Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 693 - 392: Remonte and Calvin (3)

Salomon acknowledged it swiftly, then altered his tone: "Thus, this is merely an initial letter. The true invitation will follow later."

Once he concluded his words, he drew out a second, larger map from the leather tube at his side.

This time, the parchment unfurled to cover half the table's surface.

A crimson line began at the Southeast coast, veered northward, looped around the Golden Wheat Plains, then swung westward, sweeping in the inland river port of Oakheaven Province.

The table's lamp flickered over the parchment, making the red line appear to stretch further.

Salomon's finger lightly tapped the line's endpoint: "Should the scheme succeed, His Highness intends to back a protector so eastern stability won't crumble."

His words flowed steadily, each one striking the Duke's core: "This outlined region will birth a fresh political body.

Formally, it's the Holy East Empire, honoring the Royal Family's bloodline as its sacred emblem. In reality, it requires a governor wielding ample prestige and wealth."

Calvin's eyes gradually shifted from the red line back to Salomon's visage.

"Have you selected a candidate already?"

"Other than you," Salomon stated matter-of-factly, "no other name fits."

He avoided terms like "Emperor," progressing the talk gradually: "Spiritual rule stays with the Holy City and Royal Family.

Southeast Province's worldly authority—like laws, coinage, summoning the Noble Council, awarding lands—all centers on the governor."

"In other words, once the Holy East Empire stands." He continued, "In this marked territory, save for holy rites, every command issues from your grasp."

Silence enveloped the secret chamber.

Just the hourglass's fine sand trickled down, producing a faint rasping noise.

Calvin fixed his stare on the red line, remaining wordless for ages.

This pledge surpassed his visions for provincial unity; he even wondered if the offer was tossed out carelessly.

Not just granting a vaster domain, but handing over

the Southeast Province's breadbasket and coffers alongside nominal sovereignty, right into his hold.

"His Highness shows great daring." The Duke at last uttered, voice airy, "Yet a issue arises."

Salomon motioned for him to proceed.

"These territories," Calvin's finger jabbed the Golden Wheat Plains, "aren't his yet. Vowing what he doesn't possess—isn't that laughable?"

Salomon's lips quirked faintly: "Hence, my aim today isn't instant faith in the outcome, but to draw you toward the path."

"Path?"

"The Empire crumbles." Salomon met his eyes, "His Highness and the Church refuse to sink alongside. We seek one to brace a eastern shard that holds firm awhile."

He halted, voice dropping: "Stand upon that ground willingly, and gains ahead can unfold leisurely. The map's red line remains flexible."

Here, true bargaining ignited.

Salomon refrained from stretching that red line more, withdrawing instead a letter slowly from his robe.

The missive lacked a sign, sealed with fire lacquer in solid gold, stamped with waves and the Golden Feather Flower crest.

The Duke's finger brushed the seal, his pulse quickening subtly.

No need to unfold it—he knew its essence.

Three days back, the identical seal arrived via his clan's hidden conduit.

It came as a private note from his third son, Eduardo.

That sealed words were brief yet poised to reshape the continent's destiny.

Eduardo detailed the Fifth Prince's motions, Cardinal leanings, and capped it with a line pondered deeply before inking.

The Pope ailed severely, Church Court factions purging rivals.

Eduardo Calvin, amid that deadly fray, vanquished top foes via godly signs and vast family dark gold.

He'd clinched a spot among the final trio, deeming his chances at seventy percent.

Upon reading, the Duke felt no thrill, merely shutting eyes in prolonged reflection.

Eduardo ranked as his steadiest, most direct offspring.

Seventy percent from him meant precisely that.

Salomon appeared to read the Duke's mind fully, nudging the letter nearer, tone serene: "Land demands blades to seize."

"Authority, though..." his gaze lifted, "already lies within your reach."

Calvin's look shadowed subtly.

The Divine Envoy leaned in, voice hushed like sharing vast conspiracy: "Your Grace Duke, picture a future Pope named Calvin."

Brazier flames leaped, mirroring in his eyes as a searing thread hard to behold.

"That ensures, whatever realms emerge continent-wide, Empire's survival aside... Calvin Clan towers over kings and gods. A pinnacle beyond the founding Emperor's grasp."

The air grew weighed down.

The Duke offered no swift denial, showed no avarice.

He simply eyed the fire seal, finger tracing its rim softly.

This age offered him the helm.

Noting the Duke's sentiments unfold ideally, Salomon eased his hand away: "Your Grace, now I must state an essential demand."

Charcoal popped in the brazier.

"For eastern front security," Salomon's voice warmed with unyielding force, "the north must stir into turmoil."

The Duke's digit froze.

The Envoy pressed on: "Red Tide's Lord Louis boasts arms and riches aplenty. Should he halt Empire supplies and pin the Imperial Northern Army... the north destabilizes at once, letting His Highness push forward smoothly."

The chamber hushed utterly, echoes of port waves nearly audible.

The Duke held back a reply.

Since trade-route bids to claim Red Tide flopped, Louis escaped easy leashing.

That youth now echoed Edmund more than Calvin kin.

He'd toughened in northern gales and frosts, charting course solo, growing solo, forging rule solo.

Task him to spark Northern civil strife?

Ha, he'd likely wipe boots with the dispatch.

Crucial: hide this from Envoy Salomon.

Should Church and Fifth Prince sense "Northern wolves slip your rein," talks would sour instantly.

So the Duke steadied, flipping "unruly" to "costly" in moments.

He furrowed brows, feigning deep sigh: "Louis... that lad heeds me."

He paused, as if mulling: "But he's a lord too, sustaining multitudes. Asking him stake all against Empire..."

The Duke's gaze pierced like steel: "That strays from prior terms."

Salomon's Holy Emblem quivered faintly.

"To make Northern wolves snap," the Duke kept even tone, pressing steadily, "supply richer bait."

Air suspended briefly.

Salomon nodded at last: "Agreed."

He produced yet another parchment from his garb, sliding it to the Duke: "His Highness and Cardinals pledge three years' extra war funds atop current pacts, bolstering Red Tide's Northern shield."

He appended: "Clergy offers free blessings, safeguards, pre-battle rites for Red Tide forces."

The Duke's thoughts smirked inwardly.

Louis barred clergy from Red Tide soil.

Yet this funding for three years... snag it now, ponder northbound relay later if chance arises.

They'd never trace the coin, and Louis? A note querying aid needs.

With pact sealed, they murmured over key points: legion contacts, supply paths, Imperial Capital plants for Fifth Prince.

Mood weighed like outer storm; choices chipped deeper Empire fissures.

Till the Envoy departed.

The Duke lingered solo in his seat, fingers drumming table, statue-still long.

He knew Fifth Prince's aims stretched impossibly. Yet Salomon's proffered course... held merit.

Calvin Clan faced inevitable alignment.

Pick now hurls kin into tempest.

Wiser await clearer tides or Eduardo's papal rise, seizing effortless command—no seals inked, no prints pressed today.

Should Fifth Prince master chaos, he'd slot perfectly.

Fail? He pledged naught.