Viscount Firth sneered. "We are the true masters of Snowpeak. We've built our power here for over a hundred years. The people are on our side, and they all remember our kindness.
Once we get through this winter, all we need to do is rally them, and everything will be back in our hands."
His gaze swept around the table, settling on the faces of several wavering newly ennobled nobles.
"What does some southern boy who lucked into a title know about governing? That barony of his... it's smaller than my stables."
Several men couldn't help laughing. Someone twisted the knife further. "I hear that although he comes from a great family, he's just a useless castoff they dumped in the Northern Frontier."
"He's just lucky. Born into the right family, stumbled into some military merit, then picked up the title of Commandery Governor."
"But luck runs out sooner or later."
Viscount Firth waved a hand, his tone growing more relaxed. "I think paying lip service while doing as we please is the safest approach.
Whatever he says, we listen. Whether we actually do it? We have plenty of excuses: disaster victims, military unrest, freezing weather.
We're local nobles of the Northern Frontier. Who would dare hold us accountable? After all these years of intermarriage, the nobles here are practically one family.
If he so much as touches a hair on our heads, let's see how many people turn against him."
All the nobles present nodded, agreeing that he had a point.
With their conclusion reached, the laughter in the room soon grew lighter, and the air filled with smug, swelling confidence.
"Come, a toast to the true future masters of Snowpeak!"
They drank and traded toasts, their laughter growing ever more brazen, utterly unaware of the strange chill already