Chapter 129: The Bastard And The Crown.

Chapter 129

The morning sun cast long, amber rays across the polished mahogany furnishings of the Warwick estate’s inner study, illuminating the faint dust drifting through the air.

Marquess Caspian Warwick sat motionless at his heavy oak desk, his quill gliding with practiced precision across a sheet of fine parchment. A firm, rhythmic knock at the heavy chamber door interrupted the silence. Without lifting his eyes from the parchment, Caspian spoke in a smooth, unhurried tone. "Enter."

The door swung inward, revealing his chief informant, a shadowed figure clad in dark, muted travelling leather. Caspian continued writing for a moment before casually resting his quill against the inkstand. "What information do you bring?"

The informant bowed deeply, remaining standing near the threshold. "Master, I have news regarding our surveillance. Countess Celestine has abruptly ceased her visits to the local mercenary dens in the lower quarters."

Caspian slowly raised his head, his sharp eyes narrowing as he processed the report. "That presents a distinct complication," Caspian murmured, leaning back against the leather cushion of his chair. "It signifies one of two outcomes: either she has abandoned her pursuit entirely out of despair, or she has secured an alternative, far more discreet avenue of attack."

The informant nodded respectfully. "Precisely, master. It means we can no longer track her intentions through her usual physical channels."

Caspian tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the armrest before offering a calm, measured response. "No matter. If she has devised a secondary strategy to strike at Duchess Sigrid, we shall simply construct a multitude of countermeasures to neutralize it. We adapt as the board shifts."

"Understood, sir," the informant replied smoothly. Reaching into the inner fold of his cloak, he withdrew a thick, leather-bound portfolio stamped with a dark wax seal. "Furthermore, the archival intelligence you requested regarding the late Duchess Beaufort and her ancestral connection to Noravelle has finally arrived."

A brief, subtle tension crossed Caspian’s features as he took the heavy dossier. His fingers lingered over the leather cover, but he made no move to unseal it. "My gratitude," Caspian said quietly, setting the portfolio face-down upon his desk. "I shall examine its contents alongside the Duchess herself when next we meet." Standing up, he smoothed the velvet cuffs of his coat, his demeanor shifting to absolute authority. "Remember our primary directive, not a single whisper of my association with the Silver Mantle is to escape this sanctuary. No one within the court or the provinces may ever learn that I command the guild."

"It shall remain strictly in the shadows, master," the informant assured, "though it remains Arkovia’s most formidable and feared mercenary brotherhood." A heavy beat of silence passed before the informant hesitated, taking a tentative step forward. "If I may speak freely, sir... the men are growing restless. If Duchess Sigrid’s presence continues to pose a strategic risk to your standing, we possess the means to eliminate her quietly. After all, her removal was our original contract before you saw fit to align with her house."

Caspian’s jaw tightened instantly, his gaze turning icy as he pinned the informant with a searing look. "You will refrain from entertaining such foolish thoughts," Caspian commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper. "If any among our ranks harbor wild notions of moving against the Duchess, you had best purge them immediately, lest you bring her wrath upon us all. She is not a figure to be manipulated or underestimated. I have pledged my house’s formal allegiance to her cause, and you shall honor that oath without deviation."

The informant bowed lower, his voice hurried. "Apologies, master. I merely voiced the sentiments of the inner council. Sir Gillian, in particular, remains displeased with our sudden submission to a woman’s political game."

Caspian frowned, his eyes flashing with sharp disapproval. "Does Gillian command the Silver Mantle?"

"No, master," the informant conceded quietly.

"Then his grievances are irrelevant," Caspian stated coldly. "Dismissed." The informant offered a final bow and retreated through the door, leaving Caspian alone in the quiet chamber. Left to his thoughts, Caspian let out a slow sigh, sliding the confidential portfolio into a hidden compartment beneath his desk. Buttoning his tailored coat, he muttered, "It is time to face the wolf’s den."

Descending the grand staircase, Caspian stepped out onto the cobblestone courtyard, where his private black carriage awaited. "To the royal palace," Caspian instructed the waiting coachman. The servant bowed deeply, holding the door open as the Marquess stepped inside. As the iron-rimmed wheels began their steady clatter over the stone roads toward the capital’s central district, Caspian leaned his head against the cushioned interior, mentally preparing himself for the political theater awaiting him at the castle.

Upon arriving at the towering gates of the royal sanctuary, Caspian stepped down from the carriage, his posture immaculate and unyielding. As he walked through the grand marble corridors toward the administrative wing, the familiar, low murmurs of passing courtiers echoed off the vaulted ceilings. A group of noblemen standing near an arched pillar snickered openly as he passed, casting disdainful glances at his fine attire. Caspian kept his eyes fixed forward, his expression serene.

