CHAPTER 89: THE DRUNKEN EMPIRE BLUEPRINT

[Leif’s POV—Continuation—Leif’s Chamber]

I stared at Sir Roland like someone who’d just been offered a dragon for tea and had to decide whether to drink it.

"Sir Roland," I said slowly, feeling the weight of every syllable.

"Yes, my lord?"

"You—want to go to war, right?"

He flinched and glanced away, posture tightening as if someone had whispered the word impossible behind him. "W-well, my lord... I merely proposed a solution. The rest is up to you."

I blinked. "You proposed annexing a village and called it a solution."

He swallowed. "Yes, my lord. A pragmatic solution. For the villagers’ safety and for Frojnholm’s strategic security."

"..."

. . .

I let out a long, theatrical sigh. The moral math of rulership, apparently, involved annexation and questionable euphemisms.

"If we don’t help Raventon," I said, letting the gravity settle in, "they drown. If we do help—without subtlety—the Velgard court will declare we trespassed. Either way, people suffer."

Roland’s jaw set. "Which is why we must be decisive. Quick aid first. Then a formal claim if necessary. If we show goodwill before we claim jurisdiction, we minimize resistance and casualties."

I watched him straighten—shoulders squared, voice steady. There was something in his certainty that made me trust him, even when the plan sounded like something out of a tactician’s fever dream.

"Can you really take it—secure it—without turning the whole region into a bonfire?" I asked bluntly.

Roland’s reply was quiet but absolute. "Yes, my lord. With precise units, medical teams, and diplomatic cover. We’ll make it look like salvation, not seizure."

I rolled the parchment between my fingers, feeling the weight of the choice. It was ugly. It was necessary. It was, somehow, mine to decide.

"All right," I said at last. "I trust you, Captain."

Relief flickered across his face—brief, human. He bowed once, crisp and professional. "I will not fail you, my lord."

I dipped the wax stick and pressed my seal into the hot red pool with a flourish that felt oddly satisfying. The seal cracked with a sound like a tiny proclamation.

"Write this," I told him, sliding the parchment across. "Orders for immediate aid: supplies, medics, and work crews. Then send envoys with a message of protection. And Captain—bring me good news."

Roland inclined his head. "Good news, my lord. Understood."

He smiled—small, professional—then stepped toward the door. I stopped him with one last burst of feeling I couldn’t quite swallow.

"Captain—"

He paused, hand on the latch. "Yes, my lord?"

"I don’t want to lose my people. Stay alive and be quick." My voice was louder than I meant; the courtyard felt suddenly too small for the worry in my chest.

Roland froze, then turned back slowly. For a long heartbeat he simply looked at me—no theatrical heroics, no false bravado—just the sober steadiness of a man who knows what it means to carry other lives on his hands.

Finally, a faint, tired smile broke across his face. He bowed once, low and sure. "You have my word, my lord. We will be careful. We will be fast. We will come back alive."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. "Do not make me regret trusting you."

His smile didn’t falter. "You won’t." Then, with the crisp click of a man on a mission, he left.

The door shut behind him and the sudden quiet felt heavier than the noise. Zephyy hopped up to my shoulder and pressed a warm, furry head against my cheek as if to remind me I wasn’t entirely alone.

I curled my fingers around the marble at my throat. It pulsed once, faint as a whisper.

Outside, Roland’s boots faded down the corridor—deliberate, steady, the sound of someone carrying a country on his back.

I let out a long breath and whispered to the empty room, more promise than prayer, "I hope we don’t lose any lives."

***

[Outside the Keep—Courtyard of Frojnholm]

The moment Roland announced the mission, the courtyard erupted like someone had set off a barrel of thunder ale. Knights cheered, steel clanged against steel, and my poor ears nearly resigned from duty.

They were excited. Very... excited.

"TO THE BATTLEFIELD!" one of them howled, raising his sword like he was auditioning for Most Dramatic Hero of the Year.

"CRUSH VELGARD!" another screamed.

