Duke Talbott, nephew of the late King Richard, had inherited not only Richard's steady and conservative disposition but also his indecisiveness. When he summoned his court ministers to discuss the latest developments, his first reaction was to exclaim, "He's here! His Majesty has appeared! How can he enter my duchy without my consent? Is this even reasonable?"
The duke's words left the court ministers momentarily speechless. Finally, Robert, the Duke's Minister of War, stepped forward. "My Duke, he is the King. He has every right to appear anywhere in Bretonnia. It is within his power as sovereign, and we lack the authority to oppose him."
"But how could he bring troops?" Duke Talbott hesitated, realizing his reaction might have been excessive. After all, as the king, Ryan had the right to go wherever he pleased.
"According to intelligence, Your Majesty is accompanied by only a small detachment of Old Guard soldiers—fewer than one hundred men," Robert said, looking somewhat embarrassed. "That hardly constitutes an army. A king is entitled to his personal guard."
As Sulia's intelligence had indicated, Duke Talbott was a modest and kind-hearted noble, albeit one rooted in tradition. Upon hearing his Minister of War's explanation, the duke opened his mouth as if to argue further but eventually fell silent. He turned instead to his Minister of Internal Affairs, Baron Edward.
"Edward, as a descendant of the original Grail Knight Corduin, and as the rightful Duke of Le-Angoulême, I ask you to answer me truthfully: Do we have significant support for our cause?"
"Please, speak plainly, my Duke," Edward replied, knowing that he could not avoid giving a direct answer.
"Nine-tenths of your direct vassals support you," Edward said, his words offering Duke Talbott some relief. "According to feedback from our envoys and messengers, at least 75% of the knights and nobility in the duchy are also aligned with you. They are opposed to the King's decrees limiting noble privileges and vehemently reject the idea of appointing governors."
"That's good. That's very good," Talbott sighed with relief. Though he harbored doubts about his own influence—given Ryan's overwhelming achievements—it seemed that when their interests were at stake, the old-guard nobility still rallied to his side. The duke picked up a map. "Now then, where is our King?"
"He is nearing Les Affreux. Baron Ottero of Les Affreux is a neutral figure; it is difficult to guarantee that he will face the King directly," Robert explained, pointing to the map. "However, there is good news. West of Les Affreux lies the Clément barony, where Old Baron Clément is one of our staunchest supporters."
"The key question, my Duke, is this: What do you intend to do?" Edward asked. "How will we handle the King and his Queen? Should we… consider the use of force?"
Duke Talbott hesitated.
As a traditionalist noble, he deeply resented many of Ryan's policies—elevating freemen, curbing noble privileges, establishing circuit courts, and forming the Old Guard from commoners. Even the appointment of governors infuriated him.
Yet, as a Bretonnian, he couldn't help but admire Ryan's dazzling accomplishments. The King had led the realm from victory to victory, from glory to glory. The transformations in Bretonnia under Ryan's reign were tangible and profound. Because Ryan had not yet resorted to force, Talbott was unwilling to escalate matters to violence.
After a long pause, Duke Talbott shook his head and muttered, "Issue the order: Do not resort to violence unless absolutely necessary. Bretonnians must not fight Bretonnians! Let Old Baron Clément send someone to expel the King from our borders. He has no room for negotiation with us—he must either accept our terms or refuse!"
"Yes, my Duke!"
Meanwhile, at Les Affreux
"Long live the King! Long live the King!"
Baron Ottero of Les Affreux stood in stunned silence, watching the scene unfold before him.
When he had first heard that King Ryan and Queen Sulia were approaching his barony with fewer than one hundred Old Guard soldiers and several hundred peasant militia, he had been overjoyed.
Immediately, he had ordered his personal guard and knightly retinue—about one hundred men in total—to muster and prepare.
But before Ottero could fully assemble his troops, the gates of the town had already been flung open.
"Long live the King! Long live the King!"
The town's garrison and citizens poured into the streets, gathering in droves and chanting their love for the King.
Farmers, craftsmen, merchants, shopkeepers, and freemen artisans—all joined the throng. Soldiers, and even peasants who had come to town to buy supplies, crowded the streets.
"It's him! It's really him—our King and Queen!"
"He's here! Long live King Ryan! Long live Queen Sulia!"
Ryan and Sulia waved to the townspeople and soldiers, their every movement eliciting cheers and tears from the crowd.
Without hesitation or debate, the garrison had thrown open the gates the moment they saw the King. People surged forward, tears streaming down their faces, with many veterans of past campaigns openly weeping.
This is our King! The King of glory, the King of miracles—who triumphed at Lyonnaise, Blackstone Keep, Eight Peaks, and in the Empire and Kislev!
"Long live the King!" Thousands of citizens raised their arms in unison, their fiery chants shaking the town's walls and echoing like a tidal wave toward Baron Ottero's castle.
There was no resistance, no hesitation—not even a neutral stance.
Baron Ottero was dumbfounded. How could it be that his people, his soldiers, and his town had fallen so swiftly and utterly to Ryan?
Now, Ottero's castle was surrounded by thousands of his own subjects. Even worse, the loyalty of many castle guards and young knightly squires was visibly wavering.
