A Perfect Stage

In that vast arena, not even a cough could be heard.

Only the flapping of countless banners and cloaks in the wind filled the air.

Four Guards blew horns announcing the arrival of the delegation.

Christoph slowly rose from the throne.

‘Ah!’

At the very back, Lyset gazed at Christoph’s commanding figure. Though he was far away, she could clearly feel his eyes fixed on her.

The stares of the multitude rained down upon the mere seven members of the delegation.

Baron Arnesen bowed deeply and gestured for the delegation to step forward toward Christoph.

The ceremonial priest, unconsciously following, stepped onto the carpet toward Christoph—then belatedly grimaced in realization.

In a banquet hall or lord’s office, the short distance posed no problem. But here, walking the long carpet all the way to Christoph looked unmistakably like total submission.

At each end of the arena, nobles of many ranks, castle officials, and their families—all dressed in ceremonial attire—watched the delegation’s every step.

‘Stay calm. Whatever this stage is, the Cathedral belongs to the Lord, and I am here as its representative.’

The priest straightened his back and rang his bell louder.

In time with it, Christoph advanced one step at a time.

Though moving down from the dais, his exceedingly slow pace conveyed confidence, composure, the aura of a ruler.

—That’s right. Do not move quickly. You must descend to greet them, yes, but ensure you meet directly before the dais. Pace is everything.

It was what the Duchess had drilled into him repeatedly.

Thus Christoph descended at a crawl, while the bell-led delegation could not slow and advanced straight into him.

Just as the Duchess had planned, they met him as he stepped off the dais.

‘Well done, my son. Hahaha.’

The Duchess barely suppressed her laughter, itching to revel in triumph.

Christoph slowly knelt on one knee, traced the Cross with his gloved hand, and spoke.

“I, Christoph Lisberget, son of Duke Yodel and Lord Deputy of Nastrand, greet the delegation of the Lord’s Cathedral in this land, and extend to you honor, welcome, and great joy.”

Perfect decorum.

The priest stifled a sigh of relief and replied.

“On behalf of High Priest Kraf and Prioress Cecilia, who oversee the Nastrand Grand Cathedral, I, Father Thomas, accept with joy the gracious welcome of Lord Christoph Lisberget, acting for Duke Yodel.”

He presented the delegation’s letter of commission, which Christoph received and raised high to the sky.

Then Thomas lifted a wax-sealed document aloft, showing the seal intact, and broke it open.

It contained High Priest Kraf’s words of thanks and a list of gifts: a gilded Scripture, a marble tablet carved with prayers, potions brewed of herbs, wine, ointments.

Thomas read them aloud, rolled the scroll, and offered it carefully to Christoph.

Next should have come the customary procedures of a delegation.

In a hall or office, all would sit at tables, exchange thanks and courtesies, and offer a prayer of blessing to the lord, his family, and attendants—thus completing the formal duty.

At that moment Christoph rose and returned to sit upon the dais throne.

“…!!!”

There were no chairs prepared for the delegation. In this absurd moment, Christoph raised his hand.

Only then did guards bring long tables and chairs, setting them below the dais with cloths.

Until then, the delegation could only stand awkwardly in silence.

It was calculated condescension, an unimaginable humiliation.

“Be seated.”

From the highest seat, Christoph ‘kindly’ invited them to sit.

Everyone but Lyset thought they should leave immediately.

They had already delivered their greetings and gifts.

From the setting itself—lined knights and nobles—it was obvious this was a staged humiliation of the Cathedral. To proceed was degrading.

But Thomas remembered Kraf’s command:

—Accept Lord Christoph’s hospitality as it comes.

—Unless it violates faith, comply with his requests.

Technically, this insult did not breach religious duty. And as representative, Thomas had to gauge its intent.

“Be seated.”

Turning back, Thomas ordered calmly, as if nothing were amiss.

Once seated, Thomas introduced each member. Christoph offered thanks and praise to each.

“And lastly, Sister Lyset of the convent under Nastrand Grand Cathedral, specially appointed by the High Priest, joins this delegation in gratitude to the Duchy.”

At his words, Lyset rose.

Her trembling gaze met Christoph’s.

His stern eyes softened, a smile spreading across his lips.

