Steampunk Era: Mad Abield

Speaking of which, he raised his head to look at Malin, his face not tear-stained, but as resolute as steel.

"The people of the Northern Kingdom, generation after generation, face sacrifice head-on. In the face of the Tide of the Dead, Noble and serf die the same death. Maybe in the mouths of the Northists, we Nobles are placed high above, but have they ever considered why, after every Tide of the Dead, there are always numerous Noble families that come to an end... because these families have lost all their men and women, even children, to the battlefield," he said, unfastening a small metal flask from his waist, unscrewing the cap, and took a small sip.

"I understand," Malin knew what the old man wanted to say. Indeed, there had been some rumors in Copenhagen lately, because he was too close to Antoine, and the factions in the military that disliked Northism were somewhat displeased, but of course, they didn’t express this outright. After all, whether it was Malin or Antoine, both were fighting with all their might for victory in the war, and even if Antoine was a Northist, the military factions couldn’t possibly openly malign him.

But still, there were those among the Nobles who were very displeased with him, and sometimes Malin even wondered, when would the blade from his own ranks pierce Antoine’s back?

Therefore, after hearing what Keders had said, Malin also discarded his cigarette butt: "Have you come as a messenger of the anti-Northist faction among the Nobles to tell me this?"

"...No, Lord Malin." The old man shook his head. He unbuttoned his coat’s collar, showing Malin the small Northist badge that was hidden beneath the collar of his inner garment: "I sympathize with them, I’ve even donated money, you know. My wife died young, she couldn’t bear me any children, and I... I cannot forget her. She was the daughter of a small Noble family, with a younger sister and an older brother... I guess I am old friends with her brother, but last year, during the serf rebellion, his descendants all perished among the insurgents, with Casters and War Practitioners joining the serf rebellion. I know that those people are Northists... Your Excellency, do you see, is this the bloodshed and sacrifice that the Northists speak of?"

Malin lit a second cigarette in silence.

"I know, they also had no choice, serfs attempting to escape their servitude had no possibility of achieving it, only through rebellion could they harbor a glimmer of hope, but... I’ve seen too much misfortune, Lord Malin. I know with you here, we can definitely win this Tide of the Dead, our nation, Northists, Nobles, the royal house, all now stand together in the same trench, because we have a common enemy called Chaos... but what about after we achieve victory? I am of the third stair, as a high-ranking War Practitioner, I can still live for many years, and so I fear one day I may carry my children, pointing guns at those children’s fellow townspeople, at those children’s companions, even at those children’s brothers... oh mother of the Winter Wolf, why has this world become such a terrifying place..."

Old Keders gradually fell silent as he spoke, the elderly man sighing between Malin and the snowstorm.