CHAPTER 18: A Troublesome Victory
Eldrin's study felt more suffocating than ever.
Reports from the Council Hall had arrived even before Commander Gregor returned. Servants whispered softly as he passed through the corridors, and the guards he encountered stood a little straighter than usual. Every pair of eyes seemed to carry a new weight of expectation—an invisible pressure that settled on Eldrin's shoulders like a physical burden.
When Gregor Vance and Captain Philip Hanssen finally entered, their demeanor was unmistakably different. The exhaustion and doubt that had once clung to Gregor were gone, replaced by a renewed vigor that made him appear taller, as though the weight of years had been lifted from his spine. Philip, meanwhile, could barely suppress a victorious grin, his eyes alight with the energy of a soldier who had just witnessed a miracle.
"A victory, Your Highness," Gregor reported. His deep, gravelly voice now resonated with a confidence long extinguished. "You succeeded. For the first time in years, the Ancient Faction and the Reformist Faction are united against a single target. Marquess Althario and Lady Viremont—two opposing poles—now sit together on a joint investigative committee. Duke Morcant is under intense scrutiny from the entire council. You have cornered him without ever leaving this room."
Philip added enthusiastically, "Your maneuver was brilliant, Your Highness! By forcing them to debate evidence, you not only exposed the possibility of his treachery, but compelled undecided nobles to finally choose a side. Duke Morcant's hands are now bound by the very bureaucracy he sought to exploit. He cannot move."
Eldrin merely stared out the window at the gray skies over Nightholm.
Victory?
Nothing about this felt like victory.
It felt like a tightening web. Every "success" he never intended only added another sticky strand, binding him more tightly to the throne, to this name, to a destiny that was never his. The problem was not solved. Morcant had not been arrested. There were only more intrigues, more councils, more hopeful gazes that made his stomach churn. Every step he took to push the problem away only dragged him deeper into it. He was like a man struggling in quicksand—each movement sinking him further.
"Troublesome," he murmured softly, more to himself than to the two commanders. His voice was barely audible, a whisper of pure exhaustion.
In the corner of the room, Caelan—standing silently under the name Cain—observed everything.
He saw the burning hope in Gregor's eyes.
He saw the profound fatigue and dissatisfaction etched across Eldrin's face.
And he interpreted it through the logic forged by a lifetime of failure.
He's not satisfied. Of course he isn't.
Caelan's thoughts raced. For us, this is a major victory. We've stopped the bleeding and cornered our primary enemy. But for him… this is only the first move. A negligible pawn sacrifice.
He studied Eldrin's weary expression. This was not fatigue—it was disappointment. Disappointment that Duke Morcant had not mounted a more intelligent resistance. Disappointment that the victory was too easy, too shallow.
Caelan recalled a timeline where the schism between the Ancient and Reformist factions had escalated into a minor civil war within the capital—a chaos Kaelos later exploited to strike. And now, Prince Eldrin had stitched that fracture closed with a single, simple audit order.
Planting suspicion in the council is merely a diversion, Caelan continued his analysis. While they argue and watch one another, while we celebrate this small victory, his true plan must already be in motion. He's thinking ten steps ahead.
This level of strategic thinking… surpassed anything Caelan had ever imagined.
His conviction hardened, crystallizing into absolute certainty. The prince before him was not merely a genius. He was something else entirely—something to be observed, studied, and perhaps… served with every ounce of one's ability.
"Do you have further orders, Your Highness?" Gregor asked, ready to carry out the next phase of the grand design he believed existed.
Eldrin turned from the window, his eyes hollow. Further orders? He did not even know what his first order had been.
"No," he said flatly. "Monitor the council. Watch Morcant. Report every movement. For now, I need rest."
Gregor and Philip bowed deeply and exited, leaving Eldrin alone in the silence he had longed for—silence that now felt less like refuge and more like a prison cell.
In his darkened manor, Duke Morcant no longer smiled.
He stared into the fire of the hearth, allowing the silence to settle around him like a shroud. His empty wine glass lay forgotten on the table.
They've united against me, he thought—not with hot-blooded fury, but with cold, precise calculation. Althario the fossil and Viremont the idealist… Eldrin had somehow made them dance to a rhythm of his own making. He had turned their weaknesses—Althario's obsession with tradition and Viremont's thirst for transparency—into weapons against him.
This elegant game of chess, of whispers and corridor intrigues that Morcant had mastered for decades, was over.
His nephew had flipped the board and kicked it into the fire.
He straightened his back. If they wanted a dirty street fight, then he would unleash hell's hounds. It was time to change strategy.
That was when Wayne Dahmer entered, soundless as a shadow, carrying a small sealed scroll.
"A report from our contact on the council, My Lord," Wayne said evenly. "Marquess Althario and Lady Viremont have officially formed a joint investigative committee. They will begin auditing all northern mining transactions in one week."
Morcant fell silent, his eyes narrowing.
One week. His remaining time had shrunk dramatically. That audit would expose everything—shell companies, embezzlement, all of it.
"Then we don't have one week," Morcant hissed, his tone now sharp as ice. "We need chaos. Immediately."
He strode to his desk and rang a small bell. Moments later, a massive man in creaking, worn leather armor entered. Captain Roman-Bardales, commander of the Iron Maw mercenaries, grinned broadly, revealing stained teeth.
"You summoned me, My Lord?" he growled.
"I need a distraction, Captain," Morcant said coolly. "Something big."
Wayne Dahmer, standing beside him, asked, "Another political maneuver, My Lord?"
Morcant shook his head. "Politics are useless for now. My nephew has somehow poisoned the council with doubt. I cannot afford to let them debate for months while my position erodes."
He paused, his eyes gleaming with cruel light. "We need a crisis. One that cannot be solved by debate or audits. A crisis that can only be answered with military force—my force. Something large enough to make the council forget their ledgers and beg for protection. Something horrific."
The captain laughed, his voice rough and brutal. "A simple bandit raid won't suffice, My Lord. Even at their best, the Royal Guard could handle that."
"I didn't say simple bandits," Morcant replied, a thin, icy smile forming. "At the Ghost Mithril Mine, our ally—Magister Calelius—has been 'cultivating' something new for us. Something more vicious. More hungry. I don't care about his methods. I only care about results."
He fixed Roman-Bardales with a reptilian stare.
"Take your finest specimens. I want a village erased. Willow Creek. Burn it to the ground. Leave nothing but screams and ash. Make sure it's close enough to frighten the nobles of Nightholm, yet far enough that the Royal Guard arrives too late."
The captain stopped grinning. Even for him, the order was extreme. "That… will attract the Seven Knights, My Lord."
"Let them come!" Morcant snapped. "The greater the chaos, the better. When Vaelmont burns, whom will they turn to? A prince hiding behind ledgers, or the one duke with an army ready to act—an army capable of 'resolving' the very threat he created?"
He turned back to face the fire.
"Carry it out."