CHAPTER 68: PRIDE OF ARGENHOLT

The messenger who appeared at the entrance of my tent stumbled in, breathless. When I saw the red-sealed parchment in his hand, a faint glimmer sparked in my eyes. It was Douglas’s seal. So, the fox had finally dared to leave its den.

I broke the seal and skimmed the trembling lines.

"Glorious Count Leonardo," it read, "I accept your terms. I shall send my eldest daughter, Edla, as a pledge of peace. A third of my yearly taxes will be delivered to Argenholt. To prove my sincerity, I have also sent a gift to accompany my daughter to your fair city. May no blood be spilled; it is an honor to remain under your shadow of peace."

When I finished reading, I lifted my head and let out a long laugh. The soldiers outside the tent flinched, staring at me uneasily. To them, it was only a letter. To me, it was one of the most brilliant moves ever made on the board. Barely a week had passed since I defeated Ronald, and already Douglas had sent this message of fear.

Coward though Douglas was, he was no fool. In fact, he controlled the most prosperous and developed city in the region. His annual tribute would ease my burdens considerably.

I set the letter on the table, my fingers tracing the faint red wax. "Sending his daughter, is he?" I murmured. "So the craven fox is willing to mortgage his bloodline to me."

Willabelle entered the tent with permission, her face lit with the joy of one newly unchained. Still, I had bound her with a Level One Master’s Contract, which meant she could not run unless I allowed it.

Such contracts were parchment-bound spells used by slavers to bind their property. The first level was the weakest form, while Level Three was the harshest, capable of killing a slave outright for defying an order. A Level One, by contrast, merely alerted the master to the slave’s location and delivered a light electric sting when commands were disobeyed. Mild perhaps, but sufficient to prevent escape.

Willabelle stood at the entrance. There was no shock or bitterness on her face, as one might expect of a newly freed prisoner. Instead, her eyes shone with a strange serenity. She looked at me for a while, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

"At last," she whispered. "I’m free. Thank you, my lord."

The parchment’s runes still glowed faintly against her inner arm. I smirked and said,

"Do you truly believe you’re free, Willabelle?"

Her gaze met mine. For a moment, doubt flickered there, but it was quickly mastered. "I’ve shed my old chains. That is enough for me, my lord."

Her voice carried acceptance rather than fear. That was precisely why I wanted her at my side. Many would think first of stabbing their master once unbound. But Willabelle, even bound by a contract, found peace in her new condition.

"Good," I said, patting my lap.

Her face flushed crimson, but she obeyed, settling herself upon me without hesitation.

"So it’s really true? You’ve never been with a man."

Willabelle’s eyes darted away. She lowered her chin, lips trembling, her blush deepening with each second.

"No, my lord," she whispered. "I have never let anyone close. Neither my heart nor my body has ever belonged to another."

Her words weighed upon the tent like a storm cloud. Without breaking eye contact, I slid my fingers into her black hair. Silken strands slipped through my hand as I chuckled softly.

"So you’ve been kept like a pure treasure," I murmured.

Willabelle drew a shaky breath, her small hands resting timidly on my knees. Innocence and shame warred on her face.

At the entrance, I felt the soldiers’ eyes. They tried not to look, but silence made their curiosity heavy. The lamp’s flame flickered against Douglas’s letter, its red seal still cracked upon the table.

Then came the whinny of a horse outside, followed by urgent footsteps. Another messenger. And who knew whether his tidings would be as sweet as Douglas’s.

The courier dropped to his knees at the entrance, thrusting forward blood-stained parchments. His breath came ragged, the papers sealed in haste beneath the shadow of immense pressure.

I took them. Thick paper, still smelling faintly of iron. Ronald’s son and the son of the pious Baron Lrian... both had pressed their seals in blood, bearing the weight of their defeat. Not merely surrender, but the burial of their houses’ honor.

"My lord," the messenger said, "these are the oaths of surrender from Count Ronald’s son and Baron Lrian’s heir. They have agreed to yield the land owed to you."

