Chapter 452 — The Ancestor Has Truly Arrived
Blade of Dawn · Page 1 of 3
At Silverkeep, in Saint Frostrest, the royal capital of Ansu.
In the military hall, several capital nobles and knight lords sat around a broad long table of heavy oak banded with gold, while Ansu's two current regent dukes and the nominal crown prince, Prince Welsh Morn, sat at the head of the table—a high-level military council was in session.
The light of the crystal lamps illuminated the somewhat oppressive hall. The metal shields hanging on the north wall reflected the lamplight and vaguely mirrored the backs of the two regent dukes and the crown prince; in that blurred reflection, Prince Welsh's bright red coat stood out like a streak of blood.
The man who had returned to the position of crown prince only in middle age watched the nobles speak, deliberate, and argue around the long table. His eyes flickered now and then, but he said almost nothing. He sat there like an outsider, listening to matters that in theory should have been his alone to decide.
A gray-haired old knight braced both hands on the table. He was short in stature but exceptionally strong; despite his years, his eyes still burned with a cold, youthful light. He looked at the other knight lords and capital nobles beside him and said in a deep, powerful voice: "The battle to retake Sorin Fort has failed, my lords. We must face the fact—the rebels in the Eastern Province are few, yet it is we who hold the disadvantage."
"The good news is that we have pinned the rebels in the hills around Sorin Fort," one noble said. "With the Holy Spirit Plain at our backs, we have more land and more men. A war of attrition favors us."
The old knight could not help tapping the table: "Do not be too optimistic, Count Barlin. A war of attrition presupposes that we can actually sustain this situation—the Loren family has faced the Typhonians for years; their soldiers are tougher and better able to endure pressure, while our army's morale falls every day. If we cannot achieve some result soon, then even with ample food and replacements, we will be the first to break..."
Duchess Victoria, seated at the head of the table, suddenly interrupted the old knight: "Lord Cromwell, calm yourself."
Welsh Morn turned his head slightly to glance at the regent duchess beside him, then looked back at Cromwell Whitehill across the table—he knew this aging knight lord. The surname "Whitehill" was uncommon in Ansu, but it was a typical dwarven surname, because Cromwell Whitehill's ancestor had indeed been a dwarf: in the pioneering expedition seven hundred years ago, the nonhuman races who fought alongside humans had not been elves alone. Some dwarves had also become builders of human kingdoms during the Great Expansion, and some of them had ultimately chosen to merge into human society, even to become members of the Ansu nobility. Cromwell Whitehill's family had come from exactly that.
Perhaps influenced by his ancestral blood, this knight lord's temper seemed too blunt among nobles who prized elegant etiquette, but Welsh Morn knew that what Cromwell said was the truth. Only... since Duchess Victoria had already spoken, he need not speak.
"Forgive me, Grand Duchess, but we must acknowledge the facts," Cromwell Whitehill said. Though he apologized, his words still carried full force. "The rebellion in the Eastern Province is not as easy to handle as we imagined. We failed to drive them from the Holy Spirit Plain before the end of the Fire Month; they have taken root in Sorin Fort—the Harvest Month has arrived, and the rebels will feed themselves on the grain we spent half a year growing. Grand Duchess Vild, Duke Franklin, and Your Highness the Prince, I am willing to lead the knight order on campaign, to help Count Sorin retake the fortress. We cannot let the rebels spend the Harvest Festival on the Holy Spirit Plain..."