave tone. “Unless the Eastern rebels retreat today, we cannot retake Rockhold Fortress.”
Another knight lord stood and voiced the worst-case scenario: “If the Cecil family raises arms against the capital like the Lorens did, we cannot win. Judging by how Rockhold fell, Cecil’s army is a formidable enemy.”
A nobleman couldn’t help but ask, “Even the knight lords fear the enemy?”
Cromwell glared at him. “We’re stating facts. If they do attack the capital, the knights will fight to the last breath. You needn’t worry about that.”
“Gentlemen, calm yourselves,” Victoria Wilde interrupted, her voice cold and eyes like shards of ice. “Duke Gawain Cecil has only taken Rockhold Fortress—he hasn’t marched north yet.”
“We must first determine what this founding hero’s true intentions are,” Duke Bertram Franklin nodded, picking up Victoria’s point. “I suggest sending envoys to open talks with the south.”
The nobles murmured among themselves, but no one opposed Franklin’s proposal.
“The Eastern rebellion is closing in. We cannot afford another blow from the south,” Franklin continued. “So if Duke Gawain Cecil is willing to negotiate, we should talk. We must prepare to recognize the Cecil family’s legitimate rule over the south, restore all their noble titles, honors, ancestral lands, and privileges…”
The room buzzed with shocked whispers. Some faces showed clear surprise, but more wore grim expressions as they nodded. Watching their reactions, Wales Morn sighed softly.
“Your Highness,” Duchess Victoria noticed the sigh and turned to the kingdom’s heir apparent. Her crystal-clear eyes fixed on him. “Do you have something to say?”
“I just think it won’t matter whether we recognize these claims or not,” Wales Morn spoke slowly, reluctant at first but compelled by Victoria’s gaze. “Those things are already in his hands. No matter what we say here, the reestablishment of the Duchy of Cecil is a fait accompli. Duke Franklin, are you really going to gift him what he already holds?”
Bertram Franklin’s face remained impassive. He nodded slightly and said calmly, “Your Highness’s concerns are valid.”
“We’d better reconsider. Think about what leverage we still have for compromise.”
With that, Wales Morn lowered his eyes and fell silent.
Francis II’s voice echoed in the heir’s mind:
“A king rules a kingdom through the art of compromise…”
The meeting ended.
The nobles filed out in order. Wales Morn left the hall accompanied by royal attendants. The vast military chamber was left with only the two regent dukes seated quietly.
After a long silence, Duchess Victoria finally looked at Duke Franklin. “What do you think our founding hero wants?”
“I hope he only wants to reclaim his family’s lands—that’s the most logical and historically consistent scenario,” the Duke of the West replied evenly. “But I can’t rule out worse possibilities. Don’t forget the names on the Ansu Foundation Stele and the signatures on the oldest royal charters. From a certain perspective, his claim to the throne rivals that of our ‘Heir Apparent.’”
“Wales Morn…” Victoria whispered, recalling the heir’s only words during the meeting. “He’s actually the one who most resembles Francis II…”
Franklin shook his head slightly. “But precisely because of that, Francis II ultimately chose Edmund. Our king made a mistake there—this country doesn’t need a ruler who’s too hardline.”
Victoria lifted her eyes and gave the Western Duke a long, penetrating look before standing. “I will return north soon.”
Franklin raised an eyebrow. “You’re mobilizing your mountain troops?”
“The Principality of the Holy Dragon is preparing to celebrate their ‘Dragon’s Arrival Day.’ The Violet Kingdom has been quiet lately. I can spare part of the mountain corps to support the eastern front on the Spirit Plains,” the ice-tinged duchess said, glancing at Franklin. “What about your Western forces?”
“Too far to send troops from the West to the Eastern front. The attrition on the road would be unbearable. And since summer began, the Cult of the Eternal Death and the Followers of the Sleepless have been restless in the West,” Franklin said, pressing his forehead in frustration. “I might be able to spare a knightly order to guard the capital, but no troops for the East.”
A few crystalline snowflakes drifted in the air as Victoria draped her white cloak around her shoulders and walked toward the door. “The capital doesn’t need more knights. Count Cromwell is enough to defend it. If you have extra forces, keep an eye on the south.”
The duchess left, leaving only the cold snowflakes swirling in the air. Franklin caught one, feeling its chill melt in his palm. He sighed softly.
“…Just as those madmen babble… the darkest age…”
Four days later, Ansu’s northern capital, Winterhold.
A griffon knight squad soared above the fortress. The lead griffon expertly landed on the castle’s upper platform. Victoria Wilde dismounted, the cold northern wind from the mountains ruffling her silver-white hair, causing her to squint slightly.
Even in midsummer, the high peaks of the northern continent still held such biting cold.
The “Dragonblood Nobles” of the Holy Dragon Principality claimed this chill was the breath of sleeping dragons in the mountains. The mages and scholars of the Violet Kingdom believed the cold air came from far north, beyond the floating ice and storms, from the eternal cyclone that never dissipated.
Victoria didn’t care where the cold came from. She simply loved the icy air. The pure mountain chill was far more refreshing than the foul odors that lingered in the capital.
Her black-haired maid Maggie arrived on the platform. Victoria nodded to her trusted servant. “Summon my knight vassals. The mountain corps have work to do.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Victoria wielded absolute authority over this land. The mountain corps, loyal to House Wilde, accepted their “Ice Queen’s” orders without question. After a brief military meeting, about a third of the mountain troops were dispatched to reinforce the eastern front on the Spirit Plains.
After the meeting, Victoria did not return to her chambers to rest. Despite the long flight on the griffon and the recent meeting, she rallied her energy and began reviewing documents.
“Vicky, you need to rest,” her black-haired maid said gently—using the affectionate nickname when alone.
“I will,” Victoria replied casually. “Any unusual activity from the Holy Dragon Principality lately?”
“Intelligence from the northern outposts reports nothing abnormal.”
Victoria exhaled softly, feeling a bit reassured.
The Holy Dragon Principality in the northern mountains had always been a source of instability.
Since the Gondor era, those claiming dragonblood lineage had established this realm at the continent’s far north. They declared themselves vassals of dragons, so their highest ruler was not a king but the so-called “Dragonblood Duke.” They were insular, xenophobic, and proud in their mountain stronghold, never fond of the Ansu people who appeared suddenly seven centuries ago.
Seven centuries had passed, yet this secretive, closed-off nation still referred to Ansu as “uninvited guests.”
Fortunately, after all these years, the Holy Dragon Principality and Ansu had reached a fragile compromise and balance. As the northern realm’s chief guardian, one of Victoria Wilde’s duties was to remain vigilant over this sensitive, isolationist, and xenophobic neighbor—and to do everything possible to avoid war.
Once she finished the documents, Victoria stretched and took a deep breath, slowly exhaling to ease her fatigue. Her black-haired maid stepped forward, gently massaging her shoulders and softly asking, “Will you rest now?”
“Not yet. There’s one more thing,” the duchess said, closing her eyes and pausing for a long moment before continuing. “Prepare for me—I’m going to the ancestral tomb.”
(End of chapter)