Deep within Duke Windsor's Mansion lay a private study that remained closed to the public. Its security was airtight, and its furnishings understated yet luxurious, far surpassing any other place within the estate. It lacked dazzling gold and silver decorations; the walls were covered in sound-absorbing dark velvet, and the floor was laid with thick, expensive Merick hand-woven carpets that swallowed the sound of every footstep. The air was filled with a mixed scent of aged books, high-grade tobacco, and a unique antiseptic spice, quiet and heavy. This was the true core of power for the Windsor family, the domain of Duke Albert von Windsor, the God of Wealth of the empire.
Unlike the faint sounds of busyness drifting in from outside the window in preparation for his granddaughter's Coming-of-Age Ceremony, dead silence filled the study. Only the subtle crackling of fine white oak burning in the fireplace and the rustle of a quill tip gliding across special parchment broke this near-stagnant tranquility.
Duke Albert sat behind a massive desk carved from a single piece of solid obsidian. He was nearing seventy, and his hair was completely white, yet groomed meticulously. His face was lean, his skin appearing somewhat pale from living indoors year-round, and covered in deep wrinkles like the cracks of a dried riverbed. But what was most heart-stopping were his eyes—their color an unusual light gray, resembling the surface of a lake shrouded in a winter cold fog, seemingly calm yet bottomless, as if capable of piercing through all hypocrisy and lies. At this moment, those eyes were peering through an exquisite gold-rimmed monocle, intently reviewing a magically encrypted assessment report regarding how crop failures in the empire's southeastern province would impact next year's tax revenue.
He wore an impeccably tailored dark gray casual outfit without any superfluous ornaments, save for a small Windsor Family crest carved from colorless Magic Crystals pinned to his collar—a pair of scales and a key, refracting a cold luster under the light. His fingers were slender and steady, his fingernails trimmed clean, and his movements in turning the documents slow and precise, carrying a sort of composure that controlled everything.
"Screech—" With a soft sound, the heavy wooden door of the study, its inner side inlaid with soundproof steel plates and defensive magic runes, was pushed open silently. The old butler Morrison walked in as noiselessly as a shadow, bowed, and said in a low voice, "Lord Duke, Her Highness the Eldest Princess and Young Master William have arrived."
Duke Albert did not raise his head, merely letting out an almost imperceptible "hm" from his throat to acknowledge receipt. He finished reading the last page of the report, signed a cursive monogram at the bottom with that quill inlaid with a star sapphire, and only then slowly put down the pen, took off the monocle, and gently wiped it with a piece of chamois leather.
Almost at the same time he put down his glasses, Eldest Princess Elinor and William Windsor walked in. Elinor still maintained the grace and calmness of the royal family, but within this study, her aura seemed to contract somewhat as well. William appeared more deferential, carrying even a trace of unperceived tension.
"Father," William took the lead in bowing and greeting.
"Lord Duke," Elinor nodded slightly, her etiquette impeccable, yet her address maintained a distance, demonstrating her insistence on her own royal status during formal occasions.
Duke Albert raised those light gray eyes, his gaze calmly sweeping over his son and daughter-in-law, and finally landing on Elinor, lingering for a split second. That gaze carried no warmth, as if he were merely evaluating two objects. He pointed to the two high-backed armchairs opposite the desk: "Sit."
The two sat down as instructed, their backs straight like students facing a mentor.
"How are the preparations for Elisa's Coming-of-Age Ceremony going?" Duke Albert's voice was low and hoarse, his pace slow, every word carrying heavy weight.
"Reporting to Father, everything is ready according to the highest specifications, all guests have been confirmed, and security is foolproof," William replied respectfully, concise and to the point.
Duke Albert nodded slightly, turning his gaze to Elinor: "What is the Hohenzollern Family's stance on this?"
Elinor had already prepared her phrasing, responding calmly: "Marquis Otto has expressed congratulations through official channels and confirmed that Karl Hohenzollern will attend to represent the family. Young Master Leon... is reportedly preparing a gift of considerable value." She deliberately omitted the specific origin of the gift and its potential "padding."
Hearing this, Duke Albert wore no expression on his face, yet deep within those light gray eyes, an extremely faint shimmer seemed to flash past, too fast for anyone to catch. He was silent for a few seconds, his fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on the smooth obsidian desktop, producing a rhythmic, heart-tightening thudding sound.
"Hm," he uttered merely a single syllable again, and then the topic abruptly shifted, asking seemingly casually: "I heard that a few days ago, that brat Leon caused quite the spectacle at the gate of the Knight Academy?"
William's heart plummeted. Indeed! Though his father lived in seclusion, the slightest stir in the Imperial Capital, especially concerning future in-laws, could absolutely not be concealed from his ears! Subconsciously, he looked toward his wife.
