The flames in the fireplace flickered weakly, unable to dispel the tomb-like chill and the thick, lingering stench of alcohol that filled the room.
Scattered across the table and carpet were a dozen or so toppled empty bottles, their pungent, harsh low-quality malt beer smell mingling with the decay emanating from Veer’s body, permeating every corner.
Veer curled herself up in the wide armchair like a wounded beast retreating into its lair to lick its wounds.
In her hand, she tightly gripped a nearly empty bottle, her eyes hollowly fixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace, which offered no warmth whatsoever.
Glass after glass, the fiery liquid burned her throat and stomach like flames, but it failed to numb the agony that threatened to tear her soul apart.
Fredrica’s cold, mocking words echoed repeatedly in her ears like a curse, each repetition cutting at her heart like a dull blade —
“… There is no longer any relation between you and her… It’s not your place to interfere…”
Scenes of Eileen flashed uncontrollably before her eyes, vivid as if from yesterday:
In childhood, awkwardly trying to approach the silver-haired girl with dazzling hair but distant eyes in the cold, splendid palace gardens, offering a candy she barely wanted to eat herself, only to be coldly pushed away.
As a child, Eileen would often come over holding pretty dresses, coaxing the boy-disguised Veer to try them on — each time a deadly temptation, for which she took countless scoldings from the Queen Mother!
At the broken engagement ceremony, Veer stood on the high steps, reading out the official letter of dissolution drafted by ministers, filled with hollow platitudes, while countless nobles in the crowd either gawked with glee or watched coldly.
She dared not meet Eileen’s eyes, only remembering those golden eyes that once shone like sunlight; in that moment, all light seemed to go out, leaving only unfathomable calm, a calm so deep it made her heart ache…
Then, in Raven Territory, she unexpectedly ran into Fredrica — then still Clairet — intimately holding Eileen’s waist, their posture ambiguous. The sudden, venomous sting and inexplicable bitterness that surged in her heart was like being bitten by a poisonous snake.
At the time, she foolishly interpreted it as anger and disappointment toward Eileen’s “willing fall from grace.”
“What exactly… have I done…?” Veer painfully covered her face, hot tears mixing with cold alcohol running uncontrollably down her cheeks, dripping onto the expensive carpet and leaving dark stains.
A suppressed, wounded-juvenile-like whimper escaped her throat.
“It was me… I was the one who pushed her away with my own hands. I made her life in the capital a living hell. It was me who betrayed and hurt her when she needed trust and support the most…” The venom of regret corroded her reason. “What right… do I have to show my face before her? I… don’t even have the qualification to care about her anymore…”
She finally saw through her own stupidity, arrogance, and cowardice.
Eileen’s choice to be strong, to side with Fredrica who could provide absolute protection, even if it meant starting a war to lock her in a golden cage — it was the most normal, the most reasonable decision!
Even more so… if the kingdom now has a moment to breathe, retakes three fortresses, and avoids being completely trampled under the Empire’s iron hoof…
All of this was probably bought with Eileen sacrificing herself for this fleeting peace!
“Am I… only going to watch her be taken away by that madwoman, to vanish from my world forever?”
Veer buried her face deep into her knees, her shoulders trembling violently with silent sobs. Despair was like icy seawater, drowning her utterly without a glimmer of light.
At that moment, the silence was broken by the deputy’s cautious, hesitant announcement outside the door: “Your Highness, Archbishop Barton requests an audience.”
Veer abruptly lifted her head, hastily wiping the messy tears and alcohol stains from her face with her sleeve, rubbing her stiff cheeks hard to make herself look less disheveled.
She took several deep breaths, suppressing the lump in her throat, and finally said in as steady a voice as she could muster, “Please, let the Archbishop in.”
The door opened, and a heavier, mixed scent of high-grade incense and greasy food wafted in.
The visitor was a plump middle-aged man dressed in a richly embroidered golden thread bishop’s robe.
His ruddy, round face wore the perfect mask of a worried patriot, as if he were born to wear a guise of compassion.
This was none other than Barton Hoffman, the Archbishop stationed by the Kingdom in the Northern Territories. His catchphrase: “What you love is your life.”
