Chapter 12: The Debt of a Lion and the Shadow of a Raven
The training grounds of the Saint's Peak branch had undergone a transformation that bordered on the fanatical. Under the blistering sun, the 150-man militia moved in synchronized blocks, their spears leveled in a disciplined bristling hedge. Sir Gawan and Sir Berengar were no longer teasing; they were drill sergeants carved from iron.
Julian watched from the battlements, his "gamer mind" filtering the scene through a tactical overlay. He had spent the previous evening explaining the concept of "staggered rotation" and "pike-and-shot" formations (minus the shot) to the twelve knights.
"Don't aim for the man," Julian had told them, using charcoal to sketch on a wooden board. "Aim for the unit. If the unit holds, the man lives. If the unit breaks, the man is just a target."
It was basic modern infantry doctrine, but in a world where knights preferred individual glory, it was a revolution.
[System Notification: Skill Development.]
[Tactical Literacy: Level 2.]
[Commentary: You're teaching 13th-century peasants how to fight like a Roman legion. It's either genius or a great way to get them all executed for being too efficient.]
The Bitter Taste of Diplomacy
The afternoon was less successful. Julian sat in the manor's cold solar, facing a representative from the House of Fugger, the merchant house that held the Merania debt. He had tried to be clever. He had tried to use the looming war with Spain as leverage.
"War is coming," Julian said, leaning forward. "If the domain is overtaxed, we cannot mobilize. If we cannot mobilize, the Spanish will burn the very grain you intend to collect. It is in your interest to reduce the principal by ten percent to ensure the rest is paid."
The merchant, a man with a face like crumpled parchment, didn't even blink. "We are a business, Lord Julian, not a charity. We understand the 'hard times.' Therefore, we will restructure your dates. You will pay faster, in smaller installments, so our risk is minimized. But the amount? The amount remains."
Julian returned to the manor feeling like he had just tried to punch a mountain. He sat at his desk, staring at the restructured dates. He had failed to save a single copper, and now the pressure was even tighter.
A pair of cool hands suddenly pressed against his temples, rubbing in slow, soothing circles. Mathilde leaned over him, her chest brushing his shoulder as she looked at the revised schedule.
"You can't win your first diplomatic meeting, Julian," she whispered, her voice a soft balm to his bruised ego. "But look. He agreed to the restructuring. That means he believes you'll survive long enough to pay. In the world of banking, that is a victory."
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +3 (Total: 76/100)]
[Status: Protective Anchor.]
The Gamble in the Dirt
Determined not to let the failure define him, Julian gathered five grizzled adventurers in the courtyard. He reached into his own pocket, pulling out three of the gold coins he had kept secret from the house treasury.
"I want you to scour every inch of my three villages," Julian commanded, his voice loud enough for the servants to hear. "The riverbeds, the crags, the old logging paths. If there is a vein of iron, a seam of coal, or a pocket of mana-crystals, I want to know. My people cannot eat history; they need industry."
The adventurers, spurred by the sight of real gold, vanished into the woods.
"Spending your personal stash on the dirt?" Mathilde teased, though her eyes were shining with something Julian couldn't quite place. She was beginning to realize that her "cute nephew" was willing to gamble everything on a future no one else believed in.
He spent the rest of the day in the villages, preaching the "Gospel of the Three-Field System." He explained multiple cropping—planting legumes to fix the nitrogen in the soil—not for this harvest, but for the next. The farmers looked at him with a mix of confusion and hope. For the first time in a decade, a Merania Lord was walking the mud with them.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +2 (Total: 78/100)]
The Breaking of the Peace
By evening, Julian had ordered a full cleaning of the manor. The reconstruction dust was swept away, and the smell of beeswax and lemon oil filled the halls. Julian changed into his formal charcoal doublet, looking every bit the high-ranking noble he was meant to be.
He was reaching for a report on the Raven-Crag bridge when the front doors didn't just open—they exploded.
The guards outside didn't even have time to shout before a flurry of white silk and red anger stormed into the solar.
"Julian!"
Emilia von Schwarzberg stood in the doorway, her breathing ragged, her eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. She looked like a woman who had ridden a horse to death to get there.
Julian stood up, nearly knocking over his inkwell. "Emilia? What is the meaning of—"
"Do you have any idea what is happening in the Diet while you're here playing architect?" she demanded, slamming her hands onto his desk.
"The session is postponed for three days," Julian said, trying to maintain his calm. "I am aware of the rumors, but—"
"They aren't rumors anymore!" Emilia hissed, leaning in so close Julian could see the tears of rage in her eyes. "The relocation draft is confirmed. But it's worse than we thought. They aren't just sending 'weeds.' They are targeting houses with 'tainted histories.'"
Julian felt a cold pit form in his stomach. "The Great Sin. My main branch's treason."
"Exactly," Emilia said, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "The Electors—Bohemia and Saxony—have put forward a list of four minor houses and one 'mid-tier' house to be the first to move to the Benevento border. You are at the top of that list, Julian. Even with your speech, even with your 'philosophical' performance... they want you gone. They want the Merania name extinguished in a Spanish bonfire."
Mathilde stepped out from the shadows, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger, her eyes fixed on Emilia. The atmosphere in the room turned lethal. The "Villainess" and the "Protective Aunt" locked eyes, and Julian felt like he was standing between two colliding storms.
[System Notification: High Stakes Scenario.]
[Event: The Exile Ballot.]
[Warning: Survival rate for Benevento relocation is 0.04%. Time to the next Diet: 72 hours.]
"Then we don't just fight the Spanish," Julian said, his voice cold and hard, finally shedding the last of his 'mob' persona. "We fight the Electors."
To be continued...