After a series of meticulously orchestrated efforts, Gawain finally stepped into Silver Fortress with utmost grandeur, his entrance capturing the attention of the entire city.
While commoners and tradesmen paid little mind beyond idle chatter, the nobility was intently focused. Almost every noble who caught wind of the event observed its progression with rapt attention. Yet, the fortress's towering silver walls shielded much from view; minor nobles were not granted entry, and any flow of information from within had been curtailed by royal order since early morning. All that remained visible was the stately entourage passing through the castle's gates, leaving the city's nobility to discuss widely circulated rumors and speculation about the meeting.
Some knew that three days prior, the Northern Duke, Victoria Wilde, had arrived in the Silver Fortress, followed by Duke Baldwin Franklin of the West and Duke Silas Loren of the East. Other high-ranking officials and the king's own chancellor were also inside.
But beyond the walls, curiosity swelled as the nobles whispered about what this meeting could signify: a banquet? A secretive discussion? Perhaps a heated dispute or, as some wondered, even an assassination? The mere presence of Gawain Cecil, a figure from seven centuries past, sparked countless theories. What words would the ancient founder share with the current king?
King Francis II, however, had chosen not to hold a burdensome banquet nor address Gawain from the royal throne room. Instead, as Gawain himself had requested, he arranged their meeting in the Oak Hall adjacent to the main council chamber.
The Oak Hall itself was a relic of a bygone era, tracing its origins to when Silver Fortress was first founded nearly seven centuries ago. At the time, it bore little resemblance to its current state; the name "Silver Fortress" was little more than a tribute to Charles I's inability to conjure a more distinguished name. Over time, however, Oak Hall had earned a revered reputation. Enchanted by a royal druid four centuries earlier, the hall's oak frame would endure for centuries to come. Here, only nobles of the highest rank discussed matters of paramount importance.
A round oak table had been placed at the center, with the king seated at the "Crown" position. On his right sat the Chancellor, Aiden, a man of sparse hair and a calculating gaze; to his left was Victoria Wilde, Duke of the North. Further left sat Baldwin Franklin, Duke of the West, and Silas Loren, Duke of the East, with additional high nobles and advisors occupying the remaining seats. Gawain, however, was accompanied only by Rebecca, his young successor.
In keeping with her station, Rebecca was tense but composed as she found her seat beside Gawain. The intensity of the moment was undeniable; as Gawain made his entrance, all eyes were fixed on him, from the veterans of the royal court to the lesser officials relegated to secondary seats. For each observer, this encounter with a living figure from the dawn of the kingdom was, understandably, a rare spectacle.
The king himself rose to speak, leading the nobles in a respectful bow. "May the gods protect Ansu," King Francis II intoned solemnly. "To stand before an ancient hero who sacrificed and endured for the survival of our people is an honor beyond measure. We shall never forget the debt we owe you, Lord Gawain, nor the debt we owe your generation of pioneers. Today, as the head of House Morne and as the representative of Ansu, I offer my deepest respects to you, our noble founder."
For Francis II, this statement served as an acknowledgment of Gawain's authenticity, affirming to the court that the ancient hero before them was indeed the original Gawain Cecil.
As Gawain glanced around, a smirk crept onto his face, adding a touch of levity to the charged room. "The last time I had this many people bowing to me," he remarked, "I was lying in a coffin."
A wave of uncomfortable silence followed, quickly broken by the king, who chuckled. "In truth, it is only fitting that we honor our elders. May it be no offense, Lord Gawain, to show deference as one might to a wise ancestor."
Seeing the tension dissipate, the gathered nobles regained their composure, and Francis II offered Gawain an appreciative nod, exuding a palpable sense of relief.
The Northern Duke, Victoria Wilde, took her seat beside the king, cool and composed as ever. Encased in an elegant silver fur cloak and pale, white gloves, her austere demeanor and the striking silver tones of her attire gave her the appearance of a figure from a frozen realm. Gawain observed her with interest; House Wilde had, after all, played a pivotal role in establishing the Second Dynasty. Yet, despite this historical connection, the Northerners no longer held any direct sway over the royal family.
Noticing Gawain's scrutiny, Victoria offered a slight nod in acknowledgment. "You certainly bear the countenance of your forebears," he noted. "I once told your ancestor to marry a spirited southern woman to temper his icy disposition, but I suppose he did not heed my advice."
