Chapter 443 Nation

Morning came slowly, dragging with it a suffocating sense of unease.

A pale light crept over the Riley's mansion, illuminating sleepless faces and bloodstained courtyards that had yet to be fully cleaned.

The night's events weighed heavily on everyone's hearts.

Their numbers had dwindled—far more than anyone was willing to say out loud—and those who remained moved with guarded steps, eyes sharp and wary, as if danger might strike again at any moment.

Just as the household struggled to steady itself, the sound of hooves and armored footsteps echoed beyond the gates.

An unexpected visitor had arrived early in the morning.

The man who stood at the entrance was large, his frame thick with muscle rather than excess, suggesting years spent in battlefields and council halls alike.

His face was stern and weathered, carved by authority and discipline.

He carried himself like someone who had never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.

Every step he took radiated dominance, the kind that came from ruling others without question.

Flanking him were two massive knights, each one nearly as intimidating as the man himself.

Their armor was polished but scarred, bearing the marks of countless battles.

Their hands rested casually near the hilts of their weapons, not out of threat, but out of habit—silent reminders that violence was never far away when men like them were involved.

"Please let me speak with Duchess Monique Mason," the man said calmly to one of the mansion guards.

His voice was deep and steady, carrying a weight that made refusal unthinkable.

"At once, City Lord!" the guard responded immediately, straightening his posture and bowing before rushing inside.

No one in White Bone City failed to recognize that title.

This man was the most powerful authority in the city, second only to the ruling nobility above him.

To offend him was to invite ruin.

The City Lord waited without impatience, his hands clasped behind his back as his sharp gaze swept across the mansion grounds.

The knights beside him remained motionless, statues carved from steel and discipline.

About five minutes later, footsteps approached.

Monique emerged from within the mansion, her presence instantly altering the atmosphere.

She was a picture of elegance and grace, her movements smooth and unhurried despite the tension hanging in the air.

Morning light brushed against her features, highlighting skin untouched by age or hardship.

The moment she appeared, one of the knights beside the City Lord visibly froze before gasping softly, his eyes widening in instinctive admiration.

Monique was already well past thirty, yet time seemed to have treated her as an indulgent lover rather than a cruel master.

Her face retained the softness and beauty of youth, delicate yet commanding, while her eyes held a depth earned only through experience.

Her figure was slender and well-proportioned, carrying a quiet allure that needed no embellishment.

She did not dress provocatively, nor did she need to.

Every step she took exuded confidence and nobility, a natural charm that drew attention without effort.

Even surrounded by powerful men and armed knights, she stood unshaken, her posture straight, her gaze calm and assessing.

In that moment, it was clear why she was called Duchess—not merely by title, but by presence alone.

The courtyard fell into an uneasy silence as all eyes turned toward her, the weight of what was to come lingering thickly in the air.

Even the City Lord had to admit it—Monique Flint was truly sugar to the eyes.

Despite having seen countless beauties in his lifetime, something about her presence lingered in the mind.

It was not merely her appearance, but the quiet confidence she carried, the kind that drew attention without demanding it.

For a fleeting moment, the city lord found himself distracted, his thoughts drifting as his original purpose slipped from his mind entirely.

Realizing his lapse, he cleared his throat and coughed lightly, straightening his back as he forced himself to refocus.

"Please follow me inside, City Lord Keagan," Monique said, her tone polite and measured as she gestured toward the inner halls of the mansion.

Keagan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"I've told you more times than I can count—you may simply call me Keagan, Duchess Monique."

Monique paused for half a heartbeat before offering a faint, courteous smile.

"I doubt that would be appropriate, especially when you are here on official business, City Lord."

"Hmmm…" Keagan murmured, nodding in agreement. He had expected that answer.

The small group moved deeper into the mansion, passing through quiet corridors lined with stone and dark wood.

Servants withdrew at once, sensing the gravity of the meeting.

After two minutes of walking, they arrived at a secluded chamber meant for confidential discussions, far from curious ears.

Once inside, the doors were closed.

Silence followed.

Monique took her seat with effortless grace, folding her hands calmly before her.

"How may I help you, City Lord?" she asked, her voice steady, though her sharp eyes missed nothing.

Keagan hesitated. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair as he gathered his thoughts.

He had come here determined, yet now that he faced her directly, the words felt heavier than expected.

"I want you to stop your plan of intercepting the Iron Grip Savages," he finally said. "Do not meet them in the open. Let them advance toward us instead. If we remain behind our walls, they won't be able to break our defenses."

Monique listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable.

"I'm sorry," she replied after a moment, her tone firm yet calm, "but the plan has already been set into motion. We cannot withdraw now. If we do, every surrounding village under White Bone City's protection will be slaughtered before we can even react. You are responsible for them. You should come with me. Help me."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering.

Keagan closed his eyes and released a long, tired sigh.

The weight of command pressed down on him like a mountain. He knew she spoke the truth, yet knowing did not make acceptance any easier.

A full minute passed in silence before he spoke again, this time abandoning diplomacy.

"I can't. You'll lose. We will all lose," he said bluntly. "Your troops are exhausted. Their morale is shattered. Many have already deserted and fled back to their homes. They're afraid. They don't want to die for this city."

The words were cruel, but they were honest.

Monique did not flinch.

"It doesn't matter whether they return or not," she said softly. "Those who remain are enough."

Keagan's eyes narrowed.

"Confidence alone won't win this battle."

A faint smile touched Monique's lips—cold, resolute, and unshaken.

"This is not confidence without reason," she replied. "We are not fighting for glory or pride. We are fighting so others may live. And battles fought for that reason are never easily lost."

She rose slowly from her seat, her presence suddenly commanding the entire room.

"We will win," she said again, her voice firm and absolute.

For the first time since arriving, Keagan found himself unable to argue.

Something in her eyes told him this was no empty declaration—it was a promise.

And for better or worse, the path forward had already been chosen.

The City Lord continued to press his argument, offering alternative strategies, reinforcements, and defensive formations.

He spoke of walls, choke points, and attrition, of buying time until reinforcements could arrive.

Yet no matter how reasonable his words were, they failed to leave even the slightest crack in Monique's resolve.

She listened. She acknowledged.

But she did not bend.

In the end, Keagan realized there was nothing more he could say.

With a final, heavy sigh, he stood from his seat. The meeting had failed.

Their purpose there had come to nothing.

The City Lord and his entourage departed the big mansion soon after, their footsteps echoing through the halls as the doors closed behind them.

Outside, as they mounted their horses and prepared to leave, one of the knights finally spoke, unable to hold back his concern.

"What should we do now, my lord?" the knight asked carefully.

Keagan remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the mansion gates.

"The Duchess is absolutely certain," he said slowly. "Her confidence is unwavering. I don't know where she draws it from—or from whom."

He paused, his brows knitting together.

"Even her husband… strong as he may be, the 'Handsome Butcher' cannot possibly stand against thousands of Iron Grip Savages alone. Logic says this is a doomed endeavor."

And yet…

Keagan shook his head.

"Still, all I saw in her eyes was certainty. Not bravado. Not desperation. Absolute conviction."

The knight frowned. "Then…?"

Keagan straightened in his saddle, his voice firm once more.

"I'll dispatch a hundred men to accompany her today. Not as reinforcements—but as witnesses."

He glanced back one final time at the mansion.

"I want to see how the Duchess plans to win this impossible war." With that said, the city lord also hatched a plan of his own.