"Your Majesty, I have a few points to raise concerning the disaster in the Northern Frontier."
The speaker rose from a corner of the long table. He was a thin, middle-aged nobleman, dressed modestly but neatly.
He wore neither an old noble family's crest nor a military commander's dragon-patterned epaulets, only a newly minted golden rose emblem-the shared insignia of the deliberative nobles ennobled in the Imperial Capital over the past decade.
He was Marquis Collins. His origins were unremarkable, yet he frequently appeared in the affairs of the Empire's various departments. Known for "conciliation, compromise, and reason," he was regarded by many veteran council members as a harmless newcomer.
Yet he had stepped forward at the most sensitive moment.
Seated on the left side of the long table, Eleanor slowly lowered her head.
He was, in fact, a hidden piece the Calvin Family had spent years positioning. The words he would speak next came from a draft written by Duke Calvin.
Of course, if Collins failed to seize the initiative in this opening exchange, she would lose most of her remaining options.
Everyone in the hall turned toward the slight marquis, their gazes curious, contemptuous, or indifferent, as though none expected him to say anything of consequence.
But Collins bowed lightly. His voice was not loud, yet the Imperial Hall's Echo Array made it exceptionally clear:
"First, I believe the nature of this conflict has long since exceeded the bounds of ordinary warfare. Neither the mutations of the insect swarm nor that so-called 'Doom Brood Hive' were things mortals could foresee or control."
Word by word, Marquis Collins broke through what many had deliberately avoided discussing.
"Blaming this disaster on some commander's tactical errors would only miss the point. We used human flesh and blood to hold back an