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The logic didn’t add up.
"What does your succession ceremony have to do with Rubia?" I asked bluntly.
Not all cities carried equal weight. Influence varied by strength or reputation. The lord of Grassmere, the City of Weapons, was undeniably prestigious. Perhaps no noble could rival his standing in the South. Regardless, he was no emperor. Nor was he an imperial judge, appointed with royal authority. A mere lord had no power to hand down decrees binding by imperial will.
A declaration of support could mean something. But to Necron? A few words alone wouldn’t drive them away. And in the end, the ceremony was Chandler’s. What place was there to meddle in the succession of another city? Such interference would likely only breed scorn.
Yet the lord remained calm, courteous, his composure unwavering.
"Hah…" He chuckled softly. "In truth, the leading lady herself instructed me not to speak."
He was talking about Rubia.
"Not to speak?"
"Yes. She anticipated situations like this. She asked me, pleaded, really, not to say a word of her plans. Even to you, her benefactor. And how could I possibly disobey? She will soon be a peer in rule, after al...
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