Elinor's expression did not change in the slightest, as if she had long anticipated such a question, and she replied flatly: "It was merely a minor quarrel between youths, magnified by some bored individuals. It hinders the overall situation not."
"Hinders the overall situation not?" Duke Albert repeated, his tone flat, yet it made the temperature in the study seem to drop several degrees, "The future matriarch of the Windsor family, and her fiancé, under broad daylight, because of... recalling certain unseemly past events, suffers a nosebleed. You call this hindering the overall situation not?"
His gaze, like a cold probe, pierced toward Elinor: "Elinor, tell me, is this the marriage alliance partner you selected for the Windsor family? A... good-for-nothing who cannot even control his basic emotions and physiological responses, enough to bring disgrace to the family?"
Pressure descended abruptly. William felt cold sweat seep from his back. Elinor's fingertips curled slightly, but composure remained maintained upon her face.
"Lord Duke," Elinor met her father-in-law's gaze, her voice clear and calm, "Leon Hohenzollern is wanting in character; this is a fact. But the target of the marriage alliance is the surname Hohenzollern, the military power of the Northern Frontier, and Marquis Otto's stance, not him personally. His unworthiness is, in a sense, not entirely a bad thing for us."
She reiterated the theory she had previously spoken to William—that an incompetent husband is easy to control—using more refined and ruthless language, and finally concluded: "As long as the betrothal exists, the binding between the Hohenzollern Family and us is a fact. The more unworthy Leon is, the greater Elisa's future right to speak within the Hohenzollern family may become, and the deeper the influence we can exert. The pros and cons in this require a long-term view."
Duke Albert listened quietly, his face still revealing neither joy nor anger. Until Elinor finished speaking, the study fell into silence once more. Only the firelight of the fireplace danced within his light-gray pupils.
For a long time, he finally spoke slowly, his voice still low and hoarse, yet carrying a vicissitude of world-weary insight: "Elinor, you can always... make sacrifice sound so a matter of course, and view scheming with such thoroughness."
This sounded somewhat like praise, yet carried a trace of indescribable... mockery?
Duke Albert's gaze moved away from Elinor's face, looking toward the leaping flames in the fireplace, as if talking to himself, or as if speaking to the two people before him: "The Hohenzollern is the sword of the Northern Frontier. As long as the sword is sharp, it matters not whose hands it is held in; what matters is that the direction pointed by the blade must align with the interests of the one wielding it. Otto is a sensible man, but he is old. The wind and snow in the Northern Frontier are too heavy; whether this sword will rust in the future, or whether it will be grasped by others, nobody knows."
He paused, continuing: "Using Elisa as a thread to tether this sword is a risky move, but it is also a move that must be played under the current circumstances. Leon... truly is the greatest variable in this move, a poor, yet irreplaceable chess piece."
His gaze returned to Elinor, carrying an unprecedented sharpness: "However, Elinor, you must remember. The foundation upon which the Windsor family establishes itself in the empire is "trust" and "steadfastness". Excessive scheming and sacrifice may yield profits in the short term, but in the long run, they may shake the foundations. That child Elisa ultimately carries the blood of the Windsor. Her value is not merely a chain to tether a fierce beast."
This speech carried profound implications, acknowledging the necessity of Elinor's strategy while simultaneously implying a warning against her overly ruthless scheming, and even... seeming to leak an extremely faint trace of concern for her granddaughter Elisa's plight.
Elinor felt a chill in her heart and lowered her eyelids: "I understand, Lord Duke. I will grasp the proper measure."
William nodded hastily as well.
Duke Albert spoke no more, waving his hand to signal that they could leave. It was as if the heavy conversation regarding the future direction of the family just now had been merely routine daily inquiries.
The two rose, bowed respectfully, and withdrew.
The study door closed silently once again, cutting off the inside from the outside. Duke Albert sat alone behind the massive desk, put on his monocle once more, and picked up another document, appearing instantly to cast the conversation just now to the back of his mind.
Yet if anyone could observe closely, they would discover that deep within his light-gray eyes, beneath that frozen lake, surged undercurrents unknown to anyone. He picked up a red quill and slowly wrote a few words upon a blank slip of paper:
"The scabbard must be secured, the thread breaks easily, prepare contingencies early."
Upon finishing writing, a trace of imperceptible magic flame emerged from his fingertips, burning the slip of paper to ashes without leaving the slightest trace behind.
Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he continued to immerse himself in the vast, smoke-like imperial financial reports and secret dispatches. The God of Wealth of the empire would never stake all his chips on a single table. Elisa's Coming-of-Age Ceremony was merely a move on the surface, while the true game had long since unfolded on a deeper level.
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