CHAPTER 118: VOICES OF DOUBT

Because of that, they lost two full divisions. Under normal circumstances, Libertus would’ve been executed. But Talcott had covered for him instead, blaming the mistake on the Kingdom of Rosaria and using it as an excuse to justify sending troops against them.

Now, Libertus wouldn’t dare raise his head again.

In other words, no matter what Weskham tried, there was no way he could gather the strength to go against Talcott.

As he thought through all this, Talcott checked the time and then left the office with his adjutants. They headed toward the castle’s parade grounds.

There, the grand army prepared to invade the Kingdom of Rosaria—and from there, into the nation of Nabradia—was probably already lined up, waiting for the signal to depart.

Just imagining it made his chest tighten with excitement. To command the army was to control the nation. There was no joy greater than seeing one’s own power take shape right in front of one’s eyes. Giving rousing orders to the troops always gave him a sense of triumph and certainty.

"The plan is moving forward."

Suddenly, Talcott froze at the sound of a voice that brushed his ears. His heart jumped. He looked around sharply, scanning the area. But the only thing he saw were his adjutant and escort knights staring back at him, surprised that he had stopped so suddenly.

Was it just his imagination? He began walking again, but the feeling from yesterday hadn’t left him. Maybe his nerves were still on edge.

"Lord Weskham seems to have a bold plan. Is Lord Talcott’s reign finally coming to an end?"

Talcott’s eyes swept over both sides of the corridor.

Who had just said that? Was it one of the soldiers who passed by? Maybe that clerk standing at the far corner?

Cold sweat burst out all over his back.

—Does Weskham still have a move left to play? What kind of move could it be?

Then it hit him.

Jircniv of House Dunrossil. That must be it. That was the card he himself had been holding. It was exactly because he had Jircniv that his grandfather had agreed to send money and troops. But if something were to happen—if Jircniv were to die for any reason—then even his grandfather would be furious. He might cut off all support.

And Count Dunrossil... he would go mad with rage. He might send his own army after Talcott. Worse yet, blinded by the need for revenge, he could end up joining forces with Weskham—and they might come at Talcott together and took his head.

The very thought made Talcott’s body start to shake. He couldn’t stop trembling. The fear and sense of danger were so intense, he almost screamed.

He barely managed to speak to one of his escort knights. He struggled to make sure his voice didn’t tremble or break.

"Go check on Jircniv. Make sure he’s fine. If there’s nothing unusual, then that’s enough. But double the guards at his door. Make sure no one—no one—gets near him. Watch closely."

He watched the knight run off to carry out his order. As he stood there, Talcott wondered why this fear had such a grip on him. Why now? Why was it hitting him now, of all times?

By the time Talcott passed through the castle’s side gate and walked along the approach that led to the parade grounds, his panicked thoughts had settled slightly.

He walked up the gentle slope that followed the castle’s outer wall, then climbed a stone staircase that led to a platform jutting outward.

The knights and soldiers waiting ahead quickly stepped aside to make way for Talcott and his adjutant.

The viewing platform was large. It had to be. It was built to host the king, the supreme rulers, the commanding general, and their attending generals and ministers—all while also providing enough space for the protective formation of knights and soldiers.

It was a place of honor and power, a spot designed to show the might of the army.

The view from the parade grounds below was clear so that the army—and the crowd—could all see those standing above.

The parade grounds themselves were wide, flat, and square. Behind them stood the triumphal arch, and on both sides, raised viewing seats formed a half-circle around the grounds.

This was because military parades and open training displays were often open to the public.

For today’s troop deployment ceremony, many nobles had gathered to watch.

The sky was clear with the arrival of winter, but the cold northern winds were sweeping down from the mountains, cutting through the air.

Talcott stepped forward onto the viewing platform. It seemed everyone had already gathered.

A step behind him, slightly to the side, he spotted Weskham and Libertus.

Just seeing them stirred up the growing distrust that had been bothering him for some time now, and it made his chest tighten with irritation.

Weskham came from a military family, so Talcott could tolerate his presence. However, Libertus, a noble-born general, had a thin, unimpressive build. With his plain brown hair and dull brown eyes, Talcott often wondered how someone like him had become a general at all.

When Talcott shot a sharp, cold glare in Libertus’s direction, the man’s eyes flicked around nervously and his shoulders hunched, shrinking in on himself.

Libertus only held the title of marquis. Talcott had made him a party leader just to keep the other nobles in check. That was all.

Standing behind Libertus was a thin man in a dark gray robe. His face was mostly hidden under a deep hood, but Talcott assumed it was the usual adjutant, Roaille. Just like Libertus, the man had no real presence.

As for Weskham, he gave Talcott a forced, flattering smile. But there was something fake about it—as if behind that grin he was sticking out his tongue. The sight left Talcott feeling disgusted.

Looking over the low railing of the platform, Talcott saw the wide parade ground below filled with perfectly ordered troops.