For the first time since the news of the calamity in Shargara, the meeting room of the Central Council was calm. The twenty members that had either not attended the conference or had survived the incident awaited patiently at the seats. They looked forward to seeing the fruits of their—and their fellow prestigious bourgeoisies’ throughout the Empire—votes, a process that took two weeks. To rush a person of such stature meant to loosen the trust they had built either through generations of family reputations or years of service for the Empire. In total, 6,971 votes had been cast to replace eight of the nine members who passed away on the day of the Conference.
“All rise,” ordered Lieutenant General Salomon, who stood alone at the centre of the semicircular table. “I will now announce the nine names chosen by yourself and your many peers to replace our fallen brothers and sisters.”
Major General Sjogren shot a look at the two guards manning the doors, signaling for them to be opened. Sjogren gave a nod of acknowledgement to Salomon, enabling him to begin reading out the list of names. But the councillors now understood it wasn’t simply a gathering to hear the names being called out.
“They’re already here?” Count Moen whispered to Major General Vang who was seated beside him.
“Don’t ask me,” Vang shrugged. “You think I get a say in how things go here?”
“Right.” Moen shrugged.
Moen took a glance to his right, where three empty seats came into his vision. Three of his good friends— Lieutenant General Berg, Brigadier General Bosch, and Countess Hagen—would never occupy them again. He only hoped people who carried the same weight as them would replace them on their seats.
“When your name has been called, please take any empty seat,” Salomon turned around to face the double doors about 10 yards away. He cleared his throat, remembering the order of names he had memorised.
“Earl Eskil Daalen,” he called out. A man with a professional grin, one that didn’t reach his eyes, strutted through the door and seated himself at the table. His appearance was met with about five seconds of applause.
“Count Benno Tasse,” Salomon summoned the man, entering and sitting in much the same manner as the man before him, and met by a similar magnitude of cheers.
“Marquess Rochus Asjes,” the man entered with a genuine grin plastered on his face, and he seemed to be the only one so far who was eager to be inaugurated to the Council.
“Marchioness Iben Eld,” the first woman of the batch entered, readily taken the seat beside her husband who had come right before her.
So that’s why the bastard’s so happy, Sjogren noted. This isn’t supposed to be a merry occasion, but here we are.
“Brigadier… my apologies, Major General Ceel Abspoel,” the first military inductee had entered, his dress uniform a new sight among the new initiates. His walk was less prideful, and more calm compared to the nobles. Although nobles and high-ranking Military were about the same in social status, the latter were always humbler in demeanour.
“Major General Hrodohaidis Jarvinen,” the first and only combatant woman had come in, and despite her hefty name, she was just as meek in appearance as her colleague before her.
“Brigadier… forgive me again, Major General Waldomar Brose.”
The man apologetically stepped through the doorway before sitting far somewhat further away from his two military colleagues.
“Duchess…” Salomon spoke, before searching his mind to see if he’d said the right title.
Ah, that’s right. She’s only just become Duchess.
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“Duchess Quirina Calvo,” he said. The young lady had walked in with a much more conservative flair than any noble who had come in, wearing a purple mourning dress with her hands clasped in front of her. Her pace was somewhat slower than the rest. The clapping suddenly became louder, but it was in commemoration of the woman’s father, the previous head of the Calvo family. It was all she had to her was her name, at least inside the council meeting room.
“And last, but certainly not the least, Duke Silvan Karesti.”
At the mention of the family name, 27 of the thirty councillors shot up to their feet. Instead of clapping with intensity, their mouths opened with strong praises for the ultimate councillor to be inaugurated that day.
“Long live the blood of Bence!” they roared, repeating the name of the first independent Karesti Emperor. “Long live the blood of Bence! Long live the blood of Bence! Long live the blood of Bence!”
“Long live the blood of Bence!” Quirina finally joined in after the litany continued into its eighth or ninth iteration.
Silvan, one of two remaining councillors who did not partake in the cheers besides Fabian who was keenly moderating the meeting, looked all around as the applauds continued to progress. Despite his body being ultra tolerant to the frigid expanses of Titan just like all his other brethren, he could not help but feel chills run down his spine. It was as if his body was aware of the weight the Karesti name carried, like the memory of it being both feared and awed was stored within his veins.
But they’re not for me, he reminded himself. They’re for the people who came before me.
Then he remembered the contents of the voice message that Sjogren had left after Meurig delivered his acceptance of the appointment invitation to the Military Headquarters.
Sitting down and simply accepting their praises won’t do me any good. I can speak, and I will.
“Thank you all,” Silvan stood up, slamming his palms on the table before him. “Lieutenant General Salomon, I have a word to give my fellow councillors, if you don’t mind.”
The lad seems to get it, the corner of Salomon’s lips twitched as he stopped himself from smiling.
“Very well,” Salomon said. “Listen attentively, all of you. And if any one else wishes to speak, you will be allowed to, later. Seat yourselves for now. Duke Silvan?”
“Thank you, Lieutenant General,” said Silvan, making his way to the centre of the table. “My dear colleagues, I am very grateful to be in this room and especially in your presence. It has been a few weeks since a Karesti has been here. I may not be the same as my cousin Rhona. I may not be as skilled, nor as strong, nor as experienced as her in either in the affairs of the Empire, nor in the military. But we Karesti’s do not wait to better ourselves to act. The Red Devil certainly didn’t. We saw that even though he was no longer in his prime form, he ripped through the ceiling of usurper Linden’s home and maimed General Karesti. Who knows what else he could’ve done had she not stopped him…”
He paused for a moment. What else could he say that wasn’t a repetition of the events of the last few weeks? He’d never had to recite such a speech before.
He looked around, anxiety creeping up on him. He had to say something before the others would notice. To be caught unprepared within the Central Council as a Karesti would be soul-crushing.
But then his eyes caught a pair of silent lips moving to his right, three seats down.
Protect… he was able surmise the word being mouthed. Is that what I need to talk about? What they all need... is assurance from the strongest bloodline in history. I get it.
Silvan cleared his throat, fabricating a phlegm-filled throat.
“As a member of the bloodline you all know as protectors of the Empire, I will work with all of you to keep it united. We will make sure the people continue to get what they need when they need it, not only on the mainland but in our territories as well. For our fallen brothers and sisters, for those who cannot sit in this room any more, we will see justice be carried out. To the ones that took them from us, we will make you pay!”
Silvan’s fist instinctively flew into the air, and so did everyone else’s.
Had his words rallied everyone into acceptance? Was he now one with the people he agreed to join so that he could figure out what had happened to his father? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was solely the power of his family name or the blood in his veins. Maybe he was just another wielder of the name assigned by Pizna to keep watch over them. But whatever the case was, he felt that what he was doing was right. Even though the words coming from his mouth, a vow of continuing the war his cousin had started, didn’t resonate with him at all, he still loved the collective acceptance.
So he let himself smile. As fists flattened and joined with their partners to clap he found his eyes drifting around the room again.
“We all appreciate your sermon, if you couldn’t tell already,” Salomon allowed himself a chuckle. “Thank you, Duke Karesti. May Pizna bless your tenure as councillor. You may return to your seat. Now, would anyone else have a word to offer our new colleagues?”
As Silvan eased himself back into his chair, his eyes darted to the lips that had saved him much embarrassment. But instead he found the eyes averting his gaze.
Why did Quirina Calvo help me? And why is she crying?