Chapter 218: Tension Over Succession [3]

The heavy silence after the Duke’s decree lingered like frost, clinging to the air long after the words had fallen.

One by one, the gathered vassals shifted in their seats, the tension easing only slightly. Papers were straightened, throats were cleared, but no one dared speak first.

Finally, the steward bowed his head, his voice measured and polite, though a faint tremor betrayed his lingering frustration.

“…If that is your decision, Your Grace, I will begin reviewing the ledgers immediately. We will need to divert funds from the infrastructure projects to meet the commander’s request. Some of the northern villages will have to endure another season without road repairs.”

The knight commander exhaled through his nose, half in relief, half in quiet triumph.

“Those villagers will survive a rough road. They will not survive a demon incursion. I’ll have a revised list of supply demands prepared by tomorrow morning.”

“See that you do,” the Duke replied evenly. His gaze, sharp as a drawn blade, shifted to the steward. “And ensure that no unnecessary expenditures remain buried in those ledgers. If coin is being wasted, I will know.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the steward murmured, bowing even lower.

Alice remained silent, but her eyes swept the table.

These were not mere servants—they were the spine of the duchy. Men who could sway armies with a single order, men whose decisions would ripple through villages and towns like stones cast into a still pond.

And yet here they sat, subdued beneath her father’s quiet authority.

The Steward, that was silence after receiving his orders opened his mouth again. “Even with this much, I don’t think we will have enough budget on our hand’s.”

The Duke’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the faintest twitch of displeasure passing over his face. The room, already tense, seemed to tighten further as if the stone walls themselves held their breath.

“How much is missing?” His voice was calm, but the weight behind it left no room for evasion.

The steward swallowed hard. “At least… an additional twenty thousand gold marks, Your Grace. Perhaps more, depending on the scale of fortification the commander requires.”

A faint murmur rippled among the gathered officials, quickly stifled when the Duke’s gaze cut across the table like a winter gale.

The knight commander leaned forward, his gauntleted hands resting firmly on the polished wood. “We can reduce the expense if we press the militia into service for labor. Less coin for masons and carpenters, but the men will need to be compensated somehow.”

“Compensated?” the steward echoed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his careful tone. “With what? We can barely feed the regular troops as it stands.”

“Better to stretch the food supply than risk the walls collapsing when the next horde comes,” the commander shot back. “We can’t hold the northern line with broken defenses.”

The steward’s jaw tightened, but before he could press further, the Duke raised a single hand.

The room fell silent as if the air itself had been cut.

Alice, seated quietly beside her father, observed every subtle twitch of muscle, every flicker of expression—the steward’s barely restrained irritation, the commander’s iron-willed focus, the anxious glances of the lesser vassals.

Numbers and possibilities turned like gears in her mind, each calculation sharpening the cold reality of their situation.

“Then how about this?” one of the advisors ventured, voice tentative. “The public welfare budget. It’s the most flexible of all.”

“What nonsense!” another barked. “Touching public welfare would only sow unrest. Why not trim the food research and development sector instead? It’s a long-term investment. Shaving a little from there won’t harm immediate needs.”

Their words spiraled into yet another round of tedious argument—long, circular, and utterly inconclusive.

Even her father, the Duke himself, seemed content to remain a silent pillar at the head of the table.

His eyes half-lidded, his posture regal but distant, he ruled by presence alone.

The monarch who reigns but does not govern.

Alice recalled the phrase from a political theory lesson and almost smiled.

It fit her father perfectly.

“Watch the flow of the meeting closely. It’s best to align yourself with either the lord or the young duke.”

Julies’s advice from earlier echoed in her mind.

Alice glanced at her brother.

Lucas sat like a carved statue—expressionless, silent, and deliberate.

Not a single thought slipped past his controlled façade.

He would not speak until a conclusion was already within reach.

But Alice couldn’t stay silent.

Public welfare and food research were both the bones of the North.

Sacrificing one to feed the other would be like pulling a keystone from a wall—balancing the budget now only to collapse the foundation later.

She drew a slow breath and raised her hand.

The movement sliced through the low hum of voices.

“Alice?”

All eyes turned toward her.

The steward’s gaze was the sharpest of all—cold, probing, almost predatory.

