NOVPUBThe Kingdom of Ruthenia was suffering from a devastating drought, but the northern regions were hit hardest.
Rayfold and Desmond, the regions with the largest agricultural production in the North, had imposed a total ban on grain exports.
In the already barren and impoverished North, this intensified the suffering. The central nobles were too preoccupied with their own concerns to offer assistance.
With starvation spreading and lords desperate for solutions, a rumor began circulating swiftly.
"They say there's plenty of food in Fenris."
"I heard they hoarded so much food for the immigrants that prices have risen."
"If that’s true, they must have surplus. We have to get some of that."
All eyes in the North turned toward Fenris.
Its young lord had an army that was far from formidable, making it an enticing target. Securing that food would be a lifeline in these dire times.
However, launching an attack on Fenris was out of the question.
"Damn it! That whelp has Marquis Branford backing him!"
"Lucky bastard! How did he manage to get that big shot’s favor with just cosmetics?"
"Why did the pro-royalists even accept someone like him in the first place?"
Behind Ghislain stood both Marquis Branford and the pro-royalist faction. Attacking Fenris would mean turning them into enemies as well—a risk no northern lord was willing to take.
Fearing self-destruction through war, the lords opted for a more diplomatic approach, deciding to negotiate.
For once, these power-hungry nobles were showing an uncharacteristic inclination for peaceful measures.
And so, emissaries from various territories and groups set out for Fenris, fully expecting their requests to be met.
“Given who his father was, he’s bound to treat us with respect. He’ll still need our support once the drought passes.”
"Exactly! The North is held together by bonds of loyalty. Honestly, Feridium has survived thanks to us!"
“With a shred of conscience, he should be bowing to us! Absolutely!”
The nobles spoke as if they'd been graciously supporting Feridium, although they’d given only the barest assistance necessary for survival.
Some had even ignored Feridium’s plea for help in the last war, but such inconvenient details had long slipped from their minds.
Yet their arrogant assumptions began crumbling the moment they arrived in Fenris.
Claude greeted the emissaries with a polite disclaimer.
“Unfortunately, there are far too many guests, and we have no available lodging.”
“Lodging... is unavailable?”
“Yes, but we have large, impressive tents prepared for your stay. Would you like to stay there instead?”
Claude’s words barely masked his boredom, sparking outrage among the emissaries.
“How can you treat us, the emissaries, this way? I have full authority from my lord!”
“This is an insult to both decorum and proper etiquette!”
“What a disgrace! Are you mocking our territory?”
Claude merely scratched his ear, showing clear indifference to their furious protests. After all, if there was no room, what was he supposed to do?
The small castle was already overflowing, leaving no available lodgings.
Initially, Claude had planned to give them the modest quarters used by servants, but Ghislain had opposed the idea.
— *"We can’t let our people suffer just to host these outsiders. If there’s no room, pitch some tents outside."*
With the lord's clear stance, Claude could only comply. Yet after listening to endless complaints, he was beginning to lose patience.
"Look, it’s not like I want this. We genuinely have no room. It’s like a famous restaurant with too many visitors. Why did so many of you come anyway? This is such a hassle."
Facing the indifferent steward’s defiance, the emissaries found no choice but to relent.
“Urgh... fine, we’ll make do.”
Those who had arrived late had to endure the tents pitched outside the castle walls.
With nothing but bare tents and uncomfortable beds, the experience was more agonizing than praiseworthy, making them curse daily.
Their bodies ached from the rough sleep, and Ghislain didn’t even meet them immediately, leaving them to wait endlessly. Furious at the indignities, they grumbled.
"The nerve of this brat, stockpiling food and forgetting his place!"
“He’s an insolent fool, ignorant of noble manners! Let’s see how far his arrogance goes!”
Despite their complaints, none dared to leave. There was simply no other place to source food, forcing them to endure their frustration.
After letting enough people gather, Ghislain finally summoned the emissaries to meet him all at once.
The great hall was so packed that only a few representatives from each party could enter, while the rest were left outside. Even with limited numbers, the hall buzzed like a marketplace.
Though seething, the emissaries hid their emotions as best they could.
Glancing around at them, Ghislain gave a relaxed smile before speaking.
“So, how much were you willing to pay?”
“...???”
The emissaries were taken aback by his words, spoken more like a merchant than a noble lord.
According to their original plan, they were supposed to blend persuasion with a hint of intimidation to squeeze as much food as possible from this young lord.
‘How on earth are we supposed to negotiate in this setting?’
‘Damn it! What price do we even start with? All these other fools must be here for food too!’
‘This is madness. It’s practically a bidding war!’
Deals between territories were usually conducted in private to avoid any future disputes. If other lords knew the terms, it could lead to endless comparisons and complaints.
But gathering them all together like this turned the negotiations into a competition.
In a brief moment of panic, a few emissaries exchanged glances and stepped forward, determined to regain control.
“Ahem, we come from the territory of Jimbar. We formally request food aid from Fenris.”
“A request, you say?”
“Yes. For years, we have provided substantial support to Feridium. Surely you cannot deny that Baron Feridium owes his success to our contributions. Now that we find ourselves in need, we ask for aid in kind...”
The emissary rambled on about the many ways they had allegedly supported Feridium over the years. In short, they were implying, *"You’ve thrived thanks to us, so it’s time to return the favor."*
Other emissaries seized the moment to add pressure.
“The North has always shared burdens together. Feridium has survived hard times with our help.”
“It’s your turn to show generosity, Lord Fenris.”
Each emissary echoed the sentiment, essentially declaring, *"You owe us."*
Their attitude, arrogant as it was, was less of a plea and more of an order.
The emissaries were used to wielding control in their dealings with Feridium. Though circumstances had shifted slightly, they expected to regain the upper hand in time.
After all, once the drought ended, poor Feridium would still rely on their support.
But that assumption crumbled under Ghislain’s icy smile as he responded coolly.
"Shouldn’t you be making that case to my father? I’m not the one benefiting from your ‘support.'”
The emissaries faltered momentarily before pressing again.
“But you are the heir to those lands. You will need our support in the future.”
“That’s right. The drought is temporary, but how will you manage afterward? Don’t ignore the bonds between allies. We share an ancient alliance, after all.”
“Are you saying you don’t need support? Without it, both you and the Count of Feridium will face hardships.”
With each word, the emissaries grew more confident, convinced that the young lord’s temporary upper hand was only fleeting.
Once the drought ended, could he really defend the North without their backing? With such modest production and military force? It was laughable.
As Ghislain met the emissaries' smug expressions, his voice turned cold.
“Strange how you speak of alliances and loyalty when you all turned your backs on us during the war.”
“....”
The emissaries fell silent.
To them, who controlled Feridium was irrelevant. They hadn’t been foolish enough to waste soldiers and resources in that conflict.
That was politics—something this young lord was too naïve to understand. Clearly, he was still bitter over old grievances.
Just as the emissaries prepared to respond, Ghislain cut them off with a surprising statement.
“20,000 gold.”
“What? Twenty thousand? Is that the price for the food?”
“No. Starting now, the territories that receive protection from Feridium must pay an annual defense fee of 20,000 gold. If any fail to pay, I’ll open a path for the barbarians to reach your lands.”
The count of Feridium would never allow such a thing, but the emissaries didn’t know that. They were left aghast at Ghislain’s declaration.
“W-What are you saying?”
The defense fee alone was outrageous, but threatening to open the roads to the barbarians? It was pure insanity.
‘Shouldn’t the defense fee go to Feridium, not him? Who does he think he is?’
Confusion and humiliation painted their faces, and they protested immediately.
“Impossible! We’ve provided enough support already!”
“Count Feridium is the frontier count. It’s his duty to protect the border!”
“That’s a mandate of the kingdom! He’s given benefits for that very reason!”
Despite their furious objections, Ghislain didn’t blink.
“Benefits, huh? And yet, you all ignored us when we were in danger.”
“That was due to circumstances...”
“Even a mere mercenary gets compensated. From now on, we expect fair payment for the sacrifices we make. I’m done letting you push us around with scraps of so-called ‘
support.'”
“How dare you...!”
“Enough. Keep talking, and I’ll end all food negotiations and send you away. Honestly, I’m quite charitable to even engage in this conversation.”
“Y-You!”
Faced with the threat of being sent away, the emissaries reluctantly fell silent, despite their inner fury. A few exchanged vengeful glances.
‘Just wait. Once this drought is over, we’ll make you pay.’
‘That whelp thinks he can throw his weight around because of the pro-royalists. Defense fees? Like hell we’ll pay.’
‘If we band together, we could starve him out slowly and make him regret this.’
They failed to grasp how quickly Fenris was advancing.
To them, it was just a small territory, barely fortunate enough to stockpile food due to the influx of immigrants.
Others, watching their misfortune, wisely chose to keep their complaints to themselves.
As silence returned to the hall, Ghislain smirked.
“Now, shall we start the auction?”
Before anyone could react, one of the emissaries raised his hand and shouted:
“Ten silver for a sack of wheat!”
The average price for a sack of wheat before the famine had been three silver. During harvest, it might drop to one silver.
Ten silver was an exorbitant offer.
Soon, other voices chimed in.
“We’ll pay eleven silver!”
“Twelve silver!”
“We’ll give thirteen silver!”
Driven by urgency, they each raised their bids, fearing that others might buy up all the food before they got their share.
Just as the hall turned into a chaotic market, a low voice interrupted the crowd.
“One gold.”
“...!”
The shocked emissaries turned to see a middle-aged man in a robe standing confidently with his arms crossed.
Ghislain's eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a cold smile.
