The Hidden Extra: The Lazy Prince Refuses to Ascend The Throne Chapter 621 The Return of the Fourth Princess, Freya Lorian

"What? Is Seira already here?"

Aldrian could barely contain his agitation, practically launching himself from his seat.

The Grand Master released a soft, weary breath. He understood Aldrian's feelings for Seira, yet he felt this display was somewhat excessive.

"Do not be so hasty, Your Highness. Complete your duties for now. Once that is done, I shall ensure a carriage is readied so you may collect her."

However, Aldrian had already ceased listening. Overcome with joy at the prospect of Seira's arrival, he flashed a grin and urged, "Master, arrange the carriage without delay!"

The Grand Master: "…"

…

"Greetings, Princess."

The maids looked on, startled, before quickly bowing to the statuesque woman encased in silver plate.

Her features were breathtaking and pristine, as though carved by the brush of a divine entity.

Standing tall and imposing, she projected an aura that left those around her feeling uneasy.

Her hair, a rich golden-brown, was secured in a ponytail, while her piercing red eyes radiated a cold intensity.

With a mere nod in acknowledgment of the maids, she moved past them.

Only when she had retreated did the maids release their held breaths and return to their upright posture.

"Who… was that?" one of them murmured, trembling slightly.

She had not recognized the visitor, but having witnessed her peers bowing, she had instinctively followed suit.

A more experienced maid peered at her with a sharp look and whispered, "Have you no idea who that is? That is the Fourth Princess, Freya Lorian. Must you be new to this palace?"

The maid appeared stunned by this revelation. She had never imagined that the figure before her was the renowned general celebrated across the entire empire.

"My apologies, I did not recognize her. I have only just begun my service here," she confessed demurely.

"Think nothing of it. Just ensure you remember her features and maintain proper decorum. Is that clear?"

"Understood."

***

Knock!

Freya tapped softly on the door to Ragan's office and waited in silence.

"Come in. The door is unlocked," Ragan’s indolent voice echoed from within. Freya pushed the panel open and entered.

Ragan’s gaze lingered on her in surprise for a fleeting moment.

Soon, an expression of relief softened his features, and he offered a smile.

"Welcome, Freya. It is good to have you back. I was beginning to worry you might not arrive."

The woman standing before him was his daughter—Freya Lorian. Of course, while not his biological offspring, she was the child of his elder sister.

Much like Sharon and Selena, he had taken Freya under his wing, providing for her and raising her as his own flesh and blood.

Over the span of twelve years, the young girl had blossomed into a truly remarkable woman.

Freya halted before his desk and bowed her head in a gesture of profound respect.

"My sincerest apologies for the delay, Father. I had fully intended to return as you commanded, but pressing matters at the frontier required my immediate intervention."

Ragan lacked any sense of anger—if anything, he felt a spark of curiosity. Rested his hands upon the desk, he inquired, "Does this involve the barbarian host? What is the current situation?"

The empire's western border sat adjacent to the Barbarian Kingdom. Unlike other nations, these tribes existed solely for the sake of conquest and bloody conflict.

They had plundered vast regions and subjected countless innocents to slavery.

It was for this very reason he maintained a massive troop presence at the border—to thwart any sudden incursions.

"Just so, Father." Freya straightened her posture and reported, "The Barbarian Kingdom's hostile posturing has escalated over the last two years. While they have yet to risk a full-scale border crossing, there have been numerous provocations against our garrison. Most recently, they slaughtered three members of our medical corps. The perpetrator was Rudark, the barbarian commander known for these constant aggressions."

Her expression grew increasingly grave. "Following that incident, our men were nearly pushed to the brink of a retaliatory war. I intervened, however, because our strategic position remained perilous—especially with the severe weather conditions we faced only days ago."

Ragan’s demeanor curdled as he listened.

"Those barbarians are display immense audacity. Do they truly invite our wrath?"

Targeting medical staff was considered an unforgivable offense; there existed an unspoken covenant that they were to be left untouched.

Yet, Ragan realized, barbarians adhered to no such edicts—they acted purely on their own whims.

"It would appear so, Father. Nonetheless, I refused to take their bait. There is no strategic value in an all-out war with them at this time," Freya stated firmly, shaking her head.

A paramount guideline of warfare had been passed down through their lineage: the legitimate justifications for engaging in conflict.

Only three conditions warranted war: securing resources essential for the empire's survival, territorial expansion, or launching a retaliatory strike against an unprovoked initial attack. Lacking these, war was strictly forbidden.

A conflict with the Barbarian Kingdom offered no benefits for the Great Velmora Empire. Their lands were desolate, devoid of any significant resources worth the cost of exploitation.

The Great Velmora Empire already possessed immense territory, and conquering additional, barren land would prove a financial drain, requiring vast administrative resources.

Without a valid casus belli, Freya could not justify starting a war unless they struck first.

"A truly sound judgment. You are quite extraordinary, my daughter." Ragan nodded with visible satisfaction.

Freya remained stoic, though the praise clearly moved her.

Even so, the slightest flicker in her red eyes betrayed a sense of joy she desperately sought to suppress.

"In any event, be seated. Do not stand on formality," Ragan sighed.

He allowed his thoughts to wander to his insufferable son, Nolan. That reprobate youth often slumped into seats without a hint of permission, a stark contrast to Freya’s consistent display of grace and deference.

At moments, he harbored doubts as to whether Nolan was truly his own kin.

But he discarded the thought as quickly as it arose. Isabella could never have betrayed his trust, and Elina stood as living proof that Nolan was indeed his own flesh and blood.

Freya nodded and occupied the chair opposite him.

Their dialogue drifted into trivialities at first, with Ragan questioning her health and the state of the border. After a time, he transitioned to the purpose of the meeting.

"Are you aware of the reason I summoned you?"

Freya offered a shake of her head. "I am not, Father. But I am certain your reasons are grave."

Ragan smiled slightly at her response. "A few days ago, I obtained a secret report. Examine it and form your own conclusions."

He drew a brown parchment from his desk drawer and extended it toward her.

As Freya’s gaze traveled over the text, her countenance immediately hardened with fury.

"Father, is this factual? Is the Holy Empire of Valtanir truly preparing a strike against our northern territories?" she demanded, her voice bordering on a tremor.

"The probability stands at sixty percent," Ragan countered calmly. "But, considering the current collapse of the Holy Empire of Valtanir, the likelihood has surged to eighty percent."

"Their current status? What do you imply?" Freya asked, brows knitting together.

Ragan chuckled darkly. "Bankruptcy."