Chapter 455: The Summons

Forty-six days had passed.

Baron Sunderland sat quietly on his narrow bed, facing the wall. He traced the carved marks on the plaster from top to bottom, then back up again.

He had been confined in this cell for forty-six days.

As one of the southern nobles who had risen in support of Count Hosman, he considered himself somewhat fortunate. His low rank had kept him from joining Hosman’s forces directly, sparing him from the artillery barrage at Shattered Stone Ridge. Later, that same low status meant he was left behind by the fleeing army and became one of the first nobles captured by the Cecils—thus avoiding the grueling day-and-night flight across the wilderness.

But how much longer would this “luck” hold?

The defeat of the noble coalition already felt like a distant memory, a nightmare from another century—one they all tried to avoid but couldn’t stop replaying in their minds. Baron Sunderland knew that, aside from the Cecil family and a few nobles who had pledged early allegiance, the entire southern nobility was finished. When he was first locked in this cell, he still clung to a faint hope—that the Cecils might lose in the battles ahead, leading to a stalemate and eventual reconciliation. But that hope was crushed as one familiar face after another was thrown into the prison.

Each new prisoner meant another piece of land had fallen to the Cecils. Once more than half the southern nobles were gathered in this “prison camp,” Baron Sunderland accepted the harsh truth: there would be no turning back.

Now, like all the other noble captives, he could only sit quietly in his cell, waiting for Duke Gawain Cecil to summon him and deliver a clear verdict.

Suddenly, a commotion rose from the neighboring cell.

Baron Sunderland lifted his head and saw that his cellmate, Viscount Teriel, had done the same. The two of them strained to listen to the noise next door, then exchanged a glance and shook their heads with wry smiles.

“It’s those men brought back from Rockfort,” Viscount Teriel said bitterly. “Looks like they haven’t adjusted to the ‘rules’ here yet.”

“We were the same at first,” Baron Sunderland replied with a grim smile. “Listen—they’re demanding the guards salute them, asking for red wine and pillows, even haggling over ransom… I haven’t heard those words in a long time.”

The newcomers had only been imprisoned a few days. They came from Rockfort, and Baron Sunderland had once thought they’d escaped the Cecils’ pursuit and returned to their lands. Now he realized they had merely taken refuge in the northern fortress.

These new “cellmates” brought shocking news: Rockfort had fallen. Under the fierce assault of the Cecils, the legendary fortress had held out less than two days.

Some even said the actual fighting lasted only half a day—the rest was just the Cecils setting up camp.

Baron Sunderland had grown used to his captivity over these forty-six days, but it was clear the newcomers needed time to process the reality.

When the noise next door finally died down, Viscount Teriel asked, “What do you think Duke Gawain wants from us?”

“Probably unconditional loyalty from all southern nobles, like loyalty to the king,” Baron Sunderland guessed. “It’s clear this war was driven by him from the start. He wants to reclaim what’s his—he intends for the South to become the Duchy of Cecil again.”

“…The Duchy of Cecil,” Teriel sighed after a pause. “I started thinking the same after he kept delaying any ransom demands.”

Baron Sunderland muttered, “It could be worse…”

Teriel was about to ask what he meant by “worse,” but before he could speak, the sound of boots echoed sharply on the concrete floor. The cell door opened, and a Cecil soldier clad in arcane armor stood there, voice cold and indifferent: “The Duke wishes to see you.”

Baron Sunderland and Viscount Teriel snapped their heads up, exchanging a look of surprise and hope.

After all this anxious, uneasy waiting, was Duke Gawain Cecil finally going to summon the southern nobles?!

…

In Cecil City, inside the lounge adjacent to the Grant Council Chamber, Gawain waited leisurely. Beside him stood Heddy silently, while Amber was anything but quiet.

“Hey, hey, do you really think those nobles will be convinced by what you say?” Amber glanced at the stack of documents on the table and leaned toward Gawain. “These papers could be a death sentence for them—”

“Could you please mind your manners?” Heddy frowned. “This is the Council Chamber. At least try to behave…”

Amber put her hands on her hips, arguing, “I’m behaving! I even came in through the door—you didn’t see me jump through a window, did you?”

Their occasional bickering was routine. Gawain ignored them and calmly said, “Convince? I don’t intend to negotiate. They don’t have a choice.”

