Chapter 200: EASTMARCH REFUSES
Several months before the meeting in Room 302.
The Tower of Babel stood at the heart of Dawnshroud like a giant needle piercing the heavens. From its peak, the entire city looked like a sprawling miniature—red roofs, winding streets, and a small river shimmering under the morning sun. In the distance, the eastern mountains loomed with peaks shrouded in eternal snow, acting as a natural barrier between Eastmarch and the Draconian Empire.
In her private study on the highest floor of the tower, Duchess Clarissa sat composed. The large window behind her allowed the morning light to flood in, illuminating her long silver hair and the deep blue silk gown she wore. Before her, a piece of parchment with a red wax seal—the official stamp of the Kingdom of Aethelgard—lay open on the blackwood desk.
Clarissa had read the letter twice. Its contents were brief, formal, and left no room for interpretation: Eastmarch was ordered to deploy its corps of mages to join the royal army under the command of Prince Leonardo. The target: Northreach. The charges: treason, the dissemination of demonic knowledge, and the assassination of Prince Marcus.
Before her stood a Knight of the Silver Eagle, standing tall and rigid. His silver armor glistened, and a royal blue cloak was draped over his shoulders. His face was young, perhaps not yet thirty, but his eyes held the sharpness of a trained soldier.
"Duchess Clarissa," his voice was polite yet firm. "King Edward himself sent this summons. The Kingdom requires the magical might of Eastmarch. House Lumuri has always been a loyal pillar of the crown. We trust you will not disappoint."
Clarissa set the letter down slowly. Her slender fingers brushed the surface of the desk, and for a moment, she remained silent. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm—too calm for someone who had just received a call to war.
"Eastmarch will not participate in this war."
The envoy blinked. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace?"
"You needn’t apologize. You are merely the messenger." Clarissa leaned back in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. "And I am delivering my answer. Eastmarch remains neutral."
Silence hung heavy in the room. The envoy seemed to struggle to process what he had just heard. "Your Grace... this is an official summons from the King. To refuse it means—"
"I know what it means." Clarissa cut him off, her tone unwavering. "I have lived for four hundred years, Sir Knight. I have seen kings come and go. I saw Edward ascend the throne when he was young and full of fire. I respect him. But respect does not mean I must send my mages to die for a war we did not start."
The envoy straightened his back. "With all due respect, Duchess, this is no ordinary war. Northreach has crossed the line. They have built an illegal army. They have allied with dragons. They murdered Prince Marcus. And worst of all... they harbor demonic weapons. The Church itself has confirmed it."
Clarissa offered a faint smile—one that did not reach her eyes. "Demonic weapons. Such beautiful words. Alexander was always clever at choosing terms to terrify the masses." She leaned forward slightly. "I have heard of these ’demonic weapons.’ Do you know what they are actually doing in Northreach? They are building machines. Machines that move without horses, machines that fly without wings, machines that light lamps without fire. That is not the work of demons, Sir Knight. That is the work of the intellect. Unfortunately, not everyone possesses one."
The envoy opened his mouth to retort, but Clarissa raised her hand.
"I will not debate theology with a royal messenger. It is unproductive. So let me clarify my position." She stood up and walked to the window, her back turned to him. "Eastmarch directly borders Draconia. Every day, my eyes are fixed to the east, ensuring those dragons don’t decide to fly west and incinerate my cities. That is my true responsibility. Not waging war against humans in the north."
"But Northreach is allied with Draconia!" the envoy protested. "That is precisely the threat!"
Clarissa turned, her eyebrows arched. "Oh? So because they are allied with Draconia, they are a threat? Humorous. Eastmarch has traded with Draconia for two hundred years. We buy dragon silk, they buy our mana crystals. Does that make me a traitor as well?"
The envoy fell silent. Clarissa continued.
"Northreach has never threatened Eastmarch. Lucian Sudrath has never sent an army to my borders. His son, Rianor, even purchases mana crystals from my mines at a very fair price." She paused. "Meanwhile, Highgarden has tried three times to raise trade taxes on the grain entering my territory. Yet, I don’t see the crown calling Alistair a traitor."
"Duchess, that is different—"
"Of course it is different." Clarissa returned to her seat, sitting with grace. "Because Alistair is on the winning side. For now."
Silence descended once more. The envoy swallowed hard. He knew he had lost this debate—not because his arguments were weak, but because he was speaking to someone who had lived long enough to see the recurring patterns of power.
"So... this is your final decision, Your Grace?"
"It is." Clarissa picked up the teacup beside her and took a slow sip. "Tell King Edward that Eastmarch remains loyal to the crown. But our loyalty lies in guarding the eastern border from the draconic threat. If Northreach truly allies with Draconia and they attack the kingdom, Eastmarch will be the first shield. That is our most valuable contribution. Not sending mages north to die in a war we do not understand."
The envoy bowed, deeper this time. "I shall convey your message, Duchess."
"See that you do." Clarissa waved her hand dismissively. "You may go."
Once the door closed and the envoy’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Clarissa let out a long sigh. She stared up at the high ceiling of her study.
"Edward... you used to be wiser than this," she whispered to herself. "Eleanor has truly poisoned you."
She pressed a small crystal on her desk. Moments later, the door opened again. Four people entered—the elders of the Tower of Babel. They were the most senior mages in Eastmarch, each leading a magical order. Their hair was stark white, but their eyes remained as sharp as eagles.
"Did you hear everything?" Clarissa asked without preamble.
One of the elders, an old man in deep purple robes, nodded. "We heard, Duchess. Eastmarch is neutral."
An elder woman with neatly braided hair added, "It is a wise decision. This war is none of our concern."
But the third elder—a thin man with thick spectacles—raised his hand slightly. "Duchess, forgive me. I merely wish to ask... is this not an opportunity?"
Clarissa turned, her brow raised. "An opportunity for what?"
"Northreach is under pressure. If we assist the crown, we could demand territorial concessions. The crystal mines on the northern border, for instance. Or access to the port of Isafjord. This could benefit Eastmarch in the long run."
Clarissa stared at him for a long time. "You think like a merchant, Ordo. That is not a flaw. But you forget one thing." She leaned in. "War never goes according to plan. You think the kingdom will win? Perhaps. But what if they lose? What if Northreach—with all their ’demonic weapons’—is the one that emerges victorious? What will happen to Eastmarch if we side with the losers?"
The elder fell silent.
"We will not take that risk," Clarissa continued. "Eastmarch will remain neutral. We close the borders. No troops shall pass—neither from the kingdom nor from Northreach. We will observe from a distance. And when the dust of war settles, we will still be standing. That is the true victory."
The four elders nodded. Even the one who had questioned her bowed his head, accepting the decision.
After they departed, Clarissa stood and walked to the balcony. The morning wind brushed her face, carrying the scent of damp earth and leaves. From here, she could see all of Dawnshroud—the city she had built over centuries, a home to thousands of mages.
She gazed northward. Far beyond the mountains and forests lay Northreach. There was Lucian Sudrath and his peculiar family. There were the machines that terrified the Church. There was a future she could not predict.
"I don’t know what you are doing, Lucian," she whispered to the wind. "But I hope you know what you’re doing."
She turned and went back inside. On her desk, a blank piece of paper waited. She sat down, took up her quill, and began to write—not to King Edward, but for her private records.
Eastmarch is neutral. Borders closed. No intervention. We shall see who is worthy of survival.
She sprinkled sand over the ink, blew it away, and tucked the note into her drawer.
Outside, the sun rose higher. The Tower of Babel remained standing, silent and majestic, siding with no one. And at its peak, a woman who had lived for four centuries looked toward the future with eyes that knew no fear.