The appointment of Bordeleaux Duke Bodecrick as the third marshal was the result of careful consideration. First, Bodecrick was the only naval commander in Bretonnia, excelling in naval warfare. The second-ranking naval commander was none other than his son, Federmond. While the Seagod Fleet had officially declared allegiance to King Ryan, the knights and sailors of Bordeleaux's Seagod cult still made up the overwhelming majority of the fleet's personnel. This alone warranted a marshal's baton for Bodecrick.
Additionally, Bodecrick's duchy of Bordeleaux was the first Bretonnian province to embrace commerce, industry, and urbanization. With its prime location, excellent deepwater port, and naval base, as well as a significant number of free citizens, Bodecrick had long been a staunch supporter of Ryan. In fact, his commitment to Ryan's cause was second only to François'. Although the aging duke had recently focused on succession planning and grooming his son, the Seagod Fleet played a vital role in Ryan's campaigns.
Therefore, while Sulia, the Lady of the Lake, and Morgiana originally suggested placing Bodecrick as the fourth or fifth marshal, Ryan insisted on making him third.
With three marshals appointed, the ceremony moved on to the fourth.
"Luan Leoncoeur!" Ryan called.
The fourth marshal was none other than Luan Leoncoeur, stationed far away in Erengrad!
The hall fell silent, the air thick with intrigue as murmurs and puzzled expressions spread throughout the audience. Ryan allowed a small smirk to form at the corner of his mouth. Appointing Luan was a political maneuver. Though the two had once been rivals for the throne, their conflict ended with Luan stepping aside in a mutual compromise. Had Luan not voluntarily relinquished governance and committed himself to Erengrad, he might not have made it to fourth. Since he had done so, the fourth marshal position became a fitting recognition.
Luan's marshal's baton, medallion, and uniform were accepted on his behalf by his deputy, the Grail Knight de Lyoness, who would personally deliver them to Erengrad.
"Calard de Garamont!"
The fifth marshal was Calard of Bastonne!
This announcement was met with resounding applause and cheers. Now in his early fifties, Calard had recently been honored with the Supreme Order of the Lady and elevated to Marquess. As he ascended the stage under the spotlight, he appeared slightly bashful, bowing deeply before extending his hands to receive the large silver platter from the Lady of the Lake. He then bowed again, this time to the entire hall.
Calard's life had been riddled with tragedy. He lost his mother and sister at a young age. Just as he began to find his footing, his father was poisoned by his fiancée, and his half-brother fell to vampirism. Though his teacher, mentor, and friend Yules returned with his sister Annara—who had completed her training as a prophetess of the Lady—both met tragic ends. Yules perished in the battle of Lyonesse, while Annara took her own life. Calard himself had to slay his vampiric brother Belitus with his own hands.
Yet Calard never bowed to fate. His courage and deeds had earned him universal admiration, from the New World's Elves to the Lizardmen.
"May you live up to the title of Marshal, Sir Calard," Ryan said, nodding with a smile.
Initially, Ryan had ranked Calard as sixth in the private discussions leading up to the ceremony. The reasoning was straightforward: though Calard was a Grail Knight, his allegiance lay more with the Lady of the Lake than with Ryan. Additionally, Calard's strengths were skewed; his personal combat prowess far outstripped his strategic and logistical acumen. He had always served as a follower, and his only independent command had been the defense of Chantilon and the rescue of Erengrad—plans devised by others. Whether Calard could truly command at the highest level remained to be seen.
However, both Sulia and Morgiana, as well as the Lady of the Lake herself, strongly advocated placing Calard fifth. In the end, Ryan relented.
"Bertrand de Nottingham!"
The former leader of the Berjeillac Bandit Gang from Châlons Forest, now Taal's chosen champion, commander of the Old Guard, and Baron of Nottingham, Bertrand stepped forward to accept his honors as the sixth marshal.
Bertrand's steadfast loyalty to Ryan and proven independence made him a worthy candidate. During the Battle of Painful Marshes, Bertrand led a small detachment that routed a Beastmen horde and personally slew the Beastlord, even before Ryan's main force arrived. His combat skills, strategic mind, and loyalty were beyond question. Bertrand's appointment as a marshal was well-earned.
"Konstantin Konstantinovich Rokossovsky!"
The seventh marshal was none other than Konstantin Rokossovsky, a Kislevite general of Ungol descent. As commander of Ryan's newly formed First Guard Lancer Corps, Rokossovsky had a storied career and an impressive record of service. His exceptional leadership, unwavering resolve, and superior strategic skills had been demonstrated in numerous campaigns.
However, Rokossovsky's penchant for aggressive and risky tactics was both a strength and a weakness. His battle plans often relied on high-stakes gambles, requiring exceptional execution and unwavering trust from his superiors.
Rokossovsky ascended the stage to receive his marshal's honors. Bowing first to Ryan and then to the Lady of the Lake, he accepted his dual role as marshal of both Bretonnia and Kislev. Though he found the situation surreal, he understood how fortunate he was compared to the fate of his former Kislevite comrades.
"Roland Marshall!"
The eighth marshal was Roland Marshall, a veteran from Bretonnia's border defense forces. While both his loyalty and capabilities warranted scrutiny, Ryan included him among the Ten Marshals to appease the old knightly nobility and recognize his decades of service on the frontier. However, it was clear this recognition would go no further; Ryan had no intention of relying on Roland for significant responsibilities.
"Lucien!"