Someone blew a horn three times too many.

And I stood there... blinking.

Zephyy whispered in my ear, "Master... are they usually like this?"

"I... don’t know," I muttered, watching a group of soldiers fist-bump like they were going to a festival instead of a possible bloodbath.

Baron Sigurd strutted over, arms crossed proudly. "Magnificent sight, isn’t it, my lord? Look at them! Burning with righteous battle spirit!"

I stared at the knights bouncing on their heels, practically tail-wagging for violence. One was sharpening his sword while laughing maniacally. Laughing.

I leaned closer to Sigurd and mumbled under my breath, "They’re excited to kill people?"

Sigurd paused... then cleared his throat very loudly. "Ahem—to protect our territory, my lord."

"...Right. Yes. Protection. Totally not murder enthusiasm."

Roland mounted his horse, armor gleaming and banner snapping in the cold wind. He looked like every heroic painting come to life... if heroic paintings had veins popping from stress.

He met my gaze across the courtyard and raised his fist.

"We ride for Frojnholm! For our lord!"

"FOR OUR LORD!!!" the soldiers roared back with terrifying synchronization.

I weakly lifted my hand. "Y-Yes... for me..."

The gates rumbled open. Hooves thundered. Armor chimed. And just like that—Roland and two hundred very enthusiastic murder knights with my crimson murder puppies charged into the snow-covered horizon.

The silence left behind was deafening.

Zephyy placed a tiny paw over my heart. "Master? You’re pale."

"I’m rethinking every decision I’ve made in the last twenty minutes," I whispered.

But then... a thought struck. A glorious, golden, money-soaked thought. I straightened slowly, a grin crawling onto my lips.

Zephyy blinked. "...Master, why are you smirking like a suspicious duke plotting tax fraud?"

"Hehehe... because I’ve realized something important." I tapped my temple like an evil genius. "If we truly take control of Raventon... we gain the most valuable treasure in the north."

Zephyy gasped. "Treasure? Gold? Gems? A holy relic???"

I shook my head dramatically.

"No, Zephyy... something far greater."

He tilted his tiny kitten head. "...Cheese?"

I inhaled deeply, savoring the dream. "Raventon is the ONLY village known for producing traditional beer and wine."

Zephyy stared. "...So?"

"So?"I slammed my hand down on the railing like an emperor making history.

"With their expertise, I will create—" I spread my arms wide, eyes gleaming. "THE FIRST-EVER BEER HOT-SPRING SPA!!! "

. . .

Zephyy’s jaw dropped. "A spa... with beer?"

"Yes! Imagine—tourists soaking in warm, bubbly happiness! And paying a fortune for it!"

Zephyy sparkled like a kid discovering sugar for the first time. "Master... that’s either genius—"

"—or pure, unfiltered madness?" I finished for him, lifting a brow.

"Yes," he nodded solemnly. "Both. Absolutely both."

I pressed a hand dramatically over my heart.

"Call it whatever you want, Zephyy. History doesn’t remember the sane ones. Innovation..."I spread my fingers like casting a spell. "...requires a generous sprinkle of insanity."

Zephyy dragged a tiny paw down his face, sighing with the weight of a thousand responsibilities."So my great and mighty master is planning an entire empire of... soaked, giggling, mildly intoxicated citizens?"

I leaned in, whispering like a shady merchant. "We. Will. Have. MONEY, Zephyy."

A beat of silence... and then—

His eyes lit up like gold coins in sunlight.

"MASTER!" he squeaked. "WE’LL BE RICH!!!"

I threw my head back, letting a villainous grin stretch across my face.

"Oh yes, Zephyy... oh yes..." I tapped the marble at my chest lightly, feeling its faint pulse. "Frojnholm’s future is booming."

The shadows in the courtyard flickered as if cheering for my greed.

Fear? Gone.

Worry? Who is she?

All that remained was one unstoppable truth:

Tourism. Wealth. Beer.

This lord? Has a plan—and it’s deliciously questionable.