Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

“Old Calvin.” He seldom addressed the other man this way, “I’ve staked my entire life on you and your son.”

The candlelight flickered gently.

“Louis is guarding the northern gate, Eduardo is seizing power in the Holy City, while you are beside me, managing the treasury, the nobility, and those allies who might turn against us at any moment.”

Lampard paused, a weary smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t let me lose. If I lose, no one on this ship will survive, nor will the Calvin Clan.”

Duke Calvin’s shoulders imperceptibly trembled.

He bowed deeply, with even more reverence than when he arrived.

The elderly body nearly bent ninety degrees, and then he extended his hand, executing a standard and devout hand-kissing ceremony on Lampard’s hand.

“May Our Emperor’s glory forever persist.” His voice was hoarse, yet extraordinarily firm, “The Calvin Clan will surely present you with that Triple Crown.”

As his words fell, the Duke turned and entered the deep and lengthy corridor outside the secret room.

The candlelight extinguished one by one behind him; the shadow lengthened, eventually swallowed entirely by the darkness.

Inside the secret room, only Lampard remained.

He returned to stand before the massive map again.

The Southeast territory was still small, like a piece squeezed into the corner.

But in his eyes, those boundaries had begun to move, expand, and overlap.

He seemed to already hear the bells of the Holy City ringing.

On the white throne, the new Pope donned the Triple Crown.

And, backed by that supreme divine authority, he set off from the Southeast, sweeping over the divided Empire, across the continent.

The candlelight illuminated Lampard’s eyes.

There was no faith, only an emperor’s ambition.

…

When the Duke returned to the study, the night was already deep.

There wasn’t the ecstatic joy of victory, not even a sigh of relief.

Old Calvin almost dragged his body to the desk, sinking heavily into the chair.

This hurdle appeared to have been overcome.

But he knew better than anyone that this was merely a small nail temporarily holding up the impending collapse.

Everything hinged on a fragile assumption.

Eduardo must ascend the white throne.

As long as the bells of the Holy City do not ring in the name of Calvin, and the Pope’s crown falls on another’s head.

Then all the tacit agreements reached today in the prayer chamber will become waste paper overnight.

At that time, the Church Court will immediately tear off its gentle mask, Lampard will lose his divine cover, and the Holy Eastern Empire will instantly split.

Then it will no longer be a few sides vying but a true power storm that devours everything.

The desk was spread with the world map.

His gaze was fixed only on the north.

The Gray Rock Province, marked conspicuously in red, looked like a wound yet to dry.

Then he picked up the pen and wrote slowly this time.

No longer were there paternal reprimands, nor any elders’ counsel.

All wording was carefully stripped of emotion, leaving only naked political judgment.

“Since you want to be a lone wolf, guard your gate well. I’ll cover for you in the Church Court against the heterodox trials’ pretexts. And you’ll use your sword to secure a retreat for the family amidst the turmoil…”

This was a pact of equality, a cold understanding.

After writing the last word, the Duke stopped the pen and lightly tapped the desk with his fingers.

Once this letter is sent, the Calvin Clan’s last shred of “father-son affection” will be completely torn away.

But this is precisely what Louis wants.

And what his father ultimately acknowledges as the right approach.

The Duke rose and went to the window.

Under the night sky, the square outside the Imperial Palace was brightly lit.

On one side was the Golden Feather Flower Holy Emblem hanging high on the city walls, symbolizing the Church Court’s judgment and forgiveness.

On the other side was the Fifth Prince’s royal banner, flapping briskly in the night wind.

Divine authority and royal power.

Two flags flying side by side yet wary of each other, like two unsheathed knives.

The Duke quietly watched this scene, his eyes gradually growing deep and complex.

The corner of his mouth slowly curled into a self-mocking smile.

“Gaius.” His voice was light, as if speaking to the air, “Endowed with the greatest talent, bearing everyone’s hope, pushed to the forefront.

But ended up severely injured in the Nest battle, rendered a vegetative state. Buried together with the era as the Emperor vanished.”

The Duke closed his eyes briefly then reopened them.

His gaze shifted to a small land across the sea in the southeast corner of the map, marked with the Church Court’s Golden Feather Flower.

“And Eduardo. Sent to the Church Court country early on, as an insignificant pawn.”

“Yet now he’s stepped onto the sacred steps, called a saint. Just one more step forward, he can wear that Triple Crown, holding divine power.”

His gaze finally returned to the north.

Landed on the Gray Rock Province linked with the Northern Territory, covered in red.

“As for the eighth one… casually thrown to the Northern Territory back then, just for the Northern Territory Expansion Order. Actually raised a wolf that could truly feast on men.

Two major provinces, an iron legion. A name that needs no crown to command fear.”

He let out a low chuckle, looking at those two flags outside the window, his voice subdued: “The Calvin Clan… shall never fall.”