Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 690 - 391: The Art of Negotiation (Part 3)

Sorel's breath faltered, his heart clutched by an unseen force.

This secret was supposed to stay hidden from all.

No records, no hidden letters, no whispers had ever revealed this true loyalty beyond himself and Duke Raymond.

The informed nobles of the Imperial Capital viewed him as the Second Prince's loyal follower, a belief the prince himself never questioned.

Buried deep in obscurity, this identity remained unknown even to the knights who rode with him.

A young lord from the distant Northern Territory could never have uncovered it so bluntly under ordinary conditions.

But Louis stated it casually, stripping him bare as if peering directly into his core.

A mere guess? He tried to convince himself.

Terror still shot up his spine in a flash, like being caught in the shadows by surprise.

Louis pressed forward. He unraveled a thread he'd held for ages, his voice laced with subtle worry:

"You're striving endlessly for the duke, for your child healing in the monastery, right?

The girl called Ellie... Her gray scale sickness has advanced to the second stage, hasn't it? The duke offered you a rare alchemy potion as payment."

Sorel's breath caught abruptly.

He sat frozen in his seat, as though all vitality had been sapped from him.

Why?

How did he know?

Sorel couldn't pinpoint which fear gripped him hardest.

Was it the secret laid bare?

Or Louis's eerily composed tone, suggesting a thorough probe without any trace of malice?

Sorel gazed at Louis's youthful visage, envisioning a colossal eye concealed in the gloom.

This figure wasn't a distant lord; he was a fiend.

He grasped not only Duke Raymond's secret ledgers but Sorel's most guarded, inviolable weakness.

Ellie, his sole daughter, represented everything from his departed wife.

He allowed no one close, much less shared her existence with strangers.

Yet this young noble saw through him entirely.

Furthermore, Louis issued no threats; he offered genuine care.

Louis refrained from exploiting the moment for leverage; he simply eased open a drawer and withdrew a slim glass vial.

The vial bore a faint green tint, sealed with silver wax, its contents emitting a soft glow in the light.

Louis set the vial on the table and nudged it toward Sorel.

"The potion from the duke merely suppresses the disease." His voice held firm, "It cannot heal her. You realize that vaunted treasure fails against the second stage of gray scale sickness. This elixir, crafted by the Red Tide, can cure this form of gray scale sickness if administered within ten years."

Sorel fixed his eyes on the potion, pupils narrowing in stunned disbelief.

Truthfully, the Red Tide hadn't devised this formula from nothing.

A month earlier, as Sorel entered the Northern Territory, Louis's daily intelligence had disclosed his daughter's affliction and her secluded spot in the far-off monastery.

This elixir stemmed from work led by Master Merian of the Jade Federation; with all ingredients ready, it could be flawlessly reproduced given sufficient time.

This light green potion had been readied exactly for this encounter.

Louis slid the potion nearer: "This isn't a bargain; it's a welcome gift. Take it now and test it. If it works... we'll discuss conditions later. I possess more, plenty to fully heal your daughter."

Sorel's throat bobbed faintly, his chest crushed under an oppressive weight.

His every asset—titles, trade lines, ritual frameworks, political traps—meant nothing beside this tiny vial.

His lips trembled, hand finally stretching out, only to hover just short of the bottle.

In that instant, his walls utterly collapsed.