Chapter 252 - Tensions
Guifford Knottley stood at the broad window of his office, his calloused hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the errant signs of devastation marring Freybrook. His gruff face, etched with lines of exhaustion and disquiet, reflected in the glass as he gazed upon the occasional broken rooftop, charred dwelling, and shattered street below.
Count Hayden’s voice cut through the heavy silence from the communication device on his desk. “We’ve reached a consensus among us lords. We must petition His Majesty without delay. This situation cannot be allowed to deteriorate further.”
Guifford’s jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving his city. The ruin brought to it was enough to make his blood boil.
After a long moment, he turned and strode to his desk, his boots echoing on the old wooden floor. “Imposing additional burdens on our citizens at this point might be ill-advised,” he replied deeply. “While I agree that an imperial Security Edict is necessary, to a degree, aiding the realm shouldn’t come at the cost of further taxing those who have already sacrificed and lost so much.”
“You can only afford that sentiment because Freybrook weathered the storm better than Kilsfell and other cities,” Count Hayden said sharply. “Countless lives and homes have been lost to these attacks. Far too many are now left adrift and vulnerable, and it’s painfully clear that our current resources aren’t enough to shield them from this threat. We need to muster both funds and manpower to mount an effective counteroffensive against this blatant aggression. Even with the Imperial Diet’s support, only His Majesty can decree it.”
Guifford’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “Don’t lecture me on the stakes, Rawling,” he growled, his voice low. “I’ve witnessed the devastation firsthand, time and time again.”
“Then we have little left to discuss,” Count Hayden replied coolly. “I’ll take my leave, Guifford. We can speak again later.”
As the device fell silent, Guifford sank into his chair, the leather creaking beneath his broad form. His gaze drifted back to the window behind him, his mind replaying the chaos that had engulfed Freybrook just the day before. The armrests of his chair groaned under his tightening grip.
Reports from both Count Hayden and many others suggested that Freybrook had fared better than most during the attack. But the notion that Guifford should consider himself fortunate ignited a profound rage in his chest. One should never feel grateful merely because circumstances could have been worse. An injustice remained an injustice, regardless of scale, and accepting the opposite mindset only invited further injustice.
While the general populace still reeled from the assaults and still did not fully understand what had caused the sudden monster attacks, those in power harbored no doubts about the perpetrators. All evidence pointed unmistakably to the Tribe of Sin—and, by extension, the Hallowed Cabal—as the architects of this destruction.
The true mystery lay in how they had managed to marshal and control such a vast array of monsters, including dragons, for these coordinated strikes across the empire. The destruction wrought in a single day rivaled that of the dragon of devastation’s rampage eight years prior.
More than a decade had passed since Guifford last stood on the front lines inside any of the empire’s own cities. After a grueling day of united efforts among various factions—knight orders, mage towers, the Assembly, the Shields Guild, mercenary groups, and noble retinues—most cities had repelled the immediate threats by nightfall. While Wildscar and Ambercrest reportedly still grappled with lingering beasts, the reactivation of the Kilnstones this morning promised that would be resolved soon enough.