Chapter 9: The Root and the Canopy
The morning sun over the Merania estate didn't bring hope; it brought a headache. With Baron Maximilian having ridden off toward Munich to haggle with the Wittelsbach grain merchants, Julian sat alone in the solar staring at the master ledger.
The math was a nightmare. 500 gold—the reward from his "System"—felt like a king's ransom in his pocket, but on paper, it was a drop of water in a desert of debt.
[System Notification: Financial Reality Check.]
[Sarcastic Commentary: Oh, look at those numbers. You're not just broke; you're 'historically insolvent.' 500 gold can buy you a very nice funeral, but it won't stop the House of Fugger from foreclosing on your soul.]
"Shut up," Julian muttered, rubbing his temples.
Lady Mathilde drifted into the room, her silk dress rustling like a warning. She leaned over his shoulder, her perfume—lavender and expensive ink—momentarily distracting him from the red ink on the page.
"Nobles don't fall to swords, Julian," she said, her voice a silken purr. "They fall to compound interest and the vanity of maintaining a lifestyle their ancestors could no longer afford. Every loan is a nail in the coffin of a minor house."
Julian looked up at her. "Then we stop the bleeding. We fix only what is essential."
Mathilde's eyebrows shot up. A flicker of genuine respect crossed her face.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +3 (Total: 47/100)]
For the next three days, Julian moved like a man possessed. He didn't spend the 500 gold on silk or wine. He summoned the local builders and farmers from the three remaining villages. He bought timber and stone, repairing the crumbling masonry of the manor's outer wall and fixing the leaky roof of the granary. It wasn't a palace restoration; it was survival. It made the House look presentable—a mask of stability for the neighbors.
Then, he locked himself in the archives. He reread every tax report, every expenditure from the last five years. He cut the "Luxury Spice" budget, fired two redundant footmen who did nothing but sleep in the stables, and redirected those silver groschen into the local economy.
Mathilde watched him from the doorway, a tray of tea in her hands. She had expected him to fold; instead, he was digging into the dirt.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +3 (Total: 50/100)]
"I heard a rumor from the village headman," Julian said, not looking up from a map of the Merania stream. "They're trying to build a 'Track-Way'—a series of wooden rails and heavy carts to move timber from the forest to the river more efficiently."
"A fool's errand," Mathilde remarked. "It costs more than it saves."
"Not if we fund the iron reinforcement for the wheels," Julian countered. "And I want to introduce 'Three-Field Rotation'—planting clover and legumes to fix the soil. More fodder for the horses, more grain for us."
Mathilde didn't fully understand the agricultural science, but she understood the look in his eyes. It was the look of a Lord who actually gave a damn.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +2 (Total: 52/100)]
She insisted on taking him to the local market to buy new clothes. "You cannot lead men looking like a beggar, Julian. Appearances are the only currency we have left." She spent an hour meticulously picking out a doublet of deep charcoal wool—somber but high-quality. She was pleased that he wasn't squandering the gold, even if she still didn't know where he had "found" it.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +2 (Total: 54/100)]
The next day, Julian walked the village squares. He took twenty men-at-arms with him—not to intimidate, but to show presence. He stood by the local wells, listening to the complaints about muddy water and broken buckets.
"I won't promise you a miracle harvest today," Julian told a group of weary farmers. "But I promise the wells will be cleared by sunset, and the taxes will be fair. We rise or fall together."
Behind him, Sir Gawan nodded approvingly. Mathilde, watching from a distance, felt a strange tug in her chest. The "Disposable Mob" was starting to look like a pillar.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +2 (Total: 56/100)]
The Weight of the Empire
That night, the solar was freezing. Julian was hunched over a parchment, trying to memorize the names of the Seven Electors—the men who truly held the keys to the Empire.
'System, give me the roll call,' Julian thought, his eyes burning with fatigue.
[System Interface: The Seven Pillars of the HRE.]
* The King of Bohemia (House Luxembourg): Ottokar. Cold, industrial, your ultimate rival.
* The Duke of Bavaria (House Wittelsbach): Otto. Aggressive and land-hungry.
* The Duke of Saxony (House Welf): Otto IV. The one who wants to relocate you.
* The Margrave of Brandenburg (House Ascania): Albert. A frontier warrior.
* The Count Palatine of the Rhine.
* The Archbishop of Cologne.
* The Archbishop of Mainz.
"The Luxembourg family wants gold, the Welfs want land, and I just want to sleep," Julian groaned.
Mathilde entered the room, her expression softening at the sight of his exhaustion. She walked over and pulled his head back against her shoulder. Before he could protest, she produced a sugar-bun and stuffed a piece into his mouth.
"Eat," she commanded. "You're thinking too much. A tired brain makes for a weak Lord."
"Mmph... aunt... I'm fine..."
"You are not fine. You are my cute, stubborn nephew, and you are going to break." With a practiced, gentle touch on a pressure point at the base of his neck—a trick she'd learned from a Byzantine diplomat—she caused his tension to snap.
Julian's eyes fluttered, and he slumped into her lap, finally claimed by sleep.
Mathilde brushed a stray hair from his forehead, her gaze lingering on his face. She picked up the budget reports he had been working on. "Rest, Julian. I will finish the ledgers tonight."
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +2 (Total: 58/100)]
[System Status: Attachment Tier Peak. Warning: She is becoming dangerously protective.]
The Shadow of the Greats
While Julian slept in Merania, a much colder meeting was taking place in the imperial hunting lodge at Nuremberg.
Four men sat around a map of the Mediterranean. Duke Otto IV of House Welf, King Ottokar of Luxembourg, and representatives from the Wettin and Habsburg houses.
"Spain is overextending in Sicily," Otto IV said, tapping the map with a ringed finger. "The Emperor is hesitant to call a full mobilization because of the grain prices."
"Then we use the buffers," Ottokar of Bohemia replied, his voice like grinding stone. "Relocate the weak. House Andechs-Merania, House Mansfeld, and the Leiningens. Send them to the southern borders. If the Spanish advance, they hit the 'broken houses' first. It buys us time to gather the real armies, and it cleans the northern registries of families that no longer contribute to the treasury."
The others nodded. To them, Julian wasn't a "philosophical lad" or a "budding man." He was a chess piece to be sacrificed to save the Queen.
The storm was co
ming, and 500 gold wouldn't be enough to buy an umbrella.