At dawn, the southern lands of Melis lay shrouded in a thin mist, the damp air carrying a biting chill. Outside the Marquis of Melis's estate, a column of riders approached at a steady pace. Duke Horace rode at the front, his expression grim, while General Oscar followed in gleaming armor, his sharp gaze like a cold blade. The escort that accompanied them was fully armed, exuding an aura of authority that demanded respect.
The Marquis of Melis stood on the steps of his manor, greeting them with a smile that barely concealed his unease. He had not forgotten his previous gesture—a hundred ceremonial guards sent under the guise of "support," which had been nothing short of an insult to Duke Horace, a demonstration of his indifference to the war effort. Now, with these two prominent figures of Strongson visiting in person, the situation was clearly far from favorable.
"My lord duke, general," the marquis greeted them with a cautious bow, his tone deferential. "It must have been a long journey."
Duke Horace inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. He replied evenly, "My lord marquis, the southern lands remain as picturesque as ever."
The marquis quickly stepped aside, ushering them into the reception hall. The air inside was heavy with tension, and even the sound of the servants' footsteps as they brought tea seemed unusually loud.
Seated at the head of the room, Horace scrutinized the marquis opposite him. His tone was calm but left no room for defiance: "My lord marquis, I did not come today to revisit old grievances, nor do I intend to dwell on the matter of your hundred ceremonial guards."
The Marquis of Melis forced a laugh, attempting to explain, but Horace raised a hand to silence him. "We do not have the luxury of lingering on the past. What matters now is that you understand the severity of the current situation. His Majesty Leon has made progress on the front lines, but the resistance from Eldenia has proven far more tenacious than anticipated. If Whitehold is not breached soon, the campaign will drag on further."
General Oscar took up the thread, his tone steely and direct: "The casualties on the front lines have already exceeded expectations. Supply lines are faltering, particularly the contributions from the southern provinces. This is not merely a front-line issue, my lord marquis. If the war is lost, the repercussions will ripple through all of Strongson."
The Marquis of Melis felt a chill run down his spine as beads of sweat formed on his brow. He was acutely aware of what this war meant for Strongson and of how a defeat would destabilize the positions of the nobility.
Duke Horace's voice grew deeper, weighted with authority: "You are a man of intelligence, my lord. You must realize that the choices made now will determine the future. Should His Majesty fail to return victorious from Eldenia, do you truly believe those nobles already harboring discontent will stand idly by? And what of you? Can you remain unscathed amidst the chaos?"
The marquis pressed his lips together tightly, his voice subdued. "My lord duke, I do not oppose the war effort, but..."
"But you cling to the hope that, no matter the outcome of the war, your position will remain intact." Horace's gaze was piercing, like that of a hawk. "Have you considered, however, the consequences should His Majesty emerge victorious? Would you be able to bear the cost of neglecting your duty to the nation?"
The color drained from the marquis's face, shifting between pale and flushed. After a moment of silence, he finally lowered his voice and said, "You are right, my lord duke... I must reevaluate the situation."
Horace gave a small nod, his tone softening slightly. "Good. Prioritizing the greater good is not only a responsibility to the nation but also a safeguard for yourself."
As they left the estate, General Oscar glanced back at the grand manor and remarked quietly to Horace, "That marquis still harbors resentment, I'm sure of it."
Horace's expression remained impassive. "We do not need his full cooperation. What matters is that he makes the right choices. Circumstances will force his hand, willing or not."
The two rode off, their steeds' hoofbeats echoing as they receded into the distance. The Marquis of Melis stood at the manor gates, watching their retreating figures with a complex expression. He knew this war was not merely a contest of armies but also an invisible struggle among the nobility—a battle of influence and survival.