Feeling her face flush, Lyset forced her lips to deliver the lines she had rehearsed hundreds of times.

“On behalf of the convent under Nastrand Grand Cathedral, I, Sister Lyset, express our deepest gratitude for the Duchy’s generous tribute and high regard shown after the last Grand Mass. We are moved with love and thankfulness.”

Thankfully, she finished without error.

Now it was Christoph’s turn.

“I thank you again for the wondrous hymn sung at the Christmas Mass. May the grace granted you by the Lord continue to bless this Duchy and all under its lordship. Sister Lyset, jewel of Nastrand.”

His final words were extravagant praise.

Blushing deeply, Lyset sat back down.

On either side, Morten and Fynel exchanged looks.

Indeed, the resemblance is uncanny.

Lyset’s eyes flicked toward Morten.

But in this wide-open stage, there was no chance to speak of Roze.

‘No… impossible here.’

Lyset turned away from him, staring at her teacup.

Christoph slowly rose again. Not only the delegation, but everyone present fixed their eyes on him.

“I, Christoph, rightful heir and Lord Deputy of Nastrand, declare that from this year forth, New Year’s greetings shall be held thus. Let this be recorded, and let all here engrave it upon their hearts.”

His loud proclamation was shocking, beyond convention.

Thomas gaped at him.

Christoph drew his ceremonial sword and raised it to the sun, its gleaming blade blinding the onlookers.

“This spring, I shall succeed my ailing father Duke Yodel as Lord of this Duchy! The succession shall coincide with my coming-of-age, and the entire ceremony shall be entrusted to the Nastrand Grand Cathedral!”

A monumental declaration.

Gasps and cries erupted. None had heard a word of this beforehand.

Even the knights and guards under Morten and Fynel reeled in shock.

“Of course, a ducal council will be convened swiftly to ratify this, and all procedures will proceed with gravity and haste!”

As murmurs swelled like waves, only the Duchess smiled radiantly, eyes aflame, staring at her son.

‘That’s it, my son. Words spoken here bear absolute weight. The arrow once loosed cannot be called back. Now all must strive to make it strike true—right now!’

Christoph continued:

“Furthermore, against the Duchy of Grandelvald, which threatens our eastern Estderin lands, we shall answer not with negotiation but with resolute retribution! We shall reclaim the ancestral lands stolen by them!”

Murmurs died. All were stunned by this sudden declaration of war.

“This Duchy of Nastrand, sole heir of Nordenheim’s long history, shall restore its former glory—and I, Christoph, as its new ruler, shall share that glory with all gathered here!”

Christoph’s gaze swept the silent, gaping crowd, settling on the Knights and Guards.

“Did you hear me, Knights! Did you engrave it, Guards! I swear—you will open the new Nastrand with me! Your names shall be the names of heroes, and until that day, the Lord shall aid us!”

“Waaaaaaaahhh!!!!!!!!!”

It was a proclamation of staggering force, igniting the pride of all assembled. Thunderous cheers and applause erupted from Guards, Knights, nobles, and retainers alike.

Morten and Fynel stared at each other, eyes wide as if they would burst.

They too had received no hint of this. Succession they could accept, given Yodel’s illness—but a unilateral declaration of war carried a weight intolerable without council.

It was utter disregard for the council. Whatever meeting might come, it could only patch up what was already declared.

Christoph beamed down at the stunned Morten, Fynel, Thomas, and the priests.

“Henceforth, half of all lands Nastrand reclaims or gains shall be granted as direct fiefs of the Cathedral! There, let the Lord’s work be done and His glory revealed!”

The delegation was thunderstruck.

Thomas’s gaping mouth trembled.

“A… direct fief of the Cathedral? Such a thing…”

If so, it could surpass Fjorland’s Cathedral as Nordenheim’s seat, perhaps even form a unified archdiocese of Nordenheim and Middleheim.

That would mean elevation to an archdiocese under the Holy Empire itself, with Kraf as cardinal, and Thomas himself perhaps as archpriest.

The delegation forgot every prior insult.

Instead they felt honored—moved that they sat so close to witness such proclamations firsthand.

The Duchess, amid this perfect staging, felt indescribable ecstasy.

‘This is it. With resolve, we can seize them all in just a week. Hahaha!’