As I scraped the dried scab of blood with my fingertip, a smile curved my lips. These signatures, these seals; they now belonged to me alone.

I studied the parchments. The fibers still held the scent of blood. Not surrender, but the sealing of pride beneath the soil. My smile deepened.

"Good," I murmured. "Two more stones upon the board."

I leaned over the table, placing the documents side by side. Douglas’s scarlet wax, Ronald’s son’s dark blood, Lrian’s heir’s pale stain; together they formed a perfect tableau. A tableau belonging to me alone.

The silence in the tent thickened. The soldiers dared not speak, though their eyes lingered in the flicker of the lamps. To them, these were scraps of parchment. To me, the first bricks of a dynasty.

I drew a dagger, pricked my finger, and let a drop of blood fall upon the seals. By the oldest law of the Empire, the lands were now mine.

"Send these to the capital," I commanded. "No one shall ever again call Leonardo Argenholt merely a count. A lord who bent three houses and forced a baron to tribute."

After that, silence. Only the huff of horses outside and the wind lashing against the canvas. The courier gathered the contracts and departed with his escort.

Willabelle still sat quietly beside me. I turned, cupped her face in my hands.

"Now you know I’ll keep you and your nephew safe, don’t you?"

She raised her eyes to mine. For a moment, hesitation flickered, then she nodded slowly. Her lips parted in a whisper.

"I know, my lord."

Her words softened the tent’s heavy air. A faint smile touched my lips. Not weakness, but the beginning of loyalty.

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Before returning to Argenholt, I busied myself appointing governors to the new cities. Fourteen days after the Battle of Reversed Fate, I finally came home.

Yes, the crushing victory had shaken the entire Empire, and so the battle was named: the Reversed Fate. Every noble house, great and small, now knew my name. Even regions beyond the Empire had begun to whisper it. After all, I had achieved the impossible: defeating a far stronger foe with nothing more than a band of mercenaries.

Normally, my army numbered eight thousand. Yet somehow, everywhere the tale was told, it had become five thousand against fifty thousand. I never bothered to correct the exaggeration.

When the stone walls of Argenholt rose on the horizon, a heavy calm settled in my chest. My cavalry escorts carried banners of victory that snapped in the wind. The people gathered at the gates, barefoot in the mud, throwing themselves to the ground as they cried out prayers and my name.

"Leonardo! Leonardo! Pride of Argenholt!"

Through it all, I kept my face as cold as stone. For I knew: the love of the people is sharper than a blade, quick to flare, quick to fade. My duty was not to keep the fire alive, but to stoke it higher.

When I passed through the gates, the sight before me was of a people bowing not to a mere count, but to a leader. It is always so. People love to gather around strength.

At last, I reached the dark-stone gates of my manor. Two women awaited me there. Annabel, with her timid smile and bright eyes, and Rebecca, her wide grin betraying both relief and joy.

Though both stood to greet me, the difference was plain.

"Welcome home, my lord," Annabel said with a graceful curtsy. Her voice carried unhidden happiness. At her side, little Lucareth clung shyly to her skirts, though his eyes betrayed his joy at my return.

Rebecca approached with firm steps. "You’re back at last," she whispered.

Her face showed not only joy, but the relief of one freed from fear. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms tightly around me. I felt the thrum of her heartbeat warm, frantic, real. I did not push her away. For a Lord returning from the cold cries of battle, such warmth was a stronger fortress than stone.

Yet I did miss Annabel’s frozen smile. Unlike Rebecca’s unrestrained embrace, Annabel’s joy was measured, controlled. She was a woman who cloaked her emotions in calculation. However innocent her smile seemed, I could see the shadow of jealousy coiled beneath it.

I gently drew Rebecca back, though my hands remained upon her shoulders. With my other arm, I gestured for Annabel to join us. She did not hesitate; she nearly leapt into me, pressing her head against my chest as she held me tight.

A small smile curved my lips.

"Yes, Rebecca," I said softly. "I’ve returned... and I have no intention of leaving again anytime soon."