Everything was unfolding exactly as Gwayne had expected. The news from the Southern Frontier had indeed unsettled the king and the nobles. The warnings of a resurrected hero from the Founding Age even pushed some into a quiet panic—but that was the extent of it.
Those who had never lived through the horrors of the Dark Tide— those who could not even imagine it—would not be moved by mere words. Even Gwayne's proof—swords and armor corrupted by unnatural magic—was not enough to spur them into drastic action.
After all, while magical corrosion of weapons was rare, it was not unheard of. It could not stand as irrefutable evidence that a second Dark Tide was on the horizon. Even Gwayne himself, with all his experience, could not swear it with absolute certainty. He had made a bold deduction, nothing more. He could not claim the end of the world was upon them.
High King Francis II had, in truth, handled the matter with reason. He could not—he dared not—place the entire kingdom on a war footing based on rumors alone. Even if he had wished to, the bloated, stagnant feudal structure of the Second Dynasty would not have allowed it.
Besides, even if the Dark Tide was truly returning, the real tide would not crash upon them for months—perhaps even years. And before that, there would be nothing but deceptive calm.
To rally the realm into full readiness without clear evidence would have been political suicide.
Even the mighty House of Moravien, in its heyday, could hardly have done it. The Second Dynasty today? It would be laughed off the throne.
Francis II could not even fully command his eastern lords.
And Gwayne understood this perfectly. He knew his own position clearly—a living relic, full of gravitas and symbolism, yet utterly powerless. The House of Seawright had fallen into ruin: no land, no soldiers, no wealth. Even their journey to the capital had been funded by borrowed coin.
In the cold, ruthless world of nobility, that was an embarrassment beyond words.
Thus, when Rebecca once again looked as if she might protest, Gwayne placed a firm hand on her arm and spoke instead.
"We have delivered our warning," he said evenly, turning his gaze to the king. "The rest is yours to decide."
"We will take your warning seriously," came the cold, clear voice of Duchess Victaria Everfrost. "Investigations will begin the moment this council adjourns. You shall be kept informed of all findings."
"Investigations, yes..." Gwayne nodded slowly. "That's all that can be done, for now."
Then he changed his tone:
"Now, let us move on to a more private matter— the affairs of the House of Seawright."
The atmosphere in the room shifted at once, growing tense.
"Relax," Gwayne chuckled, raising a hand. "Don't look at me like some ghost come to collect centuries of unpaid debts."
No one laughed. Not one soul understood his dark joke.
The silence was deafening.
Gwayne cleared his throat awkwardly and pressed on:
"I know what happened a century ago. Frankly, if I had been alive, I might have strangled that disgrace of a descendant myself. I have no intention of overturning what has passed. I seek only to reclaim what is rightfully mine— things that cannot be inherited."
The king and dukes exchanged quick glances. Their shoulders loosened, ever so slightly.
Gwayne had touched the most sensitive wound himself. He had acknowledged it, forgiven it—and was not here to demand restitution.
The tension ebbed, but caution remained.
For what exactly did Gwayne Seawright intend to reclaim?
By the ancient laws of nobility, all possessions, all lands, all titles of a lord were their personal property. And Gwayne Seawright had once ruled lands vast enough to rival half the kingdom.
Which "personal" belongings did he mean?
Francis II, a king honed by a lifetime of delicate power games, gave a faint nod, signaling calm.
"You need not worry," Gwayne said, reading their thoughts with ease. "Most of my possessions were passed to my heirs. That fool of a descendant squandered them. I have no intention of clawing them back."
He smiled faintly.
"I seek only what cannot be passed down—my Right of Eternal Conquest."
A murmur swept the hall.
Nobles glanced at each other, whispering behind raised hands.
The Right of Eternal Conquest. An ancient, sacred decree. A relic of the Second Exodus, when humankind had fled the wreckage of Gondor and carved new homes from the wilderness. A vow written into the very bones of every human kingdom—sworn before gods and elves alike—never to be rescinded.
The original decree had been etched onto a platinum tablet, enshrined in the temples of every nation. It was no longer active. It had become a symbol, a relic of pride. No one expected it ever to matter again.
Until now.
Shock rippled through the gathering. Yet beneath the shock, Gwayne caught glimpses of genuine relief.
He smiled inwardly.
Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.
He had flaunted his banners, worn his ancient sword openly, and marched into the capital like a storm. Every noble here had prepared for a demand far greater: the restoration of all the Seawright holdings, the overturning of old verdicts.
Instead, he asked for a right no one had thought would ever be claimed again.
It was like being prepared to defend a castle—only to be asked to donate a loaf of bread instead.
Of course they would agree.
Had he asked for this immediately, suspicion and greed would have snarled the deal. But now?
They would sign gladly, practically shoving the decree into his hands if it meant sending this ancient specter away satisfied.
The king and his dukes conferred briefly.
There was no real debate.
The Right of Eternal Conquest was still enshrined in law. It could not be revoked without risking the wrath of the elder races—especially the Silver Dominion of the Elves in the far south.
The Elves, ageless and maddeningly meticulous, had been among the witnesses. A platinum copy of the decree sat to this day in the archives of the Silver Dominion, bearing the Queen's personal seal.
And that Queen, who had been but a slip of a girl seven centuries ago... was still alive. Still ruling. Still very much capable of remembering the day she affixed her royal mark.
If Andraste dared deny Gwayne his right, he could simply sail to the Silver Dominion and claim new lands under their protection.
The embarrassment alone would crush Andraste's pride. The political consequences could be dire.
Thus, after a few murmured words, King Francis II and the Grand Dukes nodded their agreement.
But there remained one final detail.
"Within the bounds of the Kingdom," said Aemond Alfreid, the king's Prime Minister, rising to speak, "there is no longer unclaimed land suitable for habitation. Every field, every valley belongs to some lord or house. Beyond our borders, most land is either barren or claimed by others— save, perhaps, for the Dead Marches along the Gondor Wastes. My Lord Seawright, where do you intend to pioneer?"
"Bring me a map," Gwayne said simply.
A map was laid before him.
Gwayne frowned slightly. Even with the aid of magic—Hawkeye spells, Forest Senses, surveying enchantments—the map was crude, inaccurate.
Compared to the "satellite view" burned into his mind, this was little better than a child's scribble.
Still, he studied it carefully.
Overlaying the crude drawing with the memory of the true landscape, he found the place he sought.
He pointed.
"There," he said.
His finger landed on a region near the border of the Tevanyr Imperium— where the blighted Gondor Wastes met the jagged rise of the Black Mountains.
The Black Mountains—haunted, cursed, and half-forgotten.
The perfect place for a new beginning.