Chapter 83: Pettiness

"Report, Sir Lucas," Kaelus commanded, his voice tight.

Lucas had paused, spat onto the dirt near Kaelus’s boots, and continued sharpening. "Perimeter is secure, Your Grace. No anomalies. No threats. The only emotional trauma inflicted upon the camp last night came from the inside."

Kaelus felt a vein in his forehead throb.

He opened his mouth to reprimand the commander for his insolence, but a sharp pang of genuine guilt paralyzed his vocal cords.

Lucas was right.

He had made her cry.

He had been a cowardly, emotionally stunted fool.

So, the terrifying warlord had clamped his jaw shut and walked away, absorbing the insubordination like a whipped dog.

And that had opened the floodgates.

Once the knights realized that the Duke was too incapacitated by his own fatherly guilt to execute them for treason, the passive-aggression escalated into a military-grade campaign of pettiness.

During the midday halt, Kaelus sat at his folding campaign desk outside his tent, reviewing supply ledgers.

Sir Gallahan approached, carrying a magnificent silver tray loaded with fresh, warm, sweet buns, a crystal pitcher of iced fruit juice, and a single, perfectly sliced Star-peach.

Kaelus reached out, assuming the rations were for him.

Gallahan smoothly pivoted on his heel, bypassing the Archduke’s outstretched hand, and marched directly over to the plush velvet carpet where Seraphina was sitting.

"Your midday refreshments, My Lady," Gallahan announced brightly, his voice dripping with honey. "Prepared with the utmost care. Unlike some people’s tact."

Kaelus slowly pulled his empty hand back, staring at the back of Gallahan’s pristine white cloak. "Sir Gallahan. Where are my rations?"

Gallahan didn’t turn around.

He simply tossed a small, hard, stale piece of hardtack over his shoulder.

It hit the notes near Kaelus’s desk with a depressing thud.

"The quartermaster is prioritizing high-value assets, Your Grace," Gallahan said cheerfully, pouring Seraphina a glass of juice. "We must ensure the Lady’s delicate constitution is not stressed by inadequate nutrition. I am sure your superior Northern fortitude can subsist on field biscuits."

It was a direct, unmistakable insult to his face.

Kaelus gripped the edges of his mahogany desk so hard the wood began to splinter.

He was the Archduke.

He could summon a blizzard that would freeze the blood in Gallahan’s veins in a second.

He could strip the man of his rank and send him to the penal colonies.

But then he looked at Seraphina.

She was happily chewing on a sweet bun, completely oblivious to the lethal tension, looking so small and innocent in her navy wolf gown.

’I made her hyperventilate and almost faint from shock,’ Kaelus reminded himself, the memory of her purple, tear-stained face acting as an instant, absolute deterrent to his wrath. ’I guess I do deserve the hardtack.’

Kaelus von Nacht, the Sovereign of the Vanguard, picked up the dusty, rock-hard field biscuit, blew the dirt off it, and silently took a bite.

It tasted like compressed sawdust and shame.

By the third day of the ’Silent Strike,’ the knights’ passive-aggression had mutated into active, treasonous sedition.

It was evening.

The camp was settled in a wide, rocky basin surrounded by the jagged peaks of the Western crags.

Kaelus was sitting inside his command tent, the flaps tied open so he could monitor the perimeter.

He was trying to read a missive from the Imperial Capital, but his heightened hearing made it impossible to ignore the conversation happening around the main campfire thirty paces away.

Seraphina was sitting on a big, fur-lined log, wrapped in a thick blanket.

Surrounding her, leaning in close like conspirators plotting to overthrow a government, were Sir Lucas, Sir Boris, and Sir Gallahan.

"I am merely presenting a logical alternative, My Lady," Sir Gallahan was saying, his voice pitched low, but perfectly audible to Kaelus’s sensitive ears. "My ancestral family holds a rather magnificent estate on the Southern Azure Coast. The weather is perpetually balmy. We have sprawling gardens of citrus trees, crystal clear waters, and best of all... we have dolphins!"

Seraphina blinked, taking a bite of a roasted marshmallow. "What’s a dolphin?"

"It is a highly intelligent, playful sea creature, My Lady," Gallahan explained, his hands weaving a picturesque narrative. "They leap from the water. They click and sing. And most importantly, dolphins do not possess the emotional intelligence of a frozen brick. They do not brood in corners, and they would never, ever suggest mailing you to another province. If you were to, say, officially transfer your guardianship to the House of Gallahan, you could ride a dolphin every Tuesday."

Inside the command tent, Kaelus’s quill snapped cleanly in half.

Ink splattered across the Emperor’s official seal.

’He is trying to poach her,’ Kaelus thought, his violet eyes glowing with intense fury. ’My own commander is trying to poach my daughter with aquatic mammals sitting right under my nose!.’

"Dolphins are weak," Sir Boris interjected, his massive, rumbling voice dismissing Gallahan’s pitch entirely. The giant knight leaned forward, his single eye gleaming with earnest desperation. "The ocean is salty and wet. You do not need a dolphin, My Lady. You need the mountains. My tribe, the Stone-Breakers, resides in the high peaks. We are simple, honest people. We don’t read ledgers. We smash things with hammers and drink fermented goat’s milk!"

Seraphina giggled. "That sounds noisy."

"It is glorious!" Boris boomed quietly. "And if you come live with the Stone-Breakers, I will personally weave you a saddle, and you can ride a Dire-Goat. They have horns the size of broadswords. We will make you the Chieftain! A Chieftain does not cry because of emotionally stunted scumbags. A Chieftain orders the scumbag to be headbutted off a cliff by the Dire-Goat!"

Scumbag...

The word echoed in Kaelus’s mind.

The disrespect was a bit too much.

The temperature inside the command tent plummeted ten degrees.

The ink on his desk literally froze solid in its well.

"Both of your propositions are flawed," Sir Lucas interrupted, leaning against his broadsword, his scarred face looking incredibly serious.