Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 702 - 395: Interlude Before the Meeting (3)

Nobles traded looks among themselves, each displaying faces full of praise.

A voice murmured in wonder, "To prosper without aligning with the Red Tide... the Morkan family must possess true assurance."

Flattered by the words, Morkan grinned with greater arrogance, "Once my shipment arrives, I’ll host you all with the best Southern tea. The Red Tide... its flavor is far too rough."

Several attendees chuckled along, filling the lounge with an easy atmosphere of those convinced they held the upper hand.

That changed with a sharp knock echoing at the door.

"Who’s there? Don’t you see I’m in a meeting?" Morkan scowled, his voice laced with irritation.

The door swung open, revealing not a servant girl but the elderly steward from the Morkan household.

Water soaked him through, like he’d been caught in storm and flurry, or perhaps sprinted the entire distance.

His complexion drained to ghostly white, without a trace of hue, forgetting even simple etiquette as he stumbled forward before collapsing near Morkan’s table.

The sight jolted the nobles straight in their seats.

"Lord Morkan..." The steward’s words quivered without restraint.

Morkan’s scowl intensified, "What happened? Why the frenzy, speak up!"

Ignoring the onlookers, the old steward leaned close to murmur shakily into his master’s ear.

A heavy hush descended on the lounge, broken only by the soft buzz from the wall lamps.

Right there, in view of all, Morkan’s features began to shatter...

into shock.

into eyes shrinking sharply.

At last, his entire visage paled to ash.

"Crash—"

From his grip tumbled the fine porcelain cup, smashing upon the floor.

Hot tea sprayed across his footwear, yet he remained utterly unmoved.

Morkan appeared choked, gasping out fragmented phrases with effort.

"You’re saying... everything lost... even... him as well..."

His words broke in his throat, on the verge of crumbling down right then.

......

Silently towering in the square’s heart rose a ten-meter colossal statue of cold iron.

It depicted the past Northern Guardian—Duke Edmund.

Beneath the falling snow, the cold iron gleamed with icy sheen, massive and unyielding.

The duke donned war plate, gripping a massive blade, posed ready to burst from the metal and rush to war.

Most vivid stood the fearsome gash stretching from his left eye’s edge down to the chin. The sculptor captured the brutal, twisted flesh with raw force, adding no false polish.

Isaac stared upward at the monument, cheeks flushed by biting gusts, though a gentle heat stirred in his gaze.

His hand lifted toward his father’s pedestal base, but reverence halted his fingers mid-reach, pulling them back in quiet respect.

Beside him, Louis observed the moment without a word.

"Brother-in-law..." Isaac rasped, "The artisans inquired if I’d prefer softening my father’s scar for a nobler look. I turned them down."

Louis inclined his head, "Wise choice. No medal outshines that mark."

His eyes lifted to the iron figure, "A decade past, in the Black River Blood Battle, three Barbarian Race clans united, boasting ten thousand axes that dyed the North’s waters crimson."

Though gale and flakes raged across the plaza, Louis’s tone rang distinct.

"As defenses crumbled, your father charged his elite guards into the savage horde. Solo, he confronted three Berserk Battle Kings."

To the disfigurement on the statue’s visage, Louis gestured.

"A dying Battle King inflicted this. Yet your father spiked their skulls upon Frost Halberd City’s ramparts. By nightfall, the barbarians fled."

Isaac’s breaths came quick and fierce, flames seeming caged within his ribs.

A solid, anchoring palm settled on his shoulder from Louis, "Never forget—this scar brings no agony, but safeguard. It embodies the Edmund Clan’s purest glory."

Then echoed the crunch of swift boots plowing snow nearby.

Gareth halted before Louis, dropping to one knee, "Lord, Baron Gareth... kneels beyond the City Lord’s Mansion, begging audience. Tears stream as he insists on grave news... most pressing."

Isaac wrenched from reverie’s heroic saga, while Louis’s face stayed serene, merely fluttering his lids.

Rather than reply at once, Louis smoothed Isaac’s wind-tossed collar and brushed off a flake from his shoulder, movements deliberate and calm.

As though Gareth’s distress mattered less than his brother-in-law’s poise.

Moments later, he stated coolly, "Inform him my days pack tight... Perhaps the evening two nights hence at seven? I might spare ten minutes."