As expected, the news from the south alarmed the king and nobility alike. Coupled with the warnings from a resurrected founder, this concern would naturally rise to levels nearing panic—yet it would go no further. Those who had never experienced nor imagined the horrors of the Mana Surge were unlikely to make drastic responses based solely on verbal warnings, even if Gawain had brought physical evidence of corrupted weapons. The scars on these artifacts, after all, could only suggest unusual natural phenomena—disturbing but not definitive proof of the Mana Surge's return. Even Gawain himself had pieced together these conclusions from fragmented memories and dared not declare the world's end with absolute certainty.
Francis II's response, measured and restrained, was entirely understandable. He could not possibly mobilize the kingdom for war based on sudden reports alone. Even if he were willing, the feudal structures that governed the nobles prevented such sweeping actions. Moreover, launching national war preparations at this point would be unwise—even if the Mana Surge were to return, its full arrival was likely months or even years away. Any premature mobilization would be difficult to justify, particularly when the south's disturbances might yet fade as a passing anomaly.
The memory of the former Moen dynasty, at its peak, might have lent enough influence to command nationwide readiness. But the current Second Dynasty lacked such clout. In fact, even Francis II could not impose his will on the Duke of the East.
Though Gawain bore the weight of a founder's legacy, he knew that it wasn't enough to overhaul the kingdom's status quo on his word alone. This position, more ceremonial than impactful, was akin to holding a scepter of flowers—grand yet fragile. The roots of the Cecil family had long withered: no land, no subjects, no resources. Even their journey to the capital had been funded by borrowed coin. For the pragmatic nobility surrounding him, Gawain's influence was thin indeed.
With a light touch on Rebecca's shoulder to silence her, Gawain shifted his gaze to the king. "We've brought word and our warnings. How you act upon them, now or later, is up to you."
"We will heed your warnings, and all due inquiries will be conducted promptly," said Duchess Victoria Wilde, her voice as cold as the northern winds. "You'll be informed of any findings as soon as they're available."
"Investigations…that's about all we can do now," Gawain replied, then adjusted his tone with a hint of finality. "With that, let's move on to a more personal matter—the business of House Cecil."
Tension visibly tightened around the room.
"Relax," Gawain chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "No need to act as if I've come back from the dead demanding back payments on centuries of burnt offerings." His jest fell flat, humor lost on the assembly.
He sighed inwardly at the silence before resuming with a straight face. "I'm aware of what happened a century ago. Frankly, I'd have liked to knock some sense into that wayward descendant myself. So I've no intention of reversing any decisions from back then. I'm here simply to claim a few things that, personally, belong to me."
Francis II exchanged a glance with the other nobles, and expressions of relief swept across their faces. The founding ancestor had preemptively addressed the turmoil of a century past, relieving them of the burden of raising this sensitive topic themselves. It was rare for an ancient patriarch to show such consideration.
Yet even as they relaxed, curiosity gnawed at them—what personal items did Gawain Cecil intend to reclaim? In noble custom, everything belonged to the lord, including land, titles, and wealth. What did he mean by "personal belongings?"
With every eye on him, Gawain clarified with a calm smile. "Most of my belongings were rightfully passed to my heirs. That my unworthy descendant squandered them, well, it's beyond me to reclaim what's lost. I'm referring to something more enduring—my right of conquest."
The nobles and advisors exchanged startled glances, then a glimmer of realization dawned. Each had heard of the ancient charter of conquest—an echo from humanity's second great wave of expansion, a relic both symbolic and sacred.
The right of conquest was a testament to humanity's resilience, a legal statement inscribed in platinum in each of the four major human nations. It was a law with no contemporary utility, merely a reminder of the legacy of endurance, a pillar of legitimacy for each kingdom.
No one had ever thought the Right of Conquest might be invoked again.
Gawain noted their expressions of disbelief and smiled as the tension subtly eased. He would meet with less resistance on this matter than he'd expected.
To approach with bombast and take back the Cecil lands would have put every noble on the defensive. But the request for this ancient right, bound up in history and law rather than modern politics, cost no one their holdings. It was a minor ask in their eyes.
