Planning Not Scheming

The ducal seat room of Joltenheim was set for a trial, and people from all over the duchy had come to witness it. Fredrick Snowfell sat on his high seat, the weight of his title bearing down on his shoulders, while Preto stood silently by his side. The room was filled with tension, banners of Joltenheim's sigil hanging high, and the air thick with whispered murmurs.

"Now present the captive, Renard Clove, responsible for publicly damaging the reputation of Ser Alexander Asellus, who was found innocent in the imperial trial. He is also guilty of disregarding the chain of command and disrespecting the ducal heir," announced the Summoner, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade.

Renard Clove was dragged into the ducal court, his mouth gagged, his hands shackled in iron chains that clinked with each step. His eyes, filled with defiance, burned through the crowd gathered to witness his fall.

"I will now proclaim your punishment, as decreed by the forty-sixth Duke of Joltenheim, His Grace, Duke Fredrick Snowfell, third of his name," the Summoner declared. His words echoed with finality as he unrolled the scroll. "Renard Clove, son of Remus Clove, former Count of Old Barn, your ranks and titles are hereby stripped. Your estate and all belongings are transferred to Lord Alexander Asellus, son of Möbius Asellus, Baron of Old Field, as per imperial order. Furthermore, you are sentenced to live out your remaining days imprisoned in the Darklands."

The scroll was snapped shut with a loud crack as the guards seized Renard and dragged him from the hall.

"Now step forward, Count Alexander Asellus" Alexander stepped forward, unsheathing his blade with reverence. He knelt at the foot of the ducal seat, his sword balanced across open palms. His formal attire gleamed—white gloves adorned his hands, a crimson cloak billowed from his shoulders, and intricate floral embroidery of red, gold, and white wove through his tunic. "Your Grace" he said

The duke rose, his movements deliberate. He took Alexander's sword, held it upright, and spoke with a voice of steel. 

"In the presence of the gods and the people of Joltenheim as witnesses, I bestow upon you the title of Count. You shall serve this duchy with honor and dignity. With these words of trust, I grant you the estate of Old Barn."

He tapped the sword lightly against Alexander's shoulders before returning it.

The crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers, their voices blending into a deafening roar:

"Long live the Count! Long live the Duke! Long live the Emperor!"

The Duke's private chambers were dim, the heavy drapes drawn shut to block the cold afternoon light. A great hearth burned along the far wall, its flames casting flickering shadows across the room. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, and thick, velvet carpets muffled every step. The scent of aged parchment and candle wax hung in the air.

The Duke Fredrick Snowfell was seated in a high-backed chair behind a polished mahogany desk, though his lined face betrayed weariness. Behind him, a tapestry depicting the great conquest of Joltenheim hung like a silent witness to his reign.

"At once, Your Grace," said Nelious, the butler. His black suit fit his lean frame with immaculate precision, a monocle perched on his right eye, glinting faintly in the firelight. His snow-white hair was brushed neatly into place as he bowed, and left with a quiet click of the door.

Moments later, Preto stepped forward into the chamber, his boots sinking into the thick rug as he approached. "Father, you called for me?"

The duke gestured to a chair near the desk, but Preto remained standing.

"Ah, Preto," the duke began, stippling his fingers. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Preto's lips curled into a smirk. He rested a hand lightly on the pommel of his sword. "Just name it, Father. Whose head do you want?"

A voice broke the stillness, smooth and laced with mockery 

"Always so literal, brother." Preto's eyes flicked to the corner, where a figure leaned casually against a marble pillar. The man was tall, his frame slightly hunched with indifference. Dark hair fell over a pale, thin face, and his hands, restless as ever, moved in a ceaseless rhythm. His thumb rolled over his fingers, pinky to index, pinky to index.

"Nate," Preto muttered, scowling. "What are you doing here?"

Nathan Snowfell's smile was slow and sharp. "We've received an imperial letter," he said, his thumb still rolling. "It's signed by His Imperial Majesty."

Preto leaned forward. "What does it say?"

"The Duke of Elderwood is dead. There's a battle for succession, and the crown has ordered us to oversee it." Nathan's voice was calm, but his eyes sparkled.

Preto folded his arms, the tension in his shoulders growing. "So?"

"So…" Nathan's smile widened. "You'll be going."

Preto narrowed his eyes. "Me?"

"Yes, you. It's your chance to build alliances. You'll inherit the ducal seat soon enough, and it's time you made friends."

Preto's brow furrowed. "And you've made arrangements already, haven't you?"

Nathan's thumb didn't stop. "Of course. Sinthia Blackwood's sister, Meria, is next in line for Elderwood's seat. You need only ensure her champion wins. If her opponent does, you'll disqualify him. It'll be easy to control a duchess."

Preto's jaw tightened as he considered his brother's words. "I see."

"Good." Nathan's thumb finally stopped. He let out a satisfied breath, stepping back from the pillar. "You leave tomorrow. It's a short journey, you'll arrive in time."

Nate turned to his father, inaudible to Preto "I wanted to have a word with you father" said Preto

The Duke and Nate turned towards Preto.

The duke gestured dismissively. "Speak."

"Alone."

"No," Nathan interjected, stepping forward. "Your brother stays."

Preto glared. "Father, it's about—"

"The marriage or the taxes?" Nathan asked with a knowing grin.

Preto's face darkened.

Nathan's voice sharpened. "I may lack strength, dear brother, but I have eyes and ears. I know far more than you think."

"You bastard," Preto growled. "What do you know?"

Nathan's grin didn't waver. "Enough to keep you from falling into that blonde's traps, but of course, only if you listen."

"Enough!" The duke's voice cut through the rising tension like a blade.There was silence.

