Several days later, at the Nobles' Council.
Beneath the oak dome, the atmosphere was oppressive.
Marquis Ironwall, Marcus, studied the agenda on the table, his fingers tapping the armrest.
Weilin Klein. That name again.
It seems his victory over the Development Rights last time has gone to his head. A frontier baron who crawled out of a mud pit, and he dares dream of rising straight to the top, applying to become a count when he knows perfectly well it cannot pass?
Has he gone mad? Will he apply to become a marquis next? I might as well hand him my "Ironwall" title too!
Marcus's lips curled with scorn.
He had lost the last debate over Development Rights, and that was that. No one cared about that godforsaken island anyway.
But this time was different.
This touched the duchy's most fundamental order, the very foundation of the nation.
Marquis Ironwall swept his gaze across the hall. Everyone present owed their power, wealth, and standing to pure bloodlines and the glory inherited from their ancestors.
Weilin, by contrast, was merely an upstart who had stumbled into power, attempting to corrode those foundations with his bizarre "merit point system" and "citizenship rights."
He elevated commoners, treated craftsmen as honored guests, and now wanted the nobles to acknowledge his achievements and grant him a higher title?
Dream on. He must be crushed, without mercy.
The chief clerk rang his silver bell, and the long, tedious routine motions passed one after another.
At last, the clerk cleared his throat.
"The next item is the review of the application for promotion to count submitted by His Lordship Weilin Klein, frontier baron of the Gray Marsh Fief."
The last murmur of conversation vanished from the hall.
Marquis Ironwall rose, his dark blue military dress uniform pressed