Chapter 42
Bianteca and Zacador had a relationship that was both close and distant. They made peace treaties and alliances often, but those agreements were as fragile as glass. Despite their importance, sometimes they felt less reliable than promises made between children in a marketplace.
Both empires were strong, yet circumstances forced them to cooperate when interests aligned.
“Is there truly no talent in Bianteca? Flint, what do you think?”
Flint remained calm and solemn, replying quietly, “Your Majesty, this situation is truly tragic.”
News of Zacador’s diplomatic envoy arriving stirred Emperor Leopold’s rage. He hated Zacador deeply. His foreign ministry hadn’t even dared show him Zacador’s letter, so the envoy hadn’t been allowed into the palace—at least not yet.
“Why haven’t we executed those traitors? Kill them all!”
“Your Majesty, please hold your fury.”
“We cannot harm envoys—show mercy!”
“Mercy? They tried to kill my only son in Ringsgen! Duke Howard, burn their envoy alive!”
Flint bowed quietly. Prince Heriath, covering his face, sighed at his father’s outburst—his pride always so fierce. Emperor Leopold’s fury was no surprise; early in his reign, he’d suffered a crushing defeat, was captured, and was forced to bow three times before Zacador’s Emperor Alexander. He was even held in a shrine and beaten a hundred times in penance. Leopold’s hatred ran so deep it bordered on madness.
Everyone braced against the emperor’s wrath.
“We must still greet them properly—Your Majesty, think before you act,” urged an aide.
“Greet them? We might as well hand Bianteca to Zacador!” roared the emperor, throwing furniture in rage.
Prince Heriath, outraged, joined his father’s fury. “Alliance? Peace? Who believes that nonsense? Let me behead those envoys myself—I still owe Zacador a debt!”
“Ahem, Your Highness…” someone protested.
“If you say one more word, I’ll tear your limbs apart!”
The prince’s fierce outburst shocked the young ministry staff. But the seasoned officials secretly breathed relief—Herianth’s madness was the only thing capable of calming the emperor’s fury. Soon, his father softened and spoke quietly.
“But Heriath, wisdom is needed. Think like a ruler, far beyond this moment.”
Heriath’s explosion finally earned a forgiving glance.
“Yes, Father. I will consider things further.”
And with that, the crumpled Zacador letter was returned to Leopold’s hand.
The council ended with the Zacador envoys accepted—despite the emperor’s temper, the treaty stood. The foreign ministry cheered at their success.
Even Prince Heriath, who spent the whole meeting demanding war, emerged composed. He patted a trembling minister’s shoulder.
“Remember, even if Zacador is our enemy, if a demon stole into our lands, we’d fight together. Good job.”
In their views, a “demon” might mean a monster, nomads, heretics—whatever threatened both empires.
Calm returned to the court. Heriath rubbed his sore throat—he’d shouted so much he was hoarse. Yet, he realised that his father’s cunning diplomacy was exactly what he needed to learn.
Flint, standing nearby, spoke in low tones. “Heriath, you should’ve told me your plans first.”
As an advisor in military affairs, Flint’s voice carried restrained disappointment. Zacador’s letter, backed by the Pope, invited Bianteca to use its army to fight heretics. And Heriath’s father clearly intended for Flint to lead the campaign.
Heriath floundered. “I thought Father would send them away. I meant to tell you after.”
Flint fixed him with a sharp gaze. The emperor’s order had placed Flint in command of the allied army. Though he followed without question, resentment lingered. He respected order—but not betrayal.
“You’ve started appointing allies of Zacador? I can’t believe our own prince promotes it.”
Heriath’s face reddened, but Flint remained calm.
“The Sun Emperor rules with clear judgement—unlike personal grudges.”
Flint shook his head and left. Heriath watched his retreating figure, feeling guilty—and hammered his head against a wall in frustration.
After the court, Flint took deep breaths. He’d fought for survival in Ringsgen—hiding emotion came naturally.
“To Gilbert: I plan to go to Molkia. They say heretics gather there.”
“Now, sir?”
“Yes. It’s a covert mission—don’t tell anyone.”
At home, Flint’s composure remained until his long-time butler noticed his tension. The butler offered a drink, which Flint accepted in one move.
The council had another major topic: the new Sharai Kingdom.
After Heriath’s disappearance, a three-year war erupted. The nomadic Sharai people settled and declared a kingdom, taking land while both empires feuded. They later contacted the Nymphs, proving their beliefs were legitimate—they were no longer “barbarians”.
So while the empires warred, someone else quietly claimed victory.
Flint remembered fighting Sharai before—with bitter irony. Now he’d face enemies not in war but in faith, and this time, as part of the planned alliance with Zacador. It was ironic, but the reasoning was solid.
It reinforced why empires keep forming fragile alliances—when combined, they can be invincible. Furthermore, the Zacador envoys included royalty, making betrayal seem more dangerous.
After today’s council, Flint felt deeply weary. Emperor Leopold kept testing him, suspicious of his loyalty. Some court officials whispered, “You grew up in Ringsgen—did Zacador brainwash you? You have no conscience.” His acceptance of talent, regardless of status, also made them wary of him.
Despite opposing Zacador, Flint was no loyalist—he simply preferred peace. He hated war but never feared it. If he did, he’d have died long ago in Ringsgen.
Just then, a butler appeared. “Duke, a guest from Ringsgen, has arrived in the salon. Shall I ask them to wait?”
When the butler announced a guest, Flint’s face brightened.
“I couldn’t keep a friend waiting,” he said and walked swiftly to the salon.
He found Austin, dressed in perfect attire, nibbling a cookie. Flint waved his hand and spoke quickly.
“Greetings are enough. Did you deliver the message?”
Austin swallowed and replied, “Naturally.”
Flint sighed. He asked, “She wasn’t too surprised, was she?”
Austin’s eyes twinkled with mischief, and Flint felt a flush—yes, even a man could get flustered. Then Austin chuckled and began to speak.
