Chapter 36
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Edwin observed the ritualistic clash from his throne, posture relaxed amid the tension.
Nobles clashed fiercely over easing Belot’s reparations. The Emperor’s choice alongside the princess had sparked endless debate on its wisdom.
Count Harkan—tied to Duke Camelot by family bonds—launched the first salvo.
“Slashing their tribute halfway for some fleeting shame? Belot spearheaded the Kingdom Alliance assault. Endless Empire lives ended on their weapons!”
He’d dodged frontline duty in his remote western holdings, offering weak justifications and aiding only once triumph loomed, yet his voice rang with battle-hardened zeal.
Marquis Ismail, eastern lord radiating frustration, shot back.
“Nobody cheers Belot’s plight. Famine claims lives by the hundreds in their heartland. Palace vaults barely hold scraps of harvest. What’s your plan to claim riches from emptiness?”
“We seize every kernel available. Conquerors earn that bounty.”
Count Harkan dug in deeper, fueling the standoff.
“Conquerors’ due, granted. Yet our guardians starve without crusts. How hold against the Monster Wave? Belot’s failure floods peril onto Empire soil. Frost season nears swiftly!”
Marquis Ismail seized the sharper reasoning.
The Monster Wave reference stripped Count Harkan of retort.
Winters brought madness to beasts across a century-plus span, driving them from lairs into realms of man. Strength surged in the onslaught dubbed Monster Wave. Solitary brutes and mindless packs alike formed savage hordes, amplifying the terror.
Scholars and mages probed endlessly, yet the trigger eluded grasp. Nations braced yearly in grim routine.
Continental realms groaned under its weight each cycle.
The Empire fared decently—scarce jagged peaks for beast dens, culled aggressively over time.
Belot suffered worst, hugging the Tuddic Mountain Range, monster cradle extraordinaire.
That chain teemed with elite fiends year-round, pre-Wave ferocity unmatched.
Proximity doomed realms; weary from endless clashes, they crumbled sequentially. Belot alone endured, facing Tuddic’s elite horrors.
Refugee swells fortified their ramparts, but Monster Wave still reaped thousands annually.
As humanity’s shield, Belot polarized lords by self-interest in the talks.
Eastern border elites, dreading spillover doom, championed the deal.
Westerners, insulated from surges, resisted under honor’s banner.
Eastern pleas burned hot from real stakes, but western guile masked greed with equal force.
Central power tilted against eastern voices, a scant faction amid the fray, yet deadlock gripped the chamber in rising fury.
Shouts overlapped into deafening blur.
Edwin broke the din at last.
Silence blanketed the vast room like a curtain drop.
Edwin pondered how confinement amplified a hound’s fury.
His stance had solidified early on.
Eyes icy, he addressed the western cluster.
“Block this deal, and western levies march east. Shortfall pulls from southern and northern reserves too.”
Tuddic beasts spilled routinely beyond winter, territorial wars sending raiders to fringe villages.
Belot’s war losses and dry spells worsened it—summer sightings now pierced Empire bounds, tally climbing.
Peak horror awaited the true onslaught.
Subduing a rampaging elite beast demanded twenty elite riders minimum. Western wealth strained under such drain.
“Pledge eastern aid, and I’ll revisit the bargain.”
Safe-distance debaters hushed. Eight years absent, the Emperor’s return taught swift lessons: Edwin’s words carried steel.
Deeper defiance risked unraveling the near-sealed pact, thrusting their kin into brutal frontiers for no gain.
Too steep a cost.
Southern and northern backers melted away wordlessly.
“Full consensus on the measure.”
Edwin’s stern gaze pinned Count Harkan—their loudest foe sans Duke Camelot—stifling echoes.
Harkan had rallied the west in Camelot’s void, crushed now by Edwin’s aura.
No fruit in drawn-out resistance; westerners pivoted briskly.
“Belot’s delegation faces postponement.”
“Princess’s divorce drags on.”
“Unions demand clear paths before snow locks routes.”
“Partner selection comes first, no?”
“Precisely. Ceremony awaits its hero.”
Debate swung to the Empire-Belot union.
Shift felt rehearsed, tones polished by prior huddle.
Edwin sensed endless winding ahead, finger tapping restlessly toward the panes.
Belot yielded slim yields from soil, yet beast leavings proved gold. Empire’s tame wilds hiked their premium.
Current woes aside, nobles craved anchors there for brighter days.
Slimmed tributes cut the flow, spiking hunger further.
Each lord touted his pick for Belot’s throne-mate, slyly undermining rivals.
Session promised outlasting the vows themselves.
Edwin wondered if brokerage paid their true wages.
Zeal rivaled parental bonds for offspring rites.
West treated Belot dues like solid bullion, not beast scraps.
Count Harkan championed their choice with paternal fire—ironic, given his wastrel heir’s temple exile, temple gold flowing despite Duke Camelot’s pull.
West’s sparse wilds prized the goods higher, sure, yet fervor screamed hidden gluts in demand.
