The Ducal Council

After the New Year’s proclamation, the Ducal Council that Christoph had continually demanded was finally convened, after being postponed several times due to Kraf’s so-called “health reasons.”

Before Kraf arrived, Christoph, Morten, and Fynel had already arrived and were exchanging opinions.

“My stance has not changed: I will give them no information about the campaign. By that, we make it clear to the cathedral that we demand a complete separation of Church and State.”

Christoph pressed his point.

But Morten and Fynel, as field commanders, had a different perspective. Morten especially had enough insight to assess not only tactics but also broader strategy.

“If our greatest strategy is deception, then we must deceive them to the very end. We must mislead High Priest Kraf until the last possible moment—and then capture them all in one stroke.”

At Morten’s principle, Fynel nodded in agreement.

Watching Christoph sink into thought, Morten continued speaking.

“As their documents made plain, they want to know everything—when we march, how many troops, by what route. And they will immediately relay that to Grandelvald, perhaps even to other duchies. We must turn that against them, just as we used Father Thomas.”

Fynel nodded again.

“I too agree with the Knight Commander’s opinion.”

“Then what would be best?”

“The one great fact remains: the campaign will follow the coronation. And the coronation and coming-of-age ceremony is a grand event, with the entire army fully armed and assembled. That moment itself can become the true beginning of everything.”

“The true beginning, you say?”

Fynel picked up where Morten left off.

“We reveal, in that very place, the treasonous letter Father Thomas brings back—the one bearing the signatures of the Cathedral’s two leaders. Then we seize them on the spot and cast them into confinement. After that, we surround and seal off the Cathedral completely, and at once march out. To Fjordland. Of course, as you and the Duchess have said, the direction of that march must remain known only to us until the very crossroads.”

“Hmm… a truly flawless plan. It had better go exactly this way…”

“For that, what matters most is to reach agreement with the Cathedral so the coronation can take place as soon as possible.”

“Understood.”

Just then, a servant approached and announced that High Priest Kraf had arrived.

The three of them exchanged glances once more and straightened their attire.

The small chamber where they now gathered was the very same one, some eighteen years ago, where Yodel, Kraf, Morten, and Fynel had resolved—over a small vial an old crone had brought—to raise the scaffold of judgment against the village of Soria.

Now, long years later, the room held the same gathering—only Yodel had been replaced by Christoph. Yet the atmosphere was entirely different.

“I want to know the state of preparations by the Cathedral for my coronation and coming-of-age ceremony.”

Christoph demanded an explanation from Kraf in a hard tone, as if to say, “Why has there been no report?”

Kraf absorbed the arrogant tone with his whole body and gave a sardonic smile. That overconfident brat could not possibly grasp what was truly unfolding beneath the surface.

“Of course, preparations are proceeding step by step. Before the coronation, however, the Duke’s health weighs heavily on me. After the council concludes, may I offer a prayer and some comfort for him?”

“That is no issue.”

First they had to see Yodel’s health with their own eyes—to confirm whether it was truly dire enough to warrant such an urgent coronation.

For Kraf, it was crucial to find any crack that could undermine the legitimacy, however small.

“Oh, and My Lord Regent—when do you envision the expedition to the Grandelvald duchy? As you know, before the departure ceremony, a Mass must be held to bless all soldiers with prayers for victory. We must also prepare the military priests who will accompany the army. The scale of the Eucharist must be suited to the size of the forces.”

As High Priest, it was a perfectly proper request.

It was exactly as Morten and Fynel had anticipated.

For Kraf, this was a way to pry out the expedition’s timing, route, and troop composition—critical intelligence he could funnel to Grandelvald as swiftly as possible, so they could counter it, mire the war in stalemate, and ultimately drive it to defeat.

Christoph nodded as if in understanding, betraying nothing.

“The campaign will, of course, be after my coronation and coming-of-age ceremony. Once the drills are complete, perhaps about a month after the coronation, we shall march. Both Sir Morten and Sir Fynel believe that should be enough time for training and readiness. What say you, High Priest Kraf?”

“Good. A month after the coronation gives ample time. Then setting the coronation date itself is the first priority. The ceremonial procedures and what the Cathedral requires are already prepared. Name the day, and we will match it.”

“Then what of a fortnight from now?”

“A fortnight… so soon? Even so, it is a coronation. Must we not send envoys to the other duchies, and notices to the other Cathedrals? At such a grand event, it is customary for congratulatory envoys to come. They too will need time to prepare.”

