On a deep winter night in the Red Tide Fief, cold seeped through the cracks in the stone walls of the old hall. The fireplace burned low, and only a few oil lamps barely illuminated the table.
This meeting room had originally been a refuge for nobles, but it had since been converted into a chamber for secret gatherings.
The doors and windows were shut tight, and the guards had been sent away. The air smelled of charcoal and lingering damp mold, tinged with an unsettling restlessness.
Viscount Brooke, the owner of the room, sat at the center, slowly surveying those gathered around him.
He was an old Northern Frontier noble from Snowpeak Commandery and had resented Louis for a long time. Only Louis's overwhelming power had forced him to lie low, yet he had never expected Louis to be the one to shelter him when disaster struck.
His expression was composed now, but the deep lines at the corners of his eyes revealed that he was not content with mere safety and survival.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice low and firm, "we all know who calls the shots in Snowpeak Commandery now. But that doesn't mean we should let ourselves be pushed around."
Baron Harris leaned against his chair with his arms crossed and snorted. "Pushed around? You make it sound so simple, Brooke. My family's private troops, handed down through four generations, were confiscated under this so-called temporary requisition. Now a nobleman has to live among servants and eat their coarse black-flour buns."
He unfolded a densely written "Charcoal ration application" and tossed it onto the table.
"Look at this. Even for one sack of charcoal, you have to specify your 'purpose,' 'status,' and 'whether you can share accommodation.' Ha! Are we still nobles? Even refugees have more