Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 732 - 409: Home Stolen

While a tempest raged against the Imperial Capital, a profound silence enveloped the temporary lodgings of the Graystone Province envoy, as if the outside turmoil couldn't penetrate its walls.

By the warmth of the fireplace, Raymont sat in quietude, exuding a composure starkly contrasting with the recent upheaval against the Empire he had just instigated.

Unlike the Second Prince, whose eyes blazed with fury in the Imperial Hall, Raymont's fingers were unstained by any hint of blood.

Indeed, Raymont stood as the principal beneficiary of this dramatic coup.

Years of meticulous planning had unfolded like a grand game of chess, with nobles, princes, and legion commanders serving merely as pawns manipulated to his design.

Rhine, he mused, was too yielding; Kaelin, far too rash. Only he remained detached from the board, strategically securing every outcome with unparalleled prudence.

A subtle current of triumph surged within his heart...

The vast, ancient Empire, so easily claimed by his own hand.

And the royal heirs, so arrogant in their perceived cleverness, fixated solely on the throne, utterly blind to the true fount of power.

Spread across the table lay several newly issued appointment decrees.

One declared: Raymont Grace, bestowed with the esteemed title of Empire "Hereditary Grand Marshal."

The parchment, imbued with a cold solemnity, bore a title unheard of for any noble in the preceding five centuries.

This conferred upon him the legitimate command of all imperial legions, barring only the elite Forbidden Guard.

It was not merely a ceremonial rank, but the tangible authority to mobilize Knight Order commanders at a mere word.

Opposite these documents rested a freshly drawn map of the Empire.

Three counties were distinctly marked in the color of Graystone Province.

These were the prosperous territories bordering the capital, constituting the very granary of the Empire.

The Second Prince had honored his pledge, ceding the Empire's most fertile lands to him.

Garrisoned by Graystone Knights, these lands would serve for grain stockpiling, troop training, and the expansion of their nascent army.

Yet, Raymont gestured dismissively, pushing the glittering rewards aside.

These parchments detailed titles, medals, precious gems, and territories – rewards potent enough to ignite avarice in every noble within the capital.

But to Raymont, they were akin to festive trinkets offered to children, appealing only to the unsophisticated and world-ignorant.

The prize that truly captivated his desire rested within a Black Iron Box at his left hand.

Its uppermost compartment housed the culmination of past Emperors' efforts: all acquired exploration maps of "ancient dragon relics."

Each map was rendered with astonishing detail, charting the flow of magic power, the subterranean rock formations, and the precise locations where dragon bones had been unearthed.

As Raymont absorbed the cartographic wonders, a sense of profound clarity settled in his eyes, as if a final, elusive piece of a grand puzzle had finally clicked into place.

Below this, nestled in the second layer, lay a delicate parchment scroll, its cover bearing a faded inscription: "Dragon Blood."

This ancient text documented the serum painstakingly extracted from dragon cadavers by generations of Emperors, a desperate bid to transcend mortality.

It revealed the Royals' centuries-long pursuit of extended life through dragon blood, even aiming to achieve a higher state of existence.

Their endeavors, however, were ultimately doomed to failure, for the "dragons" they encountered were mere lesser species, not true ancient dragons.

The colossal dragon carcass discovered in Graystone Province, however, was that of a genuine ancient dragon – the linchpin for the entire clandestine endeavor.

Armed with this knowledge, the Dragon Blood Warrior initiative, and indeed his own nascent dragonization experiments, now held a significantly higher probability of success.

Raymont's breathing hitched, a fleeting pause in his controlled demeanor.

He then gently closed the aged scroll, treating it with the reverence befitting a sacred artifact.

With deliberate motion, Raymont secured the black iron box and rose to his feet.

Outside, thunder rumbled its assent.

He approached the window, his gaze sweeping over the capital's night panorama, now starkly illuminated by the flickering embrace of firelight, and released a soft sigh.

The Second Prince, basking in his perceived victory and his seat upon the Dragon Throne – yet he was nothing more than a puppet, meticulously crafted and directed by Raymont's own design.

"We have finally arrived," Raymont murmured, his voice barely audible.

Even as his words lingered in the charged atmosphere, a hesitant knock disrupted the room's deep silence.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his brow, and without turning, he leisurely rolled a scroll, tucking it away into a concealed pocket within his sleeve.

Only when everything was secured did he slowly pivot, bidding, "Enter."

The figure revealed at the doorway was the captain of the Second Prince's personal guard.

This man, notorious for his ruthlessness – even to the point of strangling Duke Simmons on the execution grounds – now stood sweating under Raymont's piercing gaze, his posture rigid as if his limbs were anchored by lead.

"State your business?" Raymont's voice cut through the air, sharp and frigid as ice.

The captain swallowed audibly, bowing low. "Grand Marshal, Sir... Your Excellency... His Highness requires your presence at once regarding urgent military matters. He is in a state of extreme agitation in the command room, having already smashed two goblets, and insists you come immediately."

The captain did not dare to raise his head. "His Highness stated that the troops must be deployed at once, but... he requires your directives."

Raymont let out a gentle breath, as if ensuring the beast on the other side of the chessboard remained confined within its borders, just as he intended.

He smoothed his sleeves, his voice eerily composed. "Very well."

Though his tone was mild, it sent shivers down the captain's spine.

Raymont gazed at the trembling captain before him, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and keen observation. He seemed to be contemplating whether a rain-soaked puppy could possibly maintain its composure.

He knew Kaelin's present condition all too well.

Like a rabid dog that had just gotten a taste of blood, Kaelin was hypersensitive, easily agitated, and desperate to announce to the entire world that he was the new king.

This feeling of amplified power would render Kaelin exceptionally perilous in the immediate future, and, concurrently... exceedingly valuable.

Kaelin still required this ferocity to dismantle the civilian officialdom, to shoulder the infamy of a tyrant on his behalf, and to fiercely combat other factions on future battlefields.

Should Kaelin perceive himself as sidelined or manipulated at this juncture...

This 'dog' might very well turn on its master, making extreme caution the only viable path.