After sending Loki away, Vig summoned his aides, instructing them to review every account from the past six months—every source of income, every expenditure—so that no one could accuse him of mismanagement later.
Sebert Stormwind hesitated before speaking.
"My lord… you've made up your mind?"
"I have. I've poured my effort into this, hoping to reverse the kingdom's financial collapse. But after six months of struggle, the truth has finally become clear: the royal household and the cabinet have no plan, no discipline—only spending whatever they can get their hands on. Even if I earn twice as much, it merely feeds their luxury. It means nothing."
In fact, Vig still held several powerful revenue tools in reserve—Jennie's spinning machine, seigniorage, state bonds—enough to support the kingdom for several more prosperous years.
But the tree's roots were already rotten. Sooner or later, it would collapse.
Since he could not save the whole forest, Vig resolved to secure his own survival before the coming storm of war.
The next morning, at the cabinet meeting, Vig publicly announced his resignation. The five ministers expressed regret—whether sincere or performed, no one could say.
"Gentlemen, it has been an honor. This seat is not one easily warmed. Leaving it may be a blessing."
With a stack of documents under his arm, he headed to the great hall—his resignation letter, and his six-month work report, prepared in two copies: one for the king, one for the cabinet.
"Your Majesty, Your Queens, my lords—
I took office in early February. It has now been six months…"
As the courtiers skimmed through the report, Vig recited the major tasks he had completed, speaking for nearly an hour. At the end, he swept his gaze across the hall.
"Before the gods themselves, I can declare without shame: during my tenure, I did not pocket a single silver penny. I have no need for such scraps. Unfortunately, my honesty has not improved the realm's finances. The decline continues. For the kingdom's sake, I resign."
He handed the report to the two queens. Ragnar's eyes grew complicated. After fifteen years together, he knew this man well—meticulous, exacting, with a Roman's obsession for order… and a pride too deep to disguise.
Judging from personality, the report, and Loki's private updates, Ragnar acknowledged the truth:
Vig had not embezzled anything.
Just like his predecessor, PPascal.
"Is it… that I spent too much?" Ragnar muttered to himself. "Compared to those nobles Paphes met in Constantinople, I am frugal—only two wives, and only eight sets of seasonal garments…"
After brooding for minutes, Ragnar finally asked:
"Who do you believe should succeed you as chancellor?"
"Goodwin."
A safe and predictable answer. As the second-highest civil official, Goodwin should have succeeded PPascal in the first place. With him stepping in now, only Horst would grumble; the rest would accept it.
Ragnar agreed. Goodwin would not achieve greatness, but neither would he bring disaster. Some clerks whispered that Goodwin occasionally skimmed a little, but Ragnar didn't care—nearly everyone stole a little, except PPascal and Vig.
PPascal had governed as a form of penance, hoping his service would persuade the king to protect the monasteries.
Vig, a proud duke who cared nothing for pennies, served only to pursue his own vision—a governance modeled after Rome and the Tang Empire, as if all other lands were crude imitations.
Ragnar sighed.
"You, a Viking brute… what's the point of all this?"
Then he rose from the throne and invited Vig for a walk in the garden. When they were out of earshot, he asked one final question.
"All these years, PPascal and I have taught Ubbe and Sigurd with care. The princes have had tutors their elder brothers never enjoyed. Vig—we have known each other fifteen years. Tell me plainly, before you depart: in your eyes, how gifted is my fourth son, Ubbe?"
Vig remained silent, watching servants trim the grass.
Kings love their eldest. Common folk favor their youngest.
How could a king of fifteen years still think like a village father?
From observation, Ubbe was a hot-blooded warrior with nothing in his mind but battle—worse than his three older brothers. Even Halfdan, the troublesome third prince, at least knew how to survive exile and rally berserkers to his banner.
Ragnar pressed on.
"And Sigurd—young as he is, everyone says his brilliance eclipses his peers. What do you see?"
Still, Vig stayed silent, though he sighed inwardly.
There are many kinds of talent: poetry, intrigue, warfare, accounting… So far, Sigurd shows little besides mischief and a knack for memorizing songs. He is frivolous and light-minded—unfit to rule. The one with true promise is the boy everyone overlooks—Alfred. Even combining the wits of the third, fourth, and fifth princes might not equal his.
Ragnar's expression chilled.
"I hear you judge knights and clerks strictly by merit. Yet when the question is the next king, you refuse to support the clever Sigurd? Is a wise ruler not preferable?"
Cornered by the king's relentless questioning, Vig finally spoke his true belief.
"And what is wisdom, Your Majesty?
Ask ten men, you will receive ten answers.
Wise or not—the princes themselves will not decide that fate."
With that, he bowed and returned to the chancellor's residence.
Soon after, Goodwin arrived for the handover.
Vig said, "Everything is in the report. The treasury holds 370 pounds of silver, 30,000 bushels of wheat, 10,000 of oats… In two months the harvest taxes will reach Londinium—you'll breathe more easily then."
"Oh, and—Ubbe is growing fast. The queen intends to commission full equipment for him. Counting the Damascus sword, it comes to nearly a hundred pounds. Delay it, if you can—wait until autumn. Otherwise a single unexpected event may leave you unable to pay the Royal Guard."
Goodwin flipped through the ledgers while listening.
Faced with over 20,000 pounds of debt, he could only groan,
"What are we supposed to do…"
Vig gave no answer.
The kingdom's finances were beyond salvation—deficit upon deficit. Worse still, the only lenders remaining were the Flemish merchants. If the crown borrowed from them, they would surely demand exclusive monopolies and privileges—cutting the state's revenue even further.
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