The slightest twitch of Victoria's otherwise impassive expression betrayed a glimmer of discomfort. Gawain's remark struck a familiar chord in the room, touching upon each family's unique legacy. As he greeted Duke Baldwin Franklin and Duke Silas Loren, offering anecdotes of their forefathers, the nobles responded with careful decorum. Yet, Gawain's gaze drifted to an empty space between the Northern Duke and the chancellor—an absence more symbolic than practical.
Long ago, that seat had been designated for the Southern Duke, the role once held by the Cecil family. However, a century prior, the title of Southern Duke had been withdrawn, leaving the lands under direct royal control. House Cecil had been relegated to a remote corner of the realm, their influence markedly diminished.
Noting his glance, every noble felt a subtle tension return. Here, in this chamber, they knew Gawain could well assert his ancestral right. Yet, to their collective relief, he gave only a slight smile. "Let us proceed to the matter at hand," Gawain said calmly. "My descendant, Rebecca Cecil, shall brief you all on the dire situation unfolding in the southern territories. This is a matter of grave concern."
With that, he stepped back, allowing Rebecca to step forward. In a firm yet respectful voice, she outlined the destructive events that had befallen the south—the monstrous attacks, the devastated villages, and the refugees scattered across the region. As she spoke, the audience's initial skepticism melted into solemnity.
"Unrest has shaken the southern lands," Rebecca stated, "and we lack the resources to effectively shield our people or reclaim our hold. We stand at the brink of a crisis that threatens to ripple across the entire kingdom."
The gravity of her words was undeniable, and her presentation concluded with silence filling the hall. It was Francis II who finally broke the stillness. "The southern region has indeed suffered deeply. Yet your words suggest a threat that could extend far beyond your domain. In what manner, Lord Gawain, do you envision addressing this challenge?"
Gawain responded with quiet authority, "The south cannot be fortified by relying solely on existing resources. The magnitude of the threat demands that we secure aid not just for the southern lands but for all of Ansu. To that end, I believe it is time we reclaim a cache of resources hidden long ago for just such a dire need."
A murmur arose among the assembled, and the king leaned forward with renewed interest. "A cache, you say?"
Gawain produced a small platinum disc from his coat—a key that symbolized one of Ansu's oldest secrets. "Before the kingdom took root," he began, "a great treasure was hidden in the southern mountains. This cache was never retrieved, as other resources took precedence. However, as a safeguard for the kingdom, its location and key were entrusted solely to House Cecil and House Morne."
Surprise flickered across the king's face. "And you believe these resources remain intact after all this time?"
"Only House Cecil has the key to access them," Gawain affirmed. "Yet, through the centuries, we have not laid claim to them. But with the current turmoil and given the kingdom's longstanding need for stability, it is only fitting that we now retrieve them. This is not a gift, but an offering to preserve what we have built."
He turned to the king, his expression resolute. "The question is whether the Second Dynasty is willing to receive it in the same spirit of honor and unity that forged our kingdom."
For a moment, Francis II seemed taken aback, and a trace of awe crossed his expression. Here was an opportunity he had not anticipated, a gift from a founder himself. "Lord Gawain, you honor us with your dedication. I accept this offering with gratitude and pledge that it will be put to use in defense of our kingdom and our people."
With the king's acceptance, the assembled nobles nodded in solemn agreement. The decision to deploy these ancient resources signified more than simply fortifying the south; it affirmed a renewed unity across Ansu's fractured landscape, a rare gesture that rekindled the spirit of the original pioneers.
The remaining discourse between Gawain and the council unfolded with far more gravity. Though Francis II held fast to the interests of the Second Dynasty, Gawain's voice—the voice of Ansu's origin—was resolute and influential. When the meeting finally concluded, the nobles departed in respectful silence, contemplating the implications of the pact they had just witnessed.
As he left the Oak Hall, Gawain walked with quiet satisfaction, knowing his purpose here had resonated profoundly. Not only had he strengthened the south's future, but he had also rekindled a bond between the old and new, a reminder of Ansu's unity and shared destiny. And while the coming days held further challenges, he had set a clear course—a reminder that the legacy of Ansu was one of resilience, a force undiminished by the passage of centuries.