Archbishop Barton’s eyes swiftly swept over the messy room and Veer’s reddened eyes, a faint glint flashing in his gaze before he masked it with a more solemn expression.
Without much small talk, he walked directly to Veer and began his anguished performance in his characteristic exaggerated, chanting voice:
“Your Highness! By the Holy Light! This truly is the darkest hour the Kingdom has ever faced!” He waved his stout hand so vigorously that spittle nearly flew onto Veer’s face. “That fiend Jellorule! Seizing the Holy City and committing atrocities! She desecrates the divine, murders the loyal, bewilders the faithful with wicked sorcery, and has turned the sacred temple into a den of filth and corruption! She is the public enemy of all believers! An heretic that must be purified and judged!”
His voice was theatrical and inciting.
Veer watched his performance expressionlessly, her heart cold as ice.
Clearly, through his vast network in the church and kingdom, Barton had already learned in advance about the peace talks, especially the part about the Empire’s request to pass through the kingdom to attack the Holy City.
Seeing Veer silent, Barton assumed she was moved by his “sense of justice” and immediately lowered his voice, a sycophantic, sly smile spreading across his face as he leaned closer, spittle flying again: “But, Your Highness! Great crises often conceal supreme opportunities! The Empress has proposed passage through the Holy City — this is a perfect chance bestowed upon us by the Holy Light!”
His small eyes gleamed with greed and calculation: “Agree to it! Your Highness! Agree wholeheartedly! Let the Empire’s troops fight that madwoman Jellorule for us! Let them gnaw each other to death! Our Kingdom will reap the benefits!”
Growing more excited, flailing his hands, he added, “Even more, Your Highness!”
His voice dropped lower, dripping with a seductive corrupting power, “You can take advantage of the Empire’s army deep in the Holy City, far from their homeland and with a vulnerable rear, to secretly dispatch our best troops to cut off their supply lines and block their retreat! Leave them with no support, trapped and doomed!”
Archbishop Barton waved his pudgy hands excitedly, spittle flying in the dim light: “Then, Your Highness! You will not only annihilate the Empire’s elite invasion force and strike a heavy blow to their core, but you can also completely drive the invaders from the Kingdom! Recover all lost lands! No! You can even counterattack the Empire! Expand your territory! Your glory will echo across the continent! You will become the greatest monarch in the Kingdom’s history! And the Holy Light will forever watch over you!”
He painted a glorious picture, as if victory were within easy reach.
Veer’s heart thudded violently when she heard the words “cut off retreat,” “reap benefits,” “annihilate the Empire’s main force,” “recover lost lands,” and “counterattack.”
A wild ambition called “turning the tide” ignited like a poisonous flame in the dark, suddenly lighting the nearly extinguished embers of her heart! Yes! This… this sounds like a heaven-sent opportunity!
The Empire’s army, far from home and deep in the Kingdom’s interior, must have a long and fragile supply line.
If she could truly seize this chance and deliver a decisive strike at the critical pass… not only could it avert the looming national catastrophe but also severely damage the Empire, turning the tide completely!
She seemed to already see herself leading the Kingdom’s army back to the capital in triumph, cheered by all. Perhaps, perhaps Eileen would return to her because of this.
Her eyes instantly brightened, like a dying person clutching the last straw of salvation, shining with a fanatic and dangerous light.
Seeing this, Archbishop Barton’s heart secretly rejoiced and he eagerly extolled the plan’s feasibility and immense rewards, spitting fervently as he depicted Veer as the destined savior to reverse the crisis and enter history.
Veer suppressed the turmoil in her heart, keeping a calm facade and even forcing a smile of agreement: “Archbishop, your foresight and insight into the war opportunity are reasonable! This matter… allow me to consider it carefully to ensure absolute certainty.”
She politely saw the bishop, full of “Holy Light” talk but with a calculating heart, out.
As the door closed, Veer leaned against the cold, heavy door, her heart pounding wildly in her chest as if about to burst through her ribs!
Cutting off the Empire’s retreat… reaping the benefits… annihilating their main force… recovering lost lands… even counterattacking… Such immense temptation whispered like the devil’s voice crazily in her ears.