“Such empty ceremony is unnecessary. This coronation is brought forward because of my Father’s grave illness. He will attend the enthronement—and as a son, I will not display his frailty before foreign envoys. Afterward, we can send official envoys of apology and explanation. That will suffice.”

It was a response that inspired involuntary admiration.

Morten and Fynel felt a thrill down their necks at the Young Lord’s shrewd words. This was no rehearsed line—it was Christoph’s own thinking, sharp and unyielding.

“In that case… very well.”

Kraf gave a bitter smile and stepped back.

Thus, the council concluded: the coronation and coming-of-age would be held in the tourney grounds in a fortnight, the Cathedral would conduct the Special Mass and ceremonies, and the expedition would follow a month thereafter—all broadly agreed upon.

When the session ended, Kraf, not forgetting his aim, addressed Christoph.

“As I mentioned, I must see Duke Yodel myself and confirm his condition.”

Christoph nodded.

“Very well. All of you, follow me.”

They left the chamber, Christoph leading down the corridor, the three others following silently.

They arrived at the Duke’s bedchamber. The attendant at the door saw Christoph and his party and dropped to his knees.

“How is the Duke?”

“He is asleep, to my knowledge.”

“Open the door. I only wish to see his state.”

The attendant carefully opened the door.

From within, the peculiar stench of a sickroom wafted out. All three but Christoph instinctively raised hands to their noses.

“Of late he often soils himself unwittingly. I ask your pardon for him.”

“Think nothing of it…”

Kraf nodded.

They entered the chamber. Two maids rose from the foot of the bed, bowed, and withdrew.

They stood before Yodel, sunk in sleep, his face hollow. A heavy silence spread among them.

For Morten and Fynel, he was their Supreme Commander and the Duchy’s ruler. For Kraf, he was a noble he had sat beside in council for over thirty years, who had faithfully followed his counsel.

And for Christoph, there was no need to say—his own father.

Though they had never shared meals or play like commoners, that was the way of all nobles.

Yet Christoph still carried memories—his father dropping by when he trained with the sword or studied with scholars, correcting his stance, nodding with a pleased smile.

Before the weight of this sick man, a figure who might die at any moment, none of them could speak schemes or lies.

“Hmm… let us offer a prayer for the Duke.”

They all crossed themselves and bent one knee. Only Kraf remained standing, laying his hands upon the Duke’s body, chanting a prayer of healing.

When the prayer ended, the door behind them opened.

“I am most grateful that you came so deliberately to show concern.”

A sultry woman’s voice.

It was the Duchess.

All turned and bowed to her.

“It seems today’s Ducal Council has been concluded smoothly?”

“Indeed. From the coronation and coming-of-age to the expedition itself… of course, more councils will be needed for details, but the main dates are set.”

The Duchess nodded and turned her head toward her sleeping husband.

“Our Duke Yodel has lived his whole life with worry for the Duchy, with steadfast faith and devotion. I ask you all gathered here to look kindly upon my son—not just as regent, but as the next Duke—and guide him onto the right path.”

“Of course. The Cathedral will prepare without fail the mass of blessing for the coronation and campaign. Yet, looking upon him now… it is truly hard to believe his condition worsened so suddenly.”

“…Indeed.”

“Only a personal thought, but… must a son go away to war for so long, while his father lies so gravely ill? But of course, that is the dull musing of an old priest who knows little of state affairs.”

‘Knows little of state affairs? As if they weren’t the ones trying to control them…” Christoph thought bitterly.

Christoph found it absurd.

Kraf’s voice grew more forceful.

“Even so, Duke Yodel was always a man of straight faith, willing to hear and learn even from a dull priest like me. In every matter, he sought counsel from me, and always looked to prayer for his answers.”

“I see.”

The Duchess curved her lips in a sly smile. Christoph, Morten, and Fynel also caught on to what Kraf was implying.

Kraf spoke again, his kindly smile sharpened by a flash in his eyes.

“As the future sovereign, we shall offer even more special prayers and support from the Cathedral. For you, Lord Christoph—and for all here—to walk only the right path, to always pursue the true truth. That this Duchy of Nastrand may stand as a symbol of peace. We shall do everything within our means.”

“…I will rely on the Cathedral’s guidance and instruction.”

Kraf’s gleaming eyes shot from Christoph to Morten, then to Fynel, and finally to the Duchess.

The Cathedral, in that moment, had all but declared silent war on the Ducal keep.