FL - Chapter 83: A Third Letter from the North

Duke Calvin unfolded the letter. He had barely swept through a few lines before his gaze locked onto two words.

"A marriage alliance?!"

"Ha?" He very nearly sprayed his tea across the desk.

"Who? An alliance with whom?"

His eyes raced down the page, devouring ten lines at a glance—until they landed on that one.

*"To betroth my third daughter, Emily Edmund, to Louis Calvin."*

His entire body went rigid.

Louis, his eighth son. Duke Calvin remembered a boy of modest talent and little ambition, neither competitive nor grasping—the sort of idle noble scion content to live on his name. That was why he had sent Louis to the Northlands. Better to find some use for him; he had never been intended to inherit anything.

Later, the old steward Bradley had mentioned in his letters that Louis had been managing that chaotic, marginal patch of northern territory with surprising order. He'd even found a Mana Marrow vein up there, and each month conducted trade with the family—providing a substantial and stable stream of income. Hearing this, the Duke had been adequately pleased. He'd casually approved the allocation of some resources to help Louis gain a firmer footing in the Northlands.

"Worth cultivating," he'd thought at the time. But nothing beyond that.

Afterward, his duties had kept him busy. He hadn't paid any further attention.

In his mind, Louis had remained useful but inessential—a spare piece on the board.

And now Duke Edmund himself was writing to propose marriage—offering his own treasured daughter to Louis. This was no ordinary gesture.

"Something has happened. Something I don't know about."

He immediately summoned the steward. "Is there a letter from Louis?"

"There is, Your Grace." The steward, unhurried and unflustered, reached into the thick pile of correspondence and extracted one with precision. He presented it with both hands. "This arrived just today."

Duke Calvin took the letter, tore open the seal, and unfolded the pages. As he read, his brow tightened.

The letter was mainly a report from Louis on his recent activities. The very first line made his eyelid twitch:

*"Dispatched on reconnaissance to Clearfeather Ridge. Conducted a night march of nearly sixteen miles. Led one hundred and thirty knights in the capture of a critical enemy stronghold."*

What followed struck him harder with every line.

*"Laid an ambush. Annihilated an enemy force of eight hundred elite wolf riders. Zero casualties among our own troops."*

"……"

Each line strained Duke Calvin's composure further.

"What?! A sixteen-mile night march? He destroyed eight hundred elites with one hundred and thirty knights—and every one of his men survived? What kind of military genius is this?!"

"And he was awarded the Shield of the Northlands Medal, granted roughly three hundred and eighty-six square miles of territory, and appointed Governor of Snowpeak County?!"

A nineteen-year-old County Governor!

The Duke folded the letter gently, leaned back into his chair, and lowered his head in thought.

This had long since surpassed the bounds of "decent" or "worth paying attention to."

"This cannot be fabricated… can it?" he murmured.

But he soon regained his calm. Even if Louis had the reckless gall to lie, Duke Edmund would never play along in such a farce. These military merits—a single inquiry would confirm their truth.

"Nineteen years old. Minimal resources from the family. And yet he managed to turn the Northlands upside down and fight his way into a County Governorship."

Duke Calvin admitted to himself: he had misjudged this one. Profoundly.

He remembered how unnaturally quiet Louis had been as a child. While his siblings clawed and fought for every advantage, Louis remained obedient and detached, showing no desire for anything. Duke Calvin had mistaken that restraint for a lack of ambition. Looking back now…

"It's entirely possible he was faking it! He realized he had no chance of inheriting the title, so he deliberately acted mediocre. He wanted to escape the Southeast Province early, avoid the power struggles among his siblings, and then soar once he reached the Northlands. He may not compare to his two elder brothers yet—but he can no longer be treated as a marginal figure."

He glanced at Duke Edmund's letter and mastered his expression.

He began weighing the pros and cons of this marriage alliance.

Edmund was known as the Lord of the Northlands, the near-absolute leader of its nobility. Louis, once a marginal son of House Calvin, now held substantial territory, northern battle honors, and the Shield of the Northlands Medal. More important, he governed Snowpeak County. That gave him enough influence to serve as House Calvin's voice in the region.

"If this marriage goes through," Duke Calvin narrowed his eyes, "it will become a fallback route for House Calvin in the Northlands."

His own House Calvin in the Southeast Province was rich in resources—but the political situation in recent years had grown increasingly unfavorable. The Imperial household's reach had extended too far. Promoting cronies. Elevating upstarts. Continuously planting wartime-merit nobles and bureaucrat factions along the southeastern border. Not to mention the endless rounds of audits and tax hikes…

Officially, the court called it a balance of power. In truth, it was seizing land, subjects, and wealth for one purpose: pulling the great houses' teeth.

"The ports—over the past few years, we've had to cough up thirty percent of our profits just to feed the capital's new favorites." Duke Calvin sneered.

Every year, the court carved another slice from the southeastern magnate to feed someone else's ambitions.

If he could establish a connection to the Northlands—that fresh, untainted current—he might secure a few more escape routes before the situation shifted.

As for House Edmund, though they also sought to extend their influence southward, they had no desire to be fully dragged into the Empire's central power struggles. A marriage alliance was a clean, elegant solution.

And both houses were among the Eight Great Houses. A proper match of equals.

Duke Calvin nodded slightly.

The only danger was the Emperor. He disliked any connection between the Eight Great Houses, and his prestige stood too high to challenge. His methods were a butcher's blade; he had cut the great houses down until none dared resist. Even united, they could not threaten him.

So they all endured. They all waited.

Waited for this aged Emperor to fade by nature's course. Waited for the next one. Preferably an heir easier to manipulate—more willing to compromise.

And that day, it seemed, was no longer so distant.

He closed his eyes and recalled the last time he had attended an audience with the Emperor in the Imperial Capital. A decrepit, failing body, seated upon the golden throne. The man was eighty-seven that year. He couldn't hold on much longer.

As for the heirs? Each more worthless than the last.

The only widely favored candidate—the Third Prince—had been famous from youth, brilliant in military command, immensely popular among the common folk. And then, half a year ago, while inspecting his territory, he had "accidentally" fallen into a manure pit and drowned on the spot.

Duke Calvin let out a soft, derisive breath. His eyes were utterly cold.

*A Peak Knight—"accidentally" falling into a manure pit?*

A joke. It had been assassination—and deliberate humiliation carried out before the entire realm. Some old noble house had likely chosen that grotesque death as revenge against the Emperor.

The consequences, of course, were not without effect. In the past six months, the Emperor had personally handled state affairs with ever-increasing frequency. Those he elevated were all his own trusted confidants—newly risen favorites, loyalists from bureaucratic scholar families. His wariness toward the old great houses had reached its apex.

So even an ordinary marriage-alliance request could trigger suspicion.

"This matter must be handled with extreme care." He sat back down in his chair, drew out a fresh sheet of paper, and dipped his brush in ink.