She gasped for air, her eyes blazing with flames named “ambition” and “revenge.”
However, when the initial frenzy and adrenaline-induced impulse faded, cold reality poured over her like icy winter water, chilling her to the bone!
The Empire’s military power far surpasses the Kingdom’s — an irrefutable truth!
Under Fredrica’s command are legendary generals — the “Iron Wall” Marshal, the “Blood Lion” General — all forged their fearsome reputations on mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
Their soldiers are battle-hardened, well-equipped, and high in morale.
What about the Kingdom? Marquis Cecil has been framed and fallen from power, along with many experienced and respected generals who have been sidelined or stripped of command, leaving some disheartened or powerless.
Most of Veer’s commanders are nobles who rose through family connections or scheming — fine on paper, but only a rare few have real battlefield experience!
The soldiers are a patchwork of temporary recruits, lacking training, poorly equipped, and demoralized. Many don’t even understand the meaning of this war.
Given the shifting strengths, does the Kingdom truly have the power to surround and annihilate an imperial elite force personally led by the Empress — a steel torrent?
If a sneak attack failed and the Empire struck back, it would be utter ruin!
Moreover… this fragile peace was bought with Eileen’s sacrifice!
If Veer betrayed her word and tore up the freshly signed treaty, brazenly attacking the Empire’s army “passing through,” it would hand Fredrica a perfect, undeniable pretext to start a war with the whole continent watching in silence!
Then, the Empire’s iron cavalry would have no reservations, crushing the Kingdom like a thunderstorm!
Eileen’s sacrifice would become meaningless.
Realizing all this, a cold chill raced from Veer’s feet to her head, freezing every bone and sinew.
The poisonous flame of “turning the tide” she had just ignited was immediately doused by the icy water of reality, leaving only cold ashes and despair a hundredfold deeper than before.
Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the floor, leaning against the cold door, as if all her bones had been sucked away.
“No… I can’t do this…” she whispered hoarsely, filled with pain and helplessness. “This is… suicide. And… it will make Eileen’s sacrifice meaningless…”
A long time passed — long enough for the fireplace’s flame to nearly extinguish, leaving the room in utter darkness and cold.
Veer finally struggled to her feet with all her remaining strength.
She staggered to the desk and lit a candle. The flickering yellow light cast eerie shadows over her pale, haggard, tear-streaked face.
She spread out a pristine sheet of paper and picked up a feather pen that felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.
Ink dripped onto the paper, blooming into a small blot, like her despair at that moment.
Each word was written with excruciating effort, as if personally engraving the epitaph of her dignity, draining all her strength and hope:
“To Her Majesty Fredrica, Empress of the Sacred Augustus Empire:
After careful consideration of your country’s proposed conditions for peace talks, for the sake of the Kingdom’s people and the peace of the Northern Territories, the Kingdom… consents.
- Raven Territory and its dependencies shall belong to the Empire from the date of signing this treaty.
- The Imperial army may, as agreed, pass through the Kingdom to the Holy City to suppress the heretic Pope Jellorule. The Kingdom will open designated passages and provide necessary convenience. The Imperial forces must arrange their own supply lines.
Only one request humbly submitted to Your Majesty:
Before the treaty’s formal signing, please in kindness allow Will to see Miss Eileen Raven one last time, in remembrance of old ties.
Respectfully,
Will, Crown Prince of the Kingdom.”
*****
Maria Fortress, Empress’s Headquarters.
Originally the command center of the Kingdom’s fortress commander, it had been thoroughly transformed, filled with Imperial coldness and luxury.
Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the snow-covered Northern wilderness and the endless flickering lights of the Empire’s encampments.
At the center of the room stood a huge, meticulously detailed military sand table marking every village and river.
Black flags representing the Empire’s controlled areas spread like a plague over a large portion of the Kingdom’s northern lands.
Fredrica, barefoot and dressed in a comfortable deep purple velvet robe, stood before the sand table like a languid feline.
Her fingertips moved with casual elegance across the areas marked by black flags, finally resting on the blue mark representing Sol City.
Her face wore a calm, all-controlling smile, her deep eyes seeming to have already seen through the chessboard of fate.
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