FL - Chapter 81: The Banquet

The baron opened his mouth to continue, only to be cut off at once.

"Lord Louis!" A bright voice suddenly broke in.

A smiling young nobleman pressed forward, his admiration so exaggerated it bordered on fawning. "You are unquestionably the greatest hero in the Northlands right now!"

Before his words had even faded, another man pushed his way in alongside him—a middle-aged noble in a brocade overcoat, his hair slicked back with oil. "My lord, would you honor my territory with a visit someday? We'll prepare the finest wine and the tenderest roast venison for you!"

Then the crowd surged forward like water through a broken dam. Smiling nobles packed in around Louis, raising toasts, offering greetings, and pressing their calling cards into his hands.

The southwestern baron could only watch helplessly as he was pushed out by the tide of bodies. His expression was awkward in the extreme.

Louis maintained a perfectly measured smile, answering every pleasantry while carefully judging how much warmth each person deserved.

"Thank you for your kind words. When the chance arises, I will be certain to pay you a visit."

"You flatter me, sir. I have long admired your distinguished bearing."

Every response struck the same balance: courteous, but never intimate.

But there were simply too many people. However calm and composed he was, he was nearing the limit of what he could handle.

At just that moment, a neatly dressed attendant slipped quietly to his side and murmured into his ear: "Lord Louis, His Grace the Duke requests your presence."

"If you'll excuse me." Louis seized the opening and made an elegant exit.

Under the crowd's envious stares, the attendant guided him from the banquet hall to the Duke's private reception chamber.

Duke Edmund was already seated there. Beside him sat a dozen or so nobles of unmistakably formidable presence.

"Louis, allow me to introduce a few people." The Duke smiled and began, one by one: "This is Count Albert. This is Count Grant…"

Every name carried real weight. These men stood at the summit of northern society.

"House Calvin breeds no mediocrities." Count Albert studied him with open appraisal. "Plenty of men know how to fight. Very few distinguish themselves as you have."

"You really took a Snowsworn forward outpost with just over a hundred men?" Count Grant picked up the thread.

Louis replied evenly: "Fortune played the larger part. I dare not claim undue credit."

"Hm. He knows how to speak," Count Grant grunted. "Better than those brats who start inventing legends about themselves the moment a battle ends."

Duke Edmund watched the exchange. His satisfaction deepened.

He let out a light laugh and smoothly added: "I invited him here today in the hope that he might begin to find his place among our northern circles a little sooner."

The nobles traded glances. A flicker of surprise passed through their eyes.

The boy had won a single battle. A brilliant one, certainly, but was the Duke not placing too much weight on him?

Still, everyone present was Edmund's vassal. Naturally, no one was about to embarrass their liege to his face.

Count Albert thought for a moment, then simply raised his wine glass. His tone was hearty. "Young in years, but boundless in prospect. It seems we may soon count an exceptional new companion among our ranks."

Louis smiled and raised his glass in return. "I am honored by your kindness. I will do my utmost not to disappoint."

The men nodded and smiled. After another round of pleasantries, the conversation moved on.

The conversation turned to the most immediate problem facing the Northlands: winter.

"It looks like the winter snows will come early this year. The houses in my territory are only half built. Who knows how many will freeze to death this time."

"That's easy enough to solve. Come spring, just buy more slaves from the South."

"Except slaves keep getting more expensive. Soon we won't be able to afford them at all."

"Ha, ha, ha! At worst, we go north and catch a few barbarians."

"No, no—barbarians are too hard to manage."

……

The nobles traded remarks with casual ease, discussing human lives like so many head of livestock.

Louis did not interject. He only listened in silence. His expression, however, grew steadily darker.

The problem of winter was one he could not escape.

The victory at Clearfeather Ridge had brought him new lands, but the reward also meant three times the territory, several times the population, and countless new problems. This year would be especially harsh. A major campaign had just ended, leaving supplies scarcer than ever.

If his preparations fell short, this winter would not claim a handful of lives. It would claim thousands—perhaps tens of thousands.

Crimson Tide Territory could manage. Smoked fish and the year's harvest would provide basic sustenance, while adequate housing and geothermal vents would keep its people from freezing—for now.

But those newly acquired lands…

Their people wore thin hemp clothing. Their roofs were still full of holes. A single heavy snowstorm could spell annihilation.

The old nobles could afford to speak lightly. Their houses had spent generations building deep foundations in the Northlands, and one brutal winter would not cripple them. Nor did they care whether the common people survived. If their population fell too low, they could buy replacements from the South in spring. Purchasing new slaves was easier than keeping the old ones alive.

Louis could not accept that kind of cold-blooded arithmetic—not yet. He intended to save as many people as possible by stockpiling grain, building houses, and cutting firewood, whatever the effort required.

Just as Louis was silently pondering his territory's path forward, the nobles' conversation took another turn.

"Those colonization nobles—what a joke. Every one of them worthless."

"In battle, they're nothing but a liability. In territory development, they do nothing but burn coin. Plenty of them died in this campaign, though."

"Hmph. Good riddance." One man sneered. "Saves us the trouble of cleaning up after them."

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber.

No one seemed to remember that Louis, sitting quietly among them, was one of those same colonization nobles.

His expression did not change. He merely raised his cup and took a quiet sip.

Louis was nothing like the wastrels they despised; he had outperformed most northern nobles. That difference was precisely why they had forgotten that he, too, had arrived as a newly exiled upstart.

"Though not all colonization nobles are useless." Count Albert glanced at Louis and added the remark almost as an afterthought.

Duke Edmund smiled and seized the small opening to bring up something he had planned to announce all along.

"Speaking of colonization," his tone was casual, but no one dared let their attention drift, "there has been some movement from His Majesty's side lately."

The men stirred slightly.

"In a few years, His Majesty intends to expand south against the small kingdoms in the southeast." Edmund spoke lightly. "He has asked the Northlands to provide knight auxiliaries."

The words had barely landed before the air in the room tightened.

"Us again?" Count Grant furrowed his brow. "We can't even finish our own wars."

"Exactly. The southerners do nothing but bleed us dry," another noble grumbled.