Chapter 11: A Domain Under Temporary Rule
The dawn over the Merania estate did not break with a heroic trumpet blast. Instead, it arrived with the rhythmic, agonizing thud of a ledger hitting Julian's desk and the sarcastic chime of a digital voice that refused to let him sleep.
"Wake up, Young Master," the System droned. "Your father is halfway to Munich, your knights are waiting for orders, and your aunt has been awake for three hours looking effortlessly terrifying. If you don't get up, I'm marking your leadership stat as 'Liquid.'"
Julian groaned, pushing himself up. The room felt colder without the Baron's presence. For the first time, the "Temporary Head" title wasn't a joke—it was a weight.
ACT I: The Morning of the Acting Head
The solar was already occupied. Sir Gawan and Sir Berengar stood at attention, their weathered faces grim. In the corner, Lady Mathilde sat by the window, needlework in hand. She didn't say a word; she was a silent observer, a shadow of authority that Julian felt pressing against his back.
"Report," Julian said, trying to mimic his father's baritone. It came out a bit squeaky. He cleared his throat. "Report, Sir Gawan."
"The militia is assembled, Lord Julian," Gawan said. "But they're asking about the pay arrears. And the village headman from Silver-Stream says the bridge won't hold another grain wagon."
Julian's stomach did a slow roll. He looked at Mathilde. She didn't even look up from her embroidery. 'She's letting me drown,' he realized.
[System Notification: Social Pressure Detected.]
[Mockery: Look at them. They're waiting for you to cry for your mommy—or in this case, your aunt. Are you a Lord or a decorative rug?]
"I'm not a rug," Julian hissed under his breath. He turned to Gawan. "Tell the militia that half the arrears will be paid by sunset from the emergency fund I cleared yesterday. The other half stays until the bridge at Silver-Stream is reinforced. If they want their gold, they'll pick up a hammer."
Gawan's eyebrows shot up. Berengar actually smirked. Mathilde's needle paused for a fraction of a second.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +2 (Total: 63/100)]
[Status: Respect for autonomy rising.]
ACT II: The Weight of the Seal
The morning was a blur of administrative agony. Julian sat at the oak desk, reviewing the domain's vitals.
* Repairs: He approved the timber requisition for the manor's crumbling North Tower.
* Luxury Cuts: He signed a decree cancelling the order for Malmsey wine from the Mediterranean. "We drink local ale until the debt drops below a thousand gold," he muttered.
* The Mercy of the Lord: He postponed tax collection for the village of Raven-Crag. Their harvest had been blighted by a mana-storm, and taking their grain now meant burying them by winter.
* The Bribery Attempt: A merchant from the House of Fugger offered a "private gift" of fifty silver coins to overlook a discrepancy in the interest rates.
Julian looked at the coins. He looked at the merchant's oily smile. Then he looked at Mathilde. She was watching him now, her grey-blue eyes unreadable.
"Take your silver and leave," Julian said, his voice cold. "And tell your masters that House Merania may be broken, but we aren't for sale."
After the merchant scurried out, Mathilde finally stood. She walked over and adjusted his collar, her fingers lingering near his neck.
"You were soft on Raven-Crag, Julian," she whispered. "But you were right about the merchant. Next time, say less. Silence makes them wonder if you're planning to hang them."
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +3 (Total: 66/100)]
ACT III: The Domesticated Lord
By midday, Julian's brain felt like overcooked porridge. The ledgers, the history of the Hohenstaufen dynasty, and the complex laws of the Seven Electors were swimming before his eyes. He slumped forward, his forehead hitting the desk with a dull thud.
"That's enough," Mathilde's voice came from directly behind him.
Before he could protest, she pulled his chair back. She sat on the nearby divan and patted her lap. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command from a woman who had peaked her "Attachment" stat.
"Aunt, I have to finish the inventory recount—"
"The inventory can wait. Your sanity cannot."
Julian didn't fight it. He was too tired. He sat beside her, and as if guided by magnetic force, his head found its way onto her lap. The silk of her dress was cool against his cheek, and the scent of lavender acted like a soft reset for his nervous system.
Mathilde began to comb his hair with her fingers, her touch rhythmic and surprisingly gentle. She produced a small piece of honey-bread and began feeding him, piece by piece.
"This is... highly improper," Julian mumbled, even as he leaned into the touch, his arms instinctively wrapping around her waist. He buried his face against her stomach, seeking the warmth.
"Nonsense," Mathilde purred, though her heart was thudding a bit faster than usual. "It's perfectly normal for an aunt to dote on her exhausted nephew. It's... familial duty."
[System Notification: Warning.]
[Observation: Her 'Emotional Dependency' is rising like a flood tide. You're not being nurtured, Julian. You're being domesticated. You look like a very pampered, very expensive cat.]
'I'm okay with being a cat,' Julian thought, tightening his hold on her waist. He took a few liberties, shifting his head to get more comfortable, feeling the curve of her body.
Mathilde's hand paused. Her face flushed a deep, beautiful pink. "You're becoming very naughty, Julian. If you keep this up, I'll have to tell your father to arrange a marriage. I hear the Count of Mansfeld's daughter is looking for a sturdy boy to manage her mountain estates. She's... quite large. She likes to hunt bears with her bare hands."
Julian looked up, his eyes wide. "Aunt, please. No bear-hunting wives. I'll be good."
"We'll see," she laughed, her eyes softening as she leaned down, her lips brushing his forehead in a gesture that was far too lingering to be "just an aunt."
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +3 (Total: 69/100)]
ACT IV: The Shadow of the South
The peace was shattered by the sound of a horn. A messenger in the dusty yellow of the Imperial Post skidded into the courtyard. Julian untangled himself from Mathilde, trying to regain his dignity as he accepted the scroll.
The news was grim.
"Whispers from Frankfurt," the messenger gasped. "The Duke of Saxony and the King of Bohemia are moving the motion forward. The 'Relocation of Buffer Houses' is no longer a debate—it's a draft. They're looking for names to fill the list."
Mathilde's face went stone-cold. The warmth of the lap-doting evaporated, replaced by the sharp steel of a political widow.
"They're coming for us," she said, her voice low. "Spain is making moves, and the Great Houses want to throw us into the fire to see how long we burn."
"I won't let them," Julian said, gripping the scroll.
"Then this domain must not look weak," Mathilde said, her hand gripping his shoulder with bruising force. "You did well today, Julian. You proved you can lead. But the world doesn't care if you're a good Lord. It only cares if you're a dangerous one."
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +2 (Total: 71/100)]
ACT V: The Evening Decree
As night fell, the two of them sat together by the fire. The domesticity had shifted from seductive to somber. Mathilde helped him rewrite a decree for the militia, her shoulder brushing his as they leaned over the parchment.
The silence was comfