218
Inside the banquet hall of Dolakan Castle, shouting far harsher than usual rattled the air. The standoff between the Northern Noble Alliance and the Imperial delegation was spiraling out of control.
Talks expected to conclude within months had dragged on into a futile tug-of-war for half a year without yielding a single concession. Having finally run out of patience, the delegation hardened its stance, and the hall grew so murderous that steel seemed ready to bare itself at any moment.
“I am beginning to doubt whether the Northern Noble Alliance ever held any sincere desire for peace,” sneered Theodosius Leon, the Emperor’s chamberlain and head of the delegation.
“Are you not merely stalling for time, watching to see which way the wind blows so you can throw in your lot with the rebels once more?”
“Restrain your wild accusations!” an Alliance voice barked back immediately.
“We are asking for the barest safeguards. As we have stated repeatedly, once the autonomy historically granted to the Northern Noble Alliance is guaranteed, our seals are ready for the parchment.”
“I believe the Empire’s answer to that demand was made abundantly clear.”
Theodosius pressed his temples against an onset of a headache and let out a weary sigh.
“The Northern Noble Alliance has already turned its back on the Empire once. His Majesty has displayed immense clemency by declaring you will not be held accountable for that treachery, but he was unequivocal: for the time being, the major cities of Balto will answer to imperial inspectors dispatched from the capital.”
“And just how long is this ‘for the time being’ meant to last?”
A young northern noble, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the long table, crossed his arms and threw the question across the floor.
The chamberlain shrugged indifferently.
“That depends entirely on how swiftly you regain the trust of the Imperial Court.”
His arrogant tone cast a dark pall over the Balto lords. Undeterred, Theodosius pressed on with brazen imperiousness.
“This council is the final mercy His Majesty deigns to offer. The Northern Noble Alliance has only two paths before it: accept His Majesty’s terms with humility, or pay the price for your treason.”
“Drop the pretense that you are granting us some unilateral favor.”
The old Count of Balto, silent until now, spoke in a gravelly, heavy voice.
“Is it not His Majesty who is desperate to bring this war to an end? Do you imagine we are blind to the boiling discontent among the lords of the other provinces?”
“I must remind you that their rage is pointed squarely at Balto,” Theodosius cut in sharply.
“The entire continent of Robiden bleeds because of the rebellion ignited here. If they discover you cast that responsibility aside merely to protect your own privileges, where do you think those arrows will fly?”
The old count fell silent.
Seizing the advantage, the chamberlain struck again.
“If this war does not end swiftly, Balto will be branded the public enemy of all Robiden.”
At that naked threat, a northerner brought his fist crashing down on the table.
“It was His Imperial Majesty who proposed these peace talks! Is this the vaunted mercy of the Empire—subjecting men who came here in good faith to crude intimidation?”
“The Northern Noble Alliance drew steel against the throne! Yet His Majesty was the one who reached out with an olive branch of forgiveness! And you repay that grace with preposterous conditions? How much longer must His Majesty tolerate your shamelessness?”
Furious shouts erupted from the Imperial delegation as well, and the hall descended into pandemonium.
Watching the spectacle unfold from a distance, Erich, the second son of House Bluestone, let out a heavy sigh. The negotiations seemed poised to collapse at any second.
“Can this mess truly be salvaged?”
Sedric, his nephew, fidgeted anxiously beside him and whispered low.
Erich surveyed the grim faces around the long table with calculated calm.
The bloody exploits of Bjorn Blodar Heimdal had only deepened the northerners’ skepticism toward any treaty.
With hostility toward the Empire running at a fever pitch among the people of Balto, the lords feared they would be branded traitors to their own blood if they surrendered too easily to the capital.
Yet the Imperial delegation refused to give an inch. They seemed far more terrified of sullying the prestige and majesty of the throne than of extending a war.
‘Bringing up a marriage proposal in this climate might only poison the well,’ Erich conceded inwardly.
Even if the lord of the East held close ties to the palace, bending an obstinate Emperor and his slavishly loyal ministers would be no simple task.
‘Must I change the plan?’
Erich tapped his fingers against the wood, his thoughts turning to the young Grand Duke who looked as though he had been carved out of glacial ice.
Despite those delicate features that bore the unmistakable stamp of his Oshirian heritage, the young man had a ferocious, belligerent streak.
Could a raw youth so rough and unyielding truly navigate such treacherous political waters?
Stroking his chin in doubt, Erich rose from his seat.
Though Grand Duke Shearkan was once said to be as close as a brother to the Crown Prince, rumors persisted that an irreparable rift had formed between them ever since the broken engagement with the First Princess.
It seemed wiser to seek another path. Having reached his conclusion, Erich muttered in frustration,
“Staying here is a waste of breath. Let us go.”
Just as he turned to leave with his nephew, the doors to the council hall swung open.
The nobles turned reflexively, and every breath caught in unison. A man of otherworldly, striking beauty stepped into the room, flanked by two knights who appeared to be his aides.
Faint gasps broke from the few lords who recognized the face.
“Grand Duke Shearkan…”
It was the lord of the East, who had been carried into Dolakan Castle barely weeks ago resembling nothing more than a corpse.
Dozens of stunned eyes swept over his chiselled features and broad, imposing frame.
Soldiers had sworn that a poison-coated blade had driven straight through his flank and out his back.
Word had spread like wildfire that his life hung by a thread, beyond the certainty of recovery even with the High Priest tending to him day and night.
Yet as he strode across the floor, not a single trace of weakness showed.
“Forgive the intrusion without an invitation,” he said, a faint, leisurely smile touching his lips as he naturally pulled out the seat of honor and sat.
“I was simply curious to see what manner of business could crawl at such a miserable pace for half a year.”
“…I was told you had only just opened your eyes. Are you fit to walk about like this?” the Emperor’s chamberlain asked, visibly on guard.
The Grand Duke took a goblet, wet his lips with wine, and answered mildly,
“As you can see, I am quite recovered.”
“That is a great relief. His Majesty will be pleased to hear his mind may rest easy.”
“It pains me to have caused His Imperial Majesty such grief,” he remarked dryly, leaning back into his chair and undoing the top buttons of his tight doublet. The gesture held the languid menace of a great cat dropping low into the grass before the kill.
Erich sank back into his seat.
It seemed Grand Duke Shearkan meant to honor their bargain. It would not be too late to reconsider his options after seeing how the man played his hand.
With that thought, Erich clasped his hands on the table. The Grand Duke spoke in an unhurried drawl.
“Do not mind me; carry on with your discussions. I am eager to see how this council concludes.”
“Your Grace, are you not the Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Allied Forces? Should your concerns not lie with the front rather than these negotiations…?”
“What a cold thing to say. Would you drag a man who just clawed his way out of the grave straight back onto the battlefield?”
He chuckled softly, as if amused by a harmless jest, and raised his empty goblet toward an attendant behind him.
The servant scrambled forward to refill the silver cup. Taking another slow sip, the Grand Duke looked at the Emperor’s envoy with a lazy smile.
“Or does His Majesty secretly wish for me to perish in these northern wastes?”
“How could you speak such treason…!”
The chamberlain’s face flushed red, his voice rising in panic.
“Surely Your Grace does not blame the Imperial Court for your wounds? That was entirely—!”
“My injuries were born solely of my own incompetence. Surely you do not believe I would harbor resentment toward the sovereign of the Empire over such a thing?”
The Grand Duke cut him off with casual dismissiveness and set his cup down with a sharp clatter. The chamberlain’s expression grew taut.
Only moments ago, he had grandly declared that the lords’ grievances were directed solely at Balto, not the crown. Now that one of the Empire’s greatest magnates, Grand Duke Shearkan himself, was openly airing his discontent, the envoy was thoroughly cornered.
His eyes darted around, stiff with mortification, before he forced an appeasing tone.
“His Imperial Majesty holds the Grand Duke’s devotion in the highest esteem. He gave explicit orders that no resource be spared for your recovery.”
“Generous words indeed,” the Grand Duke murmured without an ounce of warmth, leaning forward over the table.
“Yet what I require is not a physician’s hand. It is an end to this war. If His Majesty truly treasures his vassals, I trust he will bend every effort toward concluding it.”
The young chamberlain’s jaw clenched. In contrast, the northerners’ faces brightened. They clearly believed the balance had tipped in their favor.
Sweeping an indifferent gaze across their hopeful expressions, the Grand Duke continued,
“The longer this drags on, the more the cohesion of the Empire frays. We cannot go on pretending otherwise, can we?”
“Are you suggesting… that His Imperial Majesty should bow his head to traitors?” Theodosius ground out between his teeth. Born of a fiercely loyal lineage that had served as the throne’s right hand for generations, he could not stomach words that seemed to erode imperial authority.
Looking down at the man, who wore a look of outrage as if witnessing open heresy, the Grand Duke let out a weary breath.
“How could you possibly misunderstand me so? I am merely saying we must put an end to this pointless squabbling over pride that wins us nothing while endangering the core of our existence—the security of the realm. The Roem Empire was forged upon the ideal of union and harmony. The first Emperor, Dorian Roem Guirta, embraced even us Khans, who had warred against the throne for generations, as true citizens of the realm. Now that the Empire teeters on the brink of fracture, it is precisely that spirit of reconciliation we must revive.”
An unnatural quiet descended over the hall at the sudden, measured eloquence coming from a man renowned for his silence.
The chamberlain stared blankly for a second before demanding with rising irritation,
“Just what is it you are proposing?”
“I am saying that to end this conflict, we need an indelible symbol of union that binds the Empire and the North together once more.”
Only then did the chamberlain’s eyes widen as the realization struck him.
Amidst the rising murmurs throughout the room, the Grand Duke casually swirled the wine in his goblet and delivered the final stroke.
“The Imperial Court requires a guarantee that the North will never again draw steel, while the North desires an absolute assurance that its place and dignity within the Empire will remain untouched. A union between a daughter of a house representing the North and His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince. What surer bond could there possibly be?”
END