The Black Mountains.
When Gwayne pointed to that place on the map, the entire hall fell into stunned silence.
The first to speak—unable to hold it in—was Grand Duke Baldric Farwynd of the Western Reaches.
His eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you... certain?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Gwayne answered with a faint smile. "Surely no one has laid claim to it?"
"No... not exactly," High King Francis II said, shaking his head. "The entire region of the Black Mountains—and even farther south—is unclaimed. It meets the requirements of the Pioneer's Decree. But that land..." His brow furrowed, "it borders dangerously close to the Imperium, and beyond it lies the Gondor Wastes. It is a perilous place."
The Black Mountains formed part of Andraste's southern frontier. Their eastern reaches extended deep into Tevanyr territory, while their western slopes ran along Andraste's southern border for hundreds of miles before bending southward into the poisoned earth of the Gondor Wastes.
Theoretically, even the plains beyond the mountains belonged to Andraste. In reality, the kingdom's effective control barely stretched to the northern foothills—and even that grip was tenuous. The reason was simple: The Wastes.
To this day, the Gondor Wastes remained shrouded in chaotic elemental forces and corrupt magic. Toxic storms periodically swept over the mountains, bringing deadly plagues of miasma and monsters.
Long ago, Andraste had tried to push southward. They had dreamed of reclaiming their ancestral homeland, sending wave after wave of settlers and soldiers into the mountains. But every attempt ended in disaster.
The poisoned winds and the hellspawn of the Wastes always tore apart their fledgling outposts apart before they could take root.
Eventually, the crown abandoned the effort, withdrawing all forces to the mountain's northern slopes. In the centuries that followed—especially after the disastrous Mistfall Uprising—Andraste's focus shifted ever northward, and the south fell into decline.
Today, the Black Mountains and the surrounding lands had become little different from the Wastes themselves. Even the plains north of the range had begun to wither beneath the slow, invisible tide of corruption.
But Gwayne simply smiled.
"I have faced worse," he said. "Perhaps I am no match for you in politics and intrigue, but when it comes to battling the wrath of nature itself, none of you have the right to teach me."
Whether it was true or not hardly mattered. He had said it with confidence—and confidence alone often carried weight among nobles.
Since Gwayne himself seemed so assured, none of the gathered lords and ladies troubled themselves further.
In truth, neither the High King nor the Grand Dukes particularly cared whether Gwayne Seawright succeeded or failed.
Their greatest wish was merely that this living legend—and the troublesome legacy he represented—would swiftly remove himself from the capital.
If he chose to stake his claim on a barren, cursed wildernness that no one else dared touch—then so much the better.
If decorum allowed, they would have packed him into a carriage and sent him on his way that very moment.
Now that the matter of the Right of Eternal Conquest was resolved, Gwayne deftly moved on to extract several "small, inconsequential" concessions from High King Francis II.
First: Gwayne Seawright's ducal title would be preserved, but it would exist purely as a personal honor. It could not be inherited by his descendants unless the House of Seawright successfully reclaimed and settled new lands in the South—or achieved other deeds worthy of ennoblement.
It was an awkward compromise. Gwayne's resurrection and his ancient title sat uneasily alongside the legal collapse of his house a century ago. No one dared strip the Founding Grand Duke of his honors. Yet they could not simply allow a fallen house to leap back to ducal status.
Thus, the solution: A title in name only, with the potential to become real once again—if Gwayne's heirs proved worthy.
Legally absurd. But who would dare quote legal precedent to a man who had clawed his way back from the grave?
He wasn't here to discuss law. He was here to make law.
Besides that, the royal family formally granted the House of Seawright full autonomy over any new territory it might claim—just as the ancient founders had once been granted in the wild days of the Second Exodus.
And with a few minor agreements finalized, Gwayne secured exactly what he wanted:
A sovereign domain of his own. A kingdom within a kingdom.
The terms had been agreed upon long before. When Crown Prince Edmund had visited Crown Street No. 4, the real negotiation had already taken place. Today's meeting in the Oaken Hall was merely for ceremony.
None present raised any real objection. After all, the Seawrights were not seizing land from any living lord. They were venturing into cursed wastelands no one else would dare touch. No threat to existing interests meant no true resistance.
High King Francis II even signed a formal Charter of Pioneering on the spot, declaring that the House of Seawright would possess the right to claim all land centered around the Black Mountains, stretching outward until it met the holdings of neighboring lords or sovereign nations.
The Crown would provide essential initial support: A contingent of one hundred workers—craftsmen, laborers, and mage acolytes. Along with the first year's supplies of grain and cloth.
The workers would be bound to serve for three years. Afterward, they could choose to stay or leave freely—but if they stayed, Gwayne's house would be required to pay the royal treasury thirty gold crowns per head.
It was not much, but Gwayne was more than satisfied.
Given his house's current state—destitute and landless—it was a godsend.
The treasures hidden in the mountain vaults might buy them wealth eventually, but gold and silver could not build homes, till fields, or guard frontier outposts.
The hundred workers—though few—would be the lifeblood of the new Seawright Domain.
It was, in the end, a gesture of goodwill from the king—a token of gratitude for Gwayne's public acceptance of the royal bloodline.
The negotiations were complete. Everyone left the table pleased.
And as with all such victories, a grand banquet followed.
The Oaken Hall was sealed, and the castle's grand banquet hall opened in its place. Tables laden with delicacies and fine wine circled the chamber. In the center, lords and ladies danced. Musicians played atop raised platforms, while mages stationed at each corner of the hall cast illusions, snowflakes of shimmering light, auroras that flowed like silk, flowers blooming in the air.
To Rebecca Seawright, it was nothing short of a dream.
This was her first time stepping into the true heart of nobility.
Until now, the most splendid celebration she had known was her sixteenth birthday—when her father had laid out a long table covered in food for a castle full of retainers.
That modest feast seemed laughable compared to the splendor of the Silver Citadel.
At first, Rebecca had tried to maintain a solemn and dignified air.
But soon, her wide-eyed, rustic wonder began to show.
She clung to Gwayne's arm, bombarding him with questions, and Gwayne answered with a smile, mixing fact, legend, and a generous helping of invention.
Naturally, her uncultured excitement did not escape the notice of the sharp-eyed nobles. But none of them showed disdain—at least not openly.
With Gwayne Seawright himself standing protectively by Rebecca's side, no one dared treat her with anything less than courteous smiles.
Later, several young nobles attempted to invite Rebecca onto the dance floor. Perhaps they thought forging a connection with the reborn House of Seawright might be advantageous.
Gwayne turned them all away without hesitation.
He wasn't about to let his thick-headed, steel-skulled descendant blunder into the scheming court of the Silver Citadel. If she could barely survive the backwater politics of the South, she'd be eaten alive here.
"Overprotection stunts growth, you know," a warm male voice said beside him.
Gwayne turned his head.
It was Grand Duke Baldric Farwynd, standing nearby—and with him, Grand Duchess Victaria Everfrost of the North.
"Perhaps," Gwayne shrugged easily. "But I died early, you see. Didn't have much time to learn parenting."
Baldric: "..."
Victaria: "..."
"And besides," Gwayne added, pointing, "even if I didn't block them, she's a little too... occupied."
He gestured toward Rebecca—who was currently hunched over a buffet table, shoveling food into her mouth with alarming speed.
"Truly... carefree," Baldric remarked dryly.
Gwayne chuckled, then turned his gaze toward Victaria Everfrost, the frost-blooded duchess standing silent and still at Baldric's side.
"I must say, Duchess Everfrost," he said lightly, "I have a few questions for your house as well."