"It was likely the work of the northwestern nobles," Michael said.
"Among them, Duke Rochester is the most suspicious," added Capone.
They exchanged weary glances and sighed.
If even a single region's nobles were all involved, the country would be thrown into chaos.
"We were lucky," the Duke muttered. "Had His Majesty died… the consequences would've been catastrophic."
Many still disputed Astrid's claim as successor. The royal elders, in particular, remained staunchly opposed. Despite her being a direct heir, there were still those who believed a woman should not rule.
Their argument was that Astrid should marry another royal, produce an heir, and allow that heir to inherit the throne. Nothing more.
But Michael wouldn't sit idly by, and if those elders pressed too far, civil war could erupt.
The Duke sighed again, visibly disturbed by the thought.
"It's a miracle we avoided that."
Michael agreed with a nod.
"Indeed. Speaking of which, I've yet to see the king. May I?"
Astrid nodded without hesitation. To her, Michael was already family.
Duke Capone had no objections either. After all, with Astrid stepping into regency, Michael had no incentive to harm the king. If anything, it was in his interest for Charles V to remain comatose—it gave them time.
Michael entered the king's chamber.
He approached the edge of the grand four-poster bed and looked down at Charles V. The old man's wrinkled face and pale cheeks were stark, his sagging beard reflecting his frailty.
Michael reached out and gently held the king's hand. It was clammy and cold enough to send a chill up his spine.
Just as I thought. It's the same poison that was used on me.
Fortunately, the poison used on Charles V was identical to what Michael had endured.
He began to draw the foreign magic—the external sorcery—from the king's body.
Little by little, Charles V's pained expression softened, his ragged breathing becoming smoother and more regular.
This should be enough.
With this, Charles V's life would be extended by at least three more years—though he would remain in his current state.
It wasn't ideal for Astrid, who deeply respected her father, but for the sake of the greater good, it had to be done.
Forgive me, Astrid. Once you've consolidated enough power, I'll wake your father. Then he can peacefully step down and live out his days as the Retired King.
The poison, being a variant of lethal external sorcery, would ensure the king wouldn't regain the strength to rule. Even if he awoke, his body wouldn't allow it.
Now then… how to deal with those northern nobles…
Michael sat in the chair beside the bed, deep in thought.
If only they could self-destruct without triggering civil war—that would be the best outcome of all.
Duke Rochester paced his study, gnawing on his fingernails—a bad habit he'd broken as a child after many beatings from his late father, the former duke. But stress had brought it back with a vengeance.
Damn it… it would've been better if he had just died.
The news that reached him through spies in the royal palace was devastating.
Charles V had survived the poisoning. Worse, Grand Duke Michael had already arrived in the capital. Both assassination attempts had failed.
Just the thought of Michael riding into the city on his dragon-like beast sent a chill down Rochester's spine. Outwardly, he'd dismissed the young grand duke's martial prowess, but in truth, he had always respected—and feared—it.
He stopped in front of the portraits of his ancestors hanging in the sitting room. Most of the magical lamps had been extinguished, and their flickering shadows danced across the oil-painted faces.
Don't look at me like that. I did everything I could.
He turned away, unable to bear the accusatory stare he imagined in their painted eyes.
His gaze landed on the thick stack of documents atop the grand desk—each signed by nobles who had pledged support for the rebellion.
Grabbing the papers, he stepped out into the hallway, where groups of nobles were gathered, speaking in hushed tones. Their conversations drifted toward worldly concerns—fashions, estates, potential spoils of war—still unaware that the rebellion was already doomed.
Rochester had made his decision.
Even if he and every conspirator died, he would ensure the legacy of his house survived. His eyes shifted to the family crest above the fireplace—a silver-and-gold embroidered shield, symbol of House Rochester.
He thought back to the day he first inherited the title of duke. Those were happy days. A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.
"No matter what happens to me, the family must endure," he murmured, clenching his fist.
His own death—he could accept that. But the fall of his house? Never.
He moved to a tall bookcase in the sitting room and activated a hidden mechanism, revealing a secret passage. This private corridor had existed for generations, meant to store the family's secrets and serve as an escape route.
There, he had stored emergency gold, essential documents, and a single sealed letter written in his own hand.
Straightening his attire with deliberate care, he returned to the room where the other nobles waited. They turned to him with anticipation.
"Well? Has it been done?"
"Was the king killed? And the grand duke too?"
Their eager faces stared at him, hanging on his every word.
Duke Rochester smiled coolly and replied, "All has gone according to plan. Now, we must prepare to engage the royal forces. The time for battle is nearly upon us."
Relieved, the nobles exhaled loudly and began exchanging excited glances. Though they had some informants in the capital, none had the reach that Rochester possessed. They were still completely unaware of the truth.
He continued his lie with practiced ease. If they found out the plan had already failed, panic would erupt, and the rebellion would collapse before it even began.
He forced himself to speak calmly, evenly.
"Prepare yourselves. In one hour, we gather in the training grounds. I will meet you there."
The nobles filed out of the room with bright, hopeful expressions.