Regarding the second so-called generous condition, it could be called nothing less than a pie-in-the-sky promise.
Though the Heracles Kingdom had been established for centuries, the number of nobles conferred the title of Prince by blood could be counted on one hand. These individuals were either absolutely loyal to the royal house, to whom titles and accolades meant little, or they were posthumously honored with the honorary title of Prince for their significant contributions to a grand human-demon war, with no right to pass on the title.
According to kingdom laws, Princes held the right to found their own nations, albeit on a smaller scale and always as tributaries to Heracles. Still, being a sovereign beat being someone else's lapdog.
Unfortunately, those staunch royal loyalists had no desire for independence, and the glorified corpses certainly couldn’t trek to the kingdom’s border to draw lines for a new state, rendering the title of Prince effectively ceremonial—a well-known but humorously impractical idea.
Yet, bestowing this title upon the two powerful Northwestern dukes would be an entirely different matter, as they possessed the means for true nation-building. Though their territories couldn't rival the royal domain in size, their output of strategic resources like grain and iron was already enough for internal self-sufficiency.
The logic then circled back to the king's ultimate terms: if the dukes were ennobled, they had to acknowledge the sole legitimacy of the Heracles Kingdom as the human authority. But if the kingdom was legitimate, what did that make these two lesser states?
Illegitimate, of course!
Even in a vassal-suzerain relationship, the law of "might makes right" prevails—if the suzerain state declares you illegal, then illegal you are. With this decree, the kingdom could initiate conflict whenever it wished.
That's why Morton felt that the king's terms and bottom line were an unattainable pie in the sky—a fact as clear to him as it should be to the surging rebels.
What was His Majesty implying?
Did he, in fact, have no desire for peace talks? As the ruler of extensive lands, even after land grants, he still wielded over half the kingdom's territory in his hands. Give it some time, and his land’s war potential would be immeasurable. The rebels, so bent on swift victory, would surely fail—a forecast anticipated by any discerning individual.
The king wanted to combine pretense of negotiation and stalling in this comical offer, as clearly, the rebels weren't fools and would reject such unserious terms. If the kingdom publicized these terms, the commoners—who knew only of noble dictates—would undoubtedly see the Northwestern Alliance as the true insatiable rebels, fostering a unified scorn among the populace.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Once public sentiment was weaponized, the military rallying would peel off the veneer of diplomacy and, under the guise of "We tried, but they rejected peace," the kingdom would level the Northwest...
By that point, each side—convinced of the hero’s support and divine sanction or branding the other as a warmongering madman—would be locked in a death struggle. If the war dragged on, the royal forces would undeniably leverage overwhelming national power to drive the dukes deep into the wilderness.
At that time, the duo raising rebel flags might not only fail to usurp the king's lands but could also see the great ducal names halved.
As thoughts flowed unimpeded, Morton felt he'd unwrapped His Majesty’s intentions. The key to this peace negotiation journey would be procrastination and obfuscation...
Negotiations, after all, were about opening with sky-high demands before painstakingly bargaining down. But as both sides were confident of victory from their respective perspectives, a drawn-out haggling session seemed inevitable.
Or perhaps... Morton's gaze shifted to the second letter. Could His Majesty have another meaning?
Mind racing, the envelope of the second letter was delicately peeled open by an invisible force. The paper inside fluttered into Morton's grasp like a leaf caught in an unfelt wind.
[Morton Doyle:
Grand Mage Melrose will accompany you in the negotiations. Should delays fail, with a four-to-two advantage, you must forcibly reclaim the hero.
Leopold Heracles]
A sense of indescribable unease crawled up Morton’s spine. Unlike the warm and earnest tone of the first sealed letter, this brief and clear message laid the king’s true thoughts bare—the highest of human nobility was done playing by the rules.
After several readings, Morton folded the paper and clasped it between his hands, giving them a sharp shake. Henceforth, there would only be three privy to this sealed message.
The bear-like man slumped heavily into the chair, lost deep in thought. After a while, he rose with resolve and, looking northward, murmured, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that…”
Morton proceeded solemnly to the wine cellar, passing through a plain black door into his family's armory—or more precisely, the Doyle family’s.
Here, beneath this seemingly modest underground room, rows of armor and weapons lay dormant in destined repose.
The array of armors varied in length and style, from knight’s full suits to half-armors worn for assaults. Their common feature was the unreflective black hue.
From lances to broadswords, all manner of knightly arms could be found, at least one of each kind—a shrine of ancestor’s souls to Morton more than any family crypt.
Hoisting his father’s old longsword, Morton swung a few strokes through the air, evoking a flood of memories. It was with this ancient blade that his father taught him his first sword technique.
Now a father himself, yet he'd failed to protect his child.
With a prayer for paternal protection, Morton unhooked the longsword from its stand and strapped it to his waist, hoping for a smooth journey—or that, should hardships arise, his son would return safely home.