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling fire.

"I'll handle the taxes," the duke muttered to no one in particular.

"Father, you can't—"

"I know what I can and cannot do," he barked, his gaze sharp as steel.

Nathan's smirk faded, frustration beneath his composed demeanor.

"And the girl," the duke continued. "You cannot marry for love alone. A marriage is strategy. You will wed someone with power."

""Princess Nemna has his favor," Nathan offered smoothly. "I approve."

Preto's head snapped toward his brother. His voice, when it came, was strained. "How… how much do you know?"

Nathan's eyes gleamed. "I know."

The duke sighed heavily. "Very well. I'll write to the emperor."

Preto blinked, stiffening. "I'll prepare for tomorrow." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and left, the door closing with a soft thud behind him.

"The room grew still.

"You cannot lower his taxes," Nathan hissed, his tone cold.

The duke's weary gaze didn't waver. "Not again, Nate." His tone was calm but carried the weight of finality as he locked eyes with his son. "I know the man craves power, he always did. He would've found his way to it regardless. Marrying the Longsword girl would've only sped up the process, so why not a Count than a Marquess." The duke's voice softened, a rare flicker of emotion crossing his face. "He saved my life once. I owe him that much."

"He will still marry her," Nate shot back, his words sharp and cutting. "And you've already returned the favor by making him a Count. Was that not generous enough? Don't. Reduce. The. Taxes."

"If he becomes a Marquess, I'll simply hand Old Barn over to Candin Duster, just as you suggested. After that, you can proceed with whatever schemes you have in mind." The duke leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the carved armrest.

Nate's nostrils flared as he clenched his fists. "It will be too late by then, Father. Do you not see it? By the time you act, he'll wield more power than the duchy itself. You need to choke him now…crush him under taxes before he consolidates both wealth and influence." He gestured sharply, his hand cutting through the air. "Old Barn is one of the richest counties in the realm. He can easily afford sixty percent. I say raise it to seventy. If you reduce it instead, you'll be handing him both a sword and a shield."

He paused for a breath, his voice hardening. "And it's planning, not scheming."

"It means the same thing." The duke gave a slow shake of his head, a weary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You think too much, lad. He's just a boy, hardly the threat you paint him to be.""That 'boy,'" Nate growled, "climbed up from the deep dark shadows. A worthless second son of a peasant baron who clawed his way to the title of Count. He's already dangerous."

"Enough." The duke's voice grew firm, the firelight casting shadows across his lined face. "I'll reduce his taxes to forty percent for one year, just long enough for him to stabilize his lands."

"Fathe—"

"I said enough!" The duke's words cracked like a whip through the chamber. "You are dismissed."

Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Nate's mouth tightened, but he said nothing more. He bowed stiffly, turned, and walked out, the door closing with a hollow thud behind him.

The duke rubbed his temples, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he muttered to himself, "The world grows too fast for old men."

Nate clenched his jaw as he strode through the dimly lit hallway, his thoughts simmering with fury. I'm suffering for these damned fools, blind, witless idiots. His steps echoed like a drumbeat of frustration as he descended into the depths of the estate.

A guard stood outside the basement door. Tall and clad in black, he blended with the shadows. A mask concealed his face from the nose down, leaving only sharp eyes visible.

"My lord," the man greeted, bowing slightly. "He's inside. Found him about three hours ago. Drunk as a beggar. He's probably sobered up by now."

"Well done, Sight." The man's eyes followed Nate's lips. Sight was deaf, but he could read lips and see far, much further than a man could ever see. He could analyze things with his eyes. He was a great tool in Nathan's arsenal. Nate nodded, pushing the door open.

Inside, Colonel Schnitzel sat hunched on a chair, his head buried in his hands. As Nate entered, he looked up sharply, eyes burning. He rose to his feet.

"What is the meaning of this, my lord?" he demanded, his voice brimming with fury.

Nate's expression remained cold, calculating. "Schnitzel, I have an offer for you."

"An offer?" Schnitzel barked, his tone edged. "You could've spoken to me like a man, not dragged me here like a common thief." His voice, though harsh, softened with the edge of caution.

Nate didn't blink. "What we discuss here stays here. The moment you speak of it…" He let his gaze settle coldly on Schnitzel. "…your head leaves your shoulders." He gestured to a chair opposite him. "Sit."

Schnitzel hesitated but sank into the creaking wooden chair, his brow furrowed with suspicion.

"Kill Alexander Asellus," Nate said flatly, no hesitation, no softness. "In exchange, you'll have Aeron Dolton."

Schnitzel stared at him, the words sinking like stones into dark water. "You want me to kill a count? The young duke's friend? Your brother's ally?" His voice rose with incredulity. "I'd be signing my own death sentence."

Nate leaned back, his eyes never leaving the colonel. "We both know you can't touch Dolton while Alexander draws breath. Kill him, and I'll see you promoted to general. You'll have my word, my protection. You won't be harmed."

Schnitzel's lips thinned. "And how, exactly, do you expect me to pull that off?"

"My brother leaves tomorrow morning. Early. At that hour, I'll have Alexander's guards distracted, occupied elsewhere. That's when you strike."

Silence stretched between them, heavy as stone. Schnitzel gave a slow nod.

Nate rose, his movements fluid, deliberate, as he headed toward the door.

"What if I'd refused?" Schnitzel asked, his voice tight.

Nate stopped but didn't turn. "Then your blood would already be pooling on this very table. Dolton would be accused of conspiring with Alexander, and murdered you on his command. I'd have him stripped of his title, or, better yet, sent to rot in the Darklands."

Schnitzel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

The door shut behind Nathan Snowfell, leaving only silence and fear.