Gawain's strategic flair had prepared the way. His journey was public, every banner flying high as he entered the capital, hinting at what seemed like a bid to reclaim the lost glories of House Cecil. The aristocracy, prepared for confrontation, had already made plans for resisting a power play. Yet his actual request had caught them off guard. In their minds, he was like a customer finding a fine watch on sale for pennies, a bargain so steep they might question its legitimacy.
Yet, with the ancestor so visibly before them, his demand seemed minor. "Yes, yes, absolutely, please take it," they might as well say. "By all means, go and conquer."
If Gawain had led with the Right of Conquest and no fanfare, negotiations might have been trickier. Left to their own devices, some among the nobles might have sought to whittle down the ancient privilege. Instead, a consensus quickly formed. Given the stakes, the nobles realized they were better off granting his request. After all, they lacked the authority to deny it. The charter of conquest had been recognized not only by Ansu but by all four kingdoms. The treaty included a unique stipulation: an elven witness to bear its memory.
The elves, who lived millennia, possessed an impeccable memory. This factored into the decision to ask the Queen of Silverwood to sign a copy of the charter as a witness. A translated version lay enshrined in the elven halls even now. Seven centuries had passed, but the queen, who had been barely of age when she stamped her seal, still presided in Silverwood. She remembered the charter well.
In jest, Gawain suggested that if Ansu chose to disregard his Right of Conquest, he could always move his kin to the Silver Empire. Elves, he hinted, had plenty of untouched lands and a high regard for those skilled in exploration.
The thought of their founding patriarch seeking refuge among the elves to live in trees set off a few nerves. Shutting this avenue quickly, they agreed the Right of Conquest should indeed remain valid—but they needed to settle on the specifics of the location.
"The kingdom is no longer what it was, Duke Cecil," said Francis's chief advisor, Aidan Alfred, rising to address the table. He continued in his even tone, "There is no wilderness fit for habitation within our borders. Each piece of land is spoken for. Outside the kingdom, land fit for conquest is even rarer. Much of it is barren or lethal—take, for example, the buffer zone along the Gondor Wasteland. Where do you intend to direct your efforts?"
"Bring me a map," Gawain requested.
The map they provided was rudimentary at best. Even with magical aids like Eagle's Eye or Forest Sensing, the map was crude in accuracy and scale compared to the knowledge embedded in Gawain's memory. Yet he refrained from comment, overlaying the image in his mind as he scanned the document. Finally, he placed a finger on a narrow strip bordering the Gondor Wasteland and the eastern frontier of Typhon's lands.
"The Black Mountain Range," he said, tapping the chosen area.
The nobles exchanged wary glances. This strip of land was as formidable as it was remote, nestled at the edge of the Gondor Wasteland and frequented by few due to its hostile geography and proximity to the magic-tainted lands beyond.
Francis II raised an eyebrow, his voice measured. "The Black Mountains, where the land borders Typhon territory on one side and the Wasteland on the other. You're aware of the hazards?"
"I'm well aware," Gawain confirmed, his tone calm but firm. "And this is precisely why I chose it. The Black Mountains are not only the perfect barrier but also a place from which we can monitor both Typhon's movements and any anomalies from the Wasteland. To conquer this land will be a challenge, yes, but one worth undertaking."
A pause settled over the room as Gawain's proposal took root in their minds. In taking this risk, he was not merely asserting a right but volunteering his house as a sentinel over this uncertain border. To this, the nobles had no rebuttal.
After a lengthy silence, Francis II spoke. "Very well. Ansu will recognize the Right of Conquest in the Black Mountains under your authority, Duke Cecil. You will have our logistical support within reason. The land you secure is yours to govern, with the rights accorded by law."
Gawain inclined his head respectfully, signaling his agreement.
With the terms settled, a faint sense of satisfaction washed over him. The land was far from habitable and rife with danger, but it was land—a foundation upon which House Cecil might rebuild and stand guard once more.
The meeting concluded. Each noble left the chamber acutely aware that a
new chapter was beginning, one marked by both the foreboding of ancient threats and the resurgent legacy of a long-lost hero.