Chapter 22: The Gilded Shackle and the Cardinal's Blessing
The interior of the Duke's carriage was cool, smelling of aged cedar and the faint, ozone scent of high-grade mana. Outside, the spires of Frankfurt retreated. Duke Schwarzberg sat across from Julian, his expression a mask of stony irritation.
"The Electors played a dirty hand, Julian," the Duke said, his voice a low rumble. "They used the Empress to sway the Emperor's sentimental side. To grant you a Viscounty with one hand and sign your deployment to the Italian meat-grinder with the other… it's a classic maneuver to bury a rising house in 'glory'."
Julian leaned forward, his mind already calculating. "The frontline, Duke. What is the move? Do I march alone?"
The Duke let out a short, dry bark of laughter. "Alone? You are my son-in-law. Emilia goes with you. She has been trained in the Academy; she is no wilting flower. And you will take that Aunt of yours—Mathilde—as her 'chief lady-in-waiting'."
Julian blinked. "Mathilde? As a servant?"
"Don't be obtuse," the Duke snapped. "Mathilde's house, an Italian branch of the Andechs line, went extinct decades ago. She is not blood-related to you, yet she holds the secrets of your father's court. She is politically indispensable. Taking her ensures your household stability while you're busy not dying in the borderlands. Just… try to keep your 'bloodline securing' private. I am a father, not a voyeur."
[System Commentary: Oh, so the 'Aunt' is actually a high-tier political relic with no biological barriers? How convenient for your 'foundation building'. Don't look at me like that; I'm just reading the metadata.]
"Duke," Julian said, ignoring the System's snark, "I won't fail her."
"See that you don't. The deployment is delayed by my decree for one week. Use it to marry my daughter and pack your steel. You'll need both."
The Grand Cathedral: A Political Theater
Seven days later, the city of Aix-la-Chapelle was paralyzed. The Duke had spared no expense. This wasn't a wedding; it was a mobilization of status.
The Cathedral of St. Mary loomed like a mountain of lace-carved stone. Inside, the air was thick with incense and the presence of the Empire's apex predators. The Duke of Saxony, the King of Bohemia, and even the Emperor himself sat in the front pews—the Emperor's presence a silent, golden weight that forced everyone into hushed reverence.
Julian stood at the altar, his high-collared white and silver doublet feeling more like plate armor than silk.
"Breathe, Master Julian," Sir Berengar whispered from behind him. "You faced a Count's fortress. A bride shouldn't be harder."
"The fortress didn't have a father who could execute me with a sneeze, Berengar," Julian hissed back.
Then, the doors swung open.
Emilia von Schwarzberg walked down the aisle, her veil shimmering with woven mana-thread. She didn't look like a 'Villainess' today. She looked like a queen reclaiming a throne. Beside the altar, Mathilde stood among the family, her grip on her lace handkerchief so tight the fabric was audibly groaning.
The Cardinal, summoned specifically from Milan to lend the rite an Italian legitimacy, raised his hands. The Latin flowed like honeyed lead—heavy, ancient, and binding.
"Do you, Julian von Andechs-Merania, take this woman...?"
"I do," Julian said, his voice echoing in the vast vault.
"And do you, Emilia von Schwarzberg...?"
"I do."
The consensus was spoken. The Cardinal traced the sign of the cross in the air, his rings catching the light. "By the grace of the Holy See and the witness of the Empire, I pronounce you bound. What the Heavens join, let no Elector put asunder."
[System Notification: Marriage Contract Sealed.]
[New Title Unlocked: Ducal Son-in-Law.]
[Affection Update: Emilia von Schwarzberg.]
[Current Level: 35/100 (Bonded Ally).]
[Note: Stop looking for the math, Julian. You're married. The 'game' just got real.]
The Secret Dowry
The reception was held in the shadow of the cathedral, a sea of silk and poisoned smiles. As the toasts began, the Duke stood to announce the dowry.
"For my daughter's comfort in the rugged south," the Duke announced, his voice carrying a dry irony, "I grant her a villa in the Tuscan hills, a carriage of reinforced oak, and the traditional jewels of her mother."
The Electors exchanged amused looks. Modest. Almost weak.
But then the Duke leaned in, his voice dropping an octave. "And for her protection on the road to the frontier, I provide a personal escort of 120 Schwarzberg 'Household Guards'."
Julian's eyes widened. These weren't guards. He saw them standing at the edge of the courtyard—men in blackened steel, carrying high-velocity crossbows and enchanted heaters. These were elite heavy infantry, a "modest" number that could break a charging cavalry wing.
"A generous gift for a daughter's safety," the Emperor remarked, his eyes twinkling with the knowledge that the Duke had just legally handed Julian a company of elite shock troops.
The Night Before the March
The festivities wound down into a tense, quiet evening. Julian found himself in the private quarters of the new villa, the weight of the day finally settling.
The door opened, and Emilia entered. She had shed the heavy veil, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. She looked at Julian, then at the maps of Italy spread across the table.
"My father's 'guards' are already integrated with your militia," she said, walking over and placing a hand on the map, right over Benevento. "They are loyal to me, Julian. Which means they are yours, so long as we are one."
"I noticed," Julian said, turning to her. "The Electors think I'm a sacrificial lamb. Your father thinks I'm a test subject."
Emilia stepped closer, the distance between them vanishing. She reached up, adjusting his collar with a lingering touch. "And what do you think, Julian?"
"I think," Julian said, his voice dropping, "that the 'Hero' Albrecht is going to regret leaving his flank open."
Emilia smiled—a sharp, beautiful expression. She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "Good. Because if you die in Italy, I'll have to kill you myself for wasting my time."
[Affection Spike: Emilia +3 (Total: 38/100)]
The moment was shattered by a sharp cough from the doorway. Mathilde stood there, holding a tray of wine, her expression one of polite, murderous serenity.
"The carriage for the vanguard departs at dawn, Viscount," Mathilde said, her eyes fixed on Emilia's hand on Julian's chest. "Perhaps the 'servant' should help you pack? We wouldn't want you to forget anything... essential."
Julian felt the temperature in the room drop twenty degrees.
'System,' Julian thought, reaching for a glass of wine. 'Can I trade the 120 elite guards for one day of peace?'
[System Message: Access Denied. Welcome to the Italian Arc, Lieutenant. Try not to get caught in the crossfire. Or the bedroom fire. Both look lethal.]
The Final Board
POV Shift: The Border of Italy
The vanguard of the Imperial Army began its descent through the Brenner Pass. 150 Merania family troops, 400 mercenaries, 100 Imperial regulars, and 120 Schwarzberg elites—a small but razor-sharp force led by a "Philosophical" Viscount.
Behind them, the Empire watched.
Ahead of them, the Spanish fire-mages waited.
And in the center of it all, Julian von Andechs-Merania realized the game had only just begun.
To be continued...