The ninth marshal was Lucien, as previously discussed.
"Davout!"
The final marshal was none other than Nicolas Davout!
This decision left the audience in shock.
Davout's military career was only a few years old, and he was already a marshal?
The room filled with whispers and raised eyebrows, and the applause was noticeably sparse.
Davout hesitated as he ascended the stage, clearly aware of the doubts surrounding his appointment.
"Opportunities favor the prepared, Davout. Do you know why I chose you?" At this moment, the Lady of the Lake spoke. Smiling gently, she beckoned Davout to approach. "It's your willingness to act, to step forward when needed. You're still young, Sir Davout. That's the primary reason I chose you."
"I'm not sure I can bear such a heavy responsibility, my Lady," Davout admitted, lowering his head in shame. "This honor feels too great for me. Surely there are more deserving candidates…"
"Are you not worthy yourself?" the Lady interrupted, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Take this title, and if you feel unworthy, prove to everyone that you can shoulder this honor and responsibility."
"Take it, Davout. You've earned it," Ryan added with a smile.
"Yes!" Davout knelt on one knee and accepted his honors without further hesitation.
The appointment ceremony concluded, and Bretonnia's ten marshals stood proudly before the assembled audience, basking in cheers and applause.
Meanwhile, a mysterious guest quietly left the banquet through a back exit.
The guest, registered under the name Robert von Kielermann, claimed to be a descendant of the legendary Count Robert von Kielermann, the Wolf Emperor's trusted lieutenant who had saved the Empire during the Skaven Wars and Black Plague.
The real Robert von Kielermann should have been dead for over a thousand years, yet he had attended the ceremony without anyone noticing his presence—a peculiar and unsettling occurrence.
"Decent enough," the mysterious figure muttered coldly, evaluating Ryan's appointments. "But not as good as Roboute. Davout should be eighth, Bertrand fifth."
"…Time to see my grandson."
As Ryan wrapped up the ceremony and prepared to return to his ducal castle for the winter, the first snow of the year fell across Bretonnia.
In the northern reaches of the Glamorogan County, near one of Ryan's earliest fiefdoms, the village of Redfish, a colossal figure clad in golden armor strolled through the snow-covered forest, holding the hand of a smaller, lively figure.
Four Custodes followed at a respectful distance, their faces uncharacteristically warm with mirth.
Behind them, clad in master-crafted dwarf-forged yellow-and-red armor and carrying two legendary battle axes, strode Angron. The Primarch's expression alternated between pride and jealousy as he watched the giant figure converse with his nephew. Feeling left out, Angron muttered to himself with his hands behind his back.
"Grandfather, does Holy Terra ever get snow like this?" the boy asked excitedly, straining to hold his grandfather's massive hand.
"It once did, long ago," the Emperor replied, his voice tinged with rare emotion as snowflakes settled on his black, neatly parted hair. "Not anymore."
"That's a shame! I love the snow!" young Devonshire said cheerfully.
"Hmm," the Emperor murmured, continuing to walk through the snow with his grandson.
"Grandfather, I recently went adventuring in Albion with Uncle Angron!" Devonshire said proudly, boasting about his exploits. "Uncle Angron fought trolls and swamp monsters, while I solved the Old One puzzles. Grandfather, Uncle Angron is so clueless with puzzles—he can't solve any of them! It's hilarious!"
"He's never been smart," the Emperor replied icily.
"@#￥%*&~!" Angron, overhearing the jab, scowled and grumbled under his breath. After a moment, he quickened his pace to catch up, clearly displeased. "You little brat! Next time, I'm spanking you!"
"Grandfather, let me show you how Uncle Angron acts!" Devonshire let go of the Emperor's hand and ran to a nearby tree. Using his small sword, he etched an Old One glyph into the bark. He then mimicked Angron's behavior, hopping around and pretending to be confused.
"Uncle Angron would stand here looking all serious and ask me, 'Boy, what do these symbols mean?'"
"Then, when I explained it, he'd say, 'Of course, I knew that all along!' Too fake, right? Hahaha!"
Even the Emperor, usually a stoic figure, couldn't suppress a faint smile. That was indeed typical Angron—proud and stubborn to the core. "Heh, accurate."
"Hahaha!" The Custodes behind them burst into laughter, nearly causing Angron to storm off in embarrassment.
"Who taught you all this?" the Emperor asked.
"Father taught me when he had the time," Devonshire replied earnestly, his young face clouding briefly. "But he's often busy with his campaigns. When he's away, Lileath and Aunt Olica teach me, though they're not as good as Father."
"What else has your father taught you?"
"Father also taught me how to blink-step! Watch, Grandfather!" Devonshire's face lit up as a psychic glyph appeared on his forehead. With a small "BOOM," he vanished, reappearing a few meters away. "Grandfather, look how far I can blink!"
"Reckless!" the Emperor's tone sharpened. Devonshire hadn't fully mastered the technique. Striding forward, the Emperor was about to speak when—
WHAM!
Two large snowballs smacked into the Emperor's divine visage, covering it in a frosty mess.
Devonshire stood grinning mischievously, his hands still dusted with snow.
For a moment, the Emperor froze, his expression inscrutable. Behind him, Angron and the Custodes burst into laughter.
"Catch me if you can, Grandfather!" Devonshire taunted, bolting away at top speed.
The Emperor: "…"
And so, amidst the season's first snow, a rare moment of familial joy unfolded in the serene winter woods.
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