The man who had been methodically dismantling every weak suggestion now studied her like a hawk sighting prey.

“I know of a more suitable place where the budget could come from,” she said evenly.

“Oh?” The steward’s lips curved in a polite, thin smile that did not reach his eyes.

“A suitable place? How intriguing.”

Hostility rolled off him in subtle waves.

It wasn’t hard to read the meaning behind his carefully chosen words.

So, the young lady dares to intervene. You must have something of worth, or you’ll be devoured.

“Steward, watch your tone!” one of the vassals snapped.

“That’s right! This is Lady Alice’s first council meeting,” another added, quick to play the role of protector.

Their sudden defense was almost comical.

Alice knew better than to mistake it for loyalty.

Their voices dripped with saccharine politeness, but their eyes betrayed calculation.

They weren’t shielding her out of kindness—they were hedging their bets, currying favor with the young duchess who had recently unsettled the primogeniture.

Alice met their gazes with a cool, level stare.

The sweetness of their words meant nothing to her.

She had no intention of being anyone’s pawn.

The chamber grew so still that Alice could hear the faint creak of the wooden beams above and the soft rustle of parchment against sleeves.

Even the steward’s quill, poised mid-scratch, hung in the air, a bead of ink trembling on its tip like a drop of midnight.

Alice rested both hands on the polished table, fingers lightly interlaced.

She let the silence stretch until it settled over the room like a weight, pressing down on every breath.

Only when she was certain every ear was straining did she finally speak.

“The solution is simple,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “Cut from my ceremonial expenses.”

The words dropped like a stone into a still pond.

The ripple of shock was immediate.

“What…? What did you just say?” Steward Dobriev’s eyes widened, his normally steady voice cracking slightly.

“My dresses, my jewelry, even these shoes,” Alice continued evenly. “In the face of war with the demons, such extravagance is not just unnecessary—it is wasteful.”

A few servants exchanged startled glances.

To hear the proud daughter of the North willingly offer to reduce her own luxuries was almost unthinkable.

It was not merely an act of thrift.

It was a calculated gesture, one that placed her above the petty indulgences of nobility.

A masterstroke of self-sacrifice that could only elevate her standing among those who witnessed it.

Alice quietly scanned the room, her eyes sweeping over each face, watching, measuring.

Those who hesitate will leap at this bait, she thought, her mind as sharp as a drawn blade. Watch them carefully.

It was as if Julies, standing quietly behind her chair, whispered the warning in her ear.

“Indeed, Lady Alice!” someone burst out at last, unable to contain their admiration. “To sacrifice even your own ceremonial needs—!”

“Truly an action befitting a noble of the North!” another added, voices rising in eager agreement.

The praise began to spread like wildfire.

One by one, attendants and advisors stepped forward, their flattery layered thick with awe and opportunity.

Then—

“Quiet.”

The single word cut through the chamber like the crack of a whip.

The Duke’s voice.

The room fell silent at once.

Every eye turned to the man seated at the head of the table.

Duke Draken regarded his daughter with a gaze both proud and penetrating, his raised hand halting any further outbursts.

“Alice,” he said slowly, his deep voice carrying the weight of command, “you must take responsibility for your words. Relinquishing your ceremonial rights is not merely a matter of a few dresses and jewels.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alice replied without hesitation.

Her back remained straight, her chin high, her eyes unwavering even under the Duke’s scrutiny.

“Clothing, food, environment—all that I enjoy is built on the blood and sweat of the people of the North.

It pricks my conscience to indulge in luxuries while our land stands on the brink of war.”

The Duke’s gaze lingered on her for a long, unreadable moment.

At last, a faint glimmer of pride softened the edges of his stern expression.

“To think you harbor such thoughts…” he said quietly. “I am proud of you.”

But even as he spoke, he shifted his eyes to Julies, who stood just behind Alice’s chair like a shadow.

The glance was subtle but sharp, a reminder that no matter how skillful the performance, a ruler’s instincts were not so easily deceived.

“However,” the Duke continued, his voice gaining a darker edge, “as your father and as the Duke of the North, I cannot help but wonder…”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking on Alice like a hawk sighting prey.

“…what intentions you truly harbor behind such noble words.”

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