“Honestly, if that’s the case, why not just send them all to the mines? Make them dig stone until they die. Why bother bringing them out to ‘voluntarily’ give up their noble privileges?” Amber asked, puzzled. “You’ve already taken their lands, crushed their armies, and locked them up in your prisons…”

Gawain smiled and shook his head, then looked to Heddy. “Heddy, explain it to her.”

Heddy sighed, reluctant to engage with the impudent elf, but as an elder, she spoke: “The population relocation and new city construction projects proposed by our ancestors are underway. Hosman City, Leslie City, Grant City, and Kant City are all entering new phases of development. But as populations concentrate and new decrees are enforced, resistance is growing.

“Leslie, Grant, and Kant are relatively stable. The greatest opposition comes from Hosman and nearly all the old noble territories outside these four new cities.

“The collapse of the old nobility still casts a long shadow. Many wealthy farmers remain suspicious of the new lords. Among scholars and merchants, a significant number still support the old lords or are outright their ‘private retainers.’ The Secondary Council finds it very difficult to recruit personnel in these areas, and commercial reforms face serious obstacles.

“In the western Peipo region and northern Carol area, some exiled knights and noble soldiers have turned to banditry. They avoid the Cecil garrisons but frequently raid villages. With limited troops, the Cecil forces struggle to eliminate these outlaw bands. Worse, some exiled knights in the northwest are in contact with Luan City and may become the armed wing of the Luan Cathedral.”

Amber’s eyes widened. “Exiled knights and noble soldiers? Weren’t they all killed or captured?”

“Seventy thousand men scattered across the plains—some always slip through,” Gawain said, shaking his head. “Besides, the seventy thousand raised by Hosman weren’t the entire noble army. Each noble left a few knights and soldiers to guard their castles. When news of the coalition’s defeat spread, the more alert of these guards fled immediately, becoming exiled knights.”

“What a headache…” Amber groaned. “You took the South in just a few days, but keeping order is harder than conquering the whole region…”

“Governance is always harder than conquest,” Gawain shot Amber a sideways glance. “It took me one second to pull you off the windowsill, but after more than a year, you still sneak in through windows.”

Amber: “…Hey, I didn’t ask for this…”

Gawain ignored her protests and continued, “These problems are indeed thorny. Some, if mishandled, could cause setbacks or reversals in our new order. Some will last a long time—perhaps a generation or two. But I’m not worried.”

Footsteps echoed from the adjacent hall. Gawain smiled faintly and stood.

“Besides the inevitable challenges of changing customs and winning hearts, most problems stem from the nobles and the traditional order they upheld. And I am the origin of those nobles and that order.”

At the Grant Council Chamber’s door, a herald stood tall and boomed:

“Protector of the South, Pioneer of Ansu, Founder of the Kingdom, Ruler of the Duchy of Cecil—Grant Duke Gawain Cecil has arrived—”

The southern nobles seated nervously at the long table fell silent simultaneously, as if dozens of invisible hands had gripped their throats, forcing them to raise their heads and look toward the chamber doors.

Their stiff necks made them look like a gaggle of comical ducks.

Draped in a black ducal cloak, Gawain entered the hall and surveyed the nobles lined up on both sides of the table. They had been deliberately left to rot in the prison camp for weeks—some for over forty days. Except for the few recently captured from Rockfort, the rest had long since lost their fighting spirit. Seeing their eyes now, Gawain knew today’s meeting would be easy.

The nobles rose one by one. Though imprisoned for weeks, their ingrained etiquette made them perform the formal salute almost instinctively.

Gawain accepted their homage calmly and strode to the head of the table. Without wasting words, he gestured to the clerks following him: “Distribute these.”

Two clerks carried stacks of documents and began handing them out to each noble. The nobles stared in shock and curiosity, whispering nervously. This was nothing like the summons they had expected—this “Cecil-style” protocol left them bewildered.

Those who received the documents immediately focused on the printed pages. They first noticed the astonishing uniformity—the characters, lines, and paragraphs were flawless, impossible to replicate even by the finest woodblock craftsmen. But their curiosity soon gave way to shock as they read the contents.

Every noble’s face registered disbelief.

(End of chapter)