Being born a bastard elevated to a noble title had subjected him to years of quiet mockery, but his recent announcement to run for the exalted office of Lord Chancellor had ignited an even sharper disdain among the pureblood aristocrats. They viewed his ambition as an insult, believing his blood too tainted to hold high office. Yet Caspian allowed their venomous gazes to slide off him effortlessly; the cruel words of strangers mattered little when he had already endured far worse within his own noble household.

Reaching the heavy oak doors of the Supreme Administrator’s quarters, Caspian offered three measured knocks. "Enter," a deep, authoritative voice called from within. Caspian pushed the door open, stepping across the threshold to find Lord Sebastian Crownhill and Marquess Tristan Bellamy already standing inside. Seated behind a massive mahogany desk littered with state ledgers was Lord Cedric Ashbourne, the King’s chief aide—an unbending, stern man whose permanent frown was legendary throughout the court, second in administrative power only to the King himself.

Caspian bowed his head respectfully. "Lord Ashbourne, I have arrived as requested."

Cedric looked up from his parchment, his stern eyes lingering on Caspian before gesturing slightly with his hand. "Rise, Marquess Warwick. A man of your standing need not lower his head so drastically in this office."

A loud, mocking cough cut through the room. Caspian turned his gaze toward Marquess Tristan Bellamy, who stood with his arms crossed, a look of utter contempt painted across his arrogant features. "Praise for a bastard?" Tristan sneered smoothly. "Pray do not indulge him, Lord Cedric. The concept of this man occupying the seat of Chancellor is entirely absurd."

Beside him, Lord Sebastian Crownhill chuckled in agreement. "Indeed. It strains the imagination."

Caspian offered no retort, his face remaining a mask of polite indifference. He had long since mastered the art of composure; reacting to petty barbs would only grant them the satisfaction they sought. Turning back to Cedric, Caspian smiled faintly. "Your words are most gracious, my lord."

Cedric inclined his head, stepping around his desk to face the three candidates. "The office of Lord Chancellor is one of supreme weight within the realm. The Chancellor oversees royal legislation, drafts official decrees, manages state archives, and advises the sovereign on critical legal matters. You shall be judged on intelligence, legal mastery, political experience, unyielding loyalty, and the breadth of your political backing. Nominations may be submitted by senior palace administrators or high noble houses of grand stature—including Dukes, Duchesses, or Viscounts."

Cedric paused, his stern gaze sweeping over all three men. "Furthermore, a formidable capacity for long-term strategic planning shall prove decisive. The candidate who secures the ultimate backing shall be officially announced before the high court in two weeks’ time. Conduct yourselves accordingly."

With the briefing concluded, the three men offered formal bows and exited the administrator’s office into the wide, sunlit corridor. The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, Caspian released a quiet breath, adjusting his collar as the lingering tension subsided. Lord Sebastian and Marquess Tristan stepped into his path, blocking his way forward with mocking grins. "We wish you the best of luck in the coming days, Marquess Warwick," Sebastian remarked, his tone dripping with patronizing sarcasm.

Tristan smirked, leaning closer. "Though I fear luck shall prove entirely useless to a man of such doubtful lineage and zero connections within the royal sanctuary." The two high nobles let out a shared laugh before turning on their heels, their heavy velvet cloaks sweeping behind them as they strutted down the corridor.

Caspian watched them depart, his jaw clenching slightly before he regained his absolute calm. As he resumed his stride toward the palace courtyard, he caught sight of a familiar figure approaching from the opposite wing. Countess Celestine Everhart glided past, accompanied by two attending maidservants.

Upon noticing Caspian, she offered a stiff, formal curtsey, her posture flawless. Yet, as her eyes met his, Caspian caught the faint, subtle tightening of her jaw—a momentary crack in her serene mask. Though she was once betrothed to his half-brother and maintained a polite distance from him, they never got close, Caspian knew full well how intensely she resented his inheritance of the main Warwick wealth and business networks.

As her sapphire dress disappeared down the hallway, Caspian paused near a tall arched window, his crimson eyes narrowing in silent reflection. Why is she so desperately intent upon destroying Duchess Sigrid? he pondered quietly. Her hostility runs far deeper than mere political ambition. Shaking the thought from his mind, Caspian turned back toward the exit. He had far more pressing matters to attend to; the intelligence regarding Duchess Beaufort’s past was safely secured, and he needed to deliver the findings to Sigrid without delay.