The answer was clear. Baron Ottero tore off his cloak and threw his plumed hat to the ground.
Rushing to meet Ryan, he knelt on both knees before the King, sliding several feet across the castle's grassy courtyard.
He would swear fealty to the King.
"Long live the King!" Ottero's shout ignited the entire castle. His personal guard and young knightly squires followed suit, dropping to their knees in unison.
"Long live the King! Long live the King!"
No battle, no negotiations, no speech from Ryan.
The army defected, the people rallied, and the nobility surrendered. The castle's banners were replaced with the tricolor flag and the sword-and-fleur-de-lis emblem of the King.
Ryan's forces grew like a snowball rolling downhill, expanding with each passing moment.
At Clément Castle
"Urgent news! Urgent news, my Lord! The… the tyrant has passed through Les Affreux!"
On the western side of Les Affreux, in Clément Castle, the news reached Old Baron Clément.
"Imbeciles!" the baron roared. He had been in the middle of planning renovations to his castle, including importing elven tapestries with backing from a Marienburg merchant, only to be interrupted by this unwelcome report.
"What does the King want?"
"Is he planning to break the foundational agreements of the realm?"
"Does he not know that the vassal of my vassal is not my vassal?"
The old baron's hands trembled as he read the message. He was acutely aware of his own limitations. Pacing the room twice, he finally sat down and handed the letter to a servant.
"Fetch Baldwin. Now!"
"Baldwin, my Lord? Your son?" The servant was astonished. "But didn't you order him barred from the castle?"
"That was before!" Clément bellowed. "Now, the tyrant is approaching my lands. Only the Lady knows what he plans to do to me and my family! Fetch Baldwin immediately!"
"Yes, my Lord!" The servant sprinted from the room, saddled a horse, and rode off at full speed.
Three hours later, Baldwin entered the room, fully armored and holding his knight's cross helmet. The knight's expression was solemn as he bowed before his father.
"You summoned me, Father?"
"Address me as 'My Lord,'" Old Baron Clément snapped irritably before handing the letter to Baldwin. "Read this!"
Baldwin took the letter and quickly scanned its contents. His eyes widened. "The King is less than thirty kilometers away?"
"He's coming for us, Baldwin," Clément said, seated and gripping his ornate amber-topped cane. "Do you understand? He's coming for us!"
"I don't see why. Perhaps His Majesty is merely touring the region," Baldwin suggested cautiously, reading the letter again.
"He's a tyrant, Baldwin! A tyrant!" Clément cut him off angrily. "What else does he do but make things worse? Look at him—surrounding himself with peasants, calling them his 'Old Guard,' giving knighthood to those lowborn scum. He allows mangy curs to dine in the lord's hall
, tolerates those wretched circuit judges on our lands, and seeks to uproot the foundations of knightly nobility! He has betrayed the agreements upon which our realm was founded!"
Baldwin remained silent, his expression conflicted.
Seeing his son's hesitation, Clément pressed on. "My son, surely you understand what's at stake if we fail to oppose him. The House of Clément has a history spanning a thousand years. Do you wish to see some peasant sitting in this chair one day? Will you allow our family to be driven from our castle?"
"This is ours. All of this is ours. Does not the blood of the Grail flow through our veins? Should centuries of family legacy be outweighed by a few years of peasant battles?" the father implored his son. "You admire him, I know. But remember who you are. You are a noble—a knight of noble blood!"
"I am your son, Father, and a member of House Clément," Baldwin finally said, his voice heavy with resignation. "I will… act for our family."
He looked as though he had made an incredibly painful decision.
"Good. Very good," Clément said with satisfaction, placing a bejeweled hand on Baldwin's shoulder. "Then I leave it to you. Take command of our forces. Confront the King and Queen. Tell them they are not welcome in Clément lands, and if they refuse to leave, drive them out!"
"Yes, my Lord," Baldwin replied, clutching his helmet and striding out of the room.
The castle was immediately placed on high alert. Troops were mustered, knights summoned, and even retired veterans were called to service. Over the course of the next day, Clément lands mobilized nearly all available forces—thousands of men, ready for battle.
The following afternoon, under the golden glow of autumn sunlight, King Ryan and Queen Sulia strolled hand in hand across fields of ripened wheat.
The scene was more akin to a countryside outing than a military campaign. Behind them marched a small contingent of Old Guard soldiers, along with a swelling crowd of freemen militia and the retinue of Baron Ottero.
Compared to Ryan and Sulia's relaxed demeanor, their followers were visibly tense.
"It's too quiet," Ryan remarked, holding Sulia's hand and smiling. "This isn't the baron's usual style. I expected them to meet us with a grand show of force."
"They will, trust me," Sulia replied, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "I know their kind. They won't sit idle."
As if on cue, figures began to appear on the distant hillside.
Lines of sword-and-shield infantry, spear-men, and archers took their places, herded into formation by shouting knights. Freemen soldiers in breastplates and leather armor stood in orderly ranks, while a procession of knights bearing the Clément family banner descended onto the plain, flanked by squires on horseback.
It was difficult to estimate their numbers from this distance, but it was clear there were thousands.
"It's the Clément forces," Sulia confirmed, recognizing the family crest fluttering in the autumn breeze.
The message was clear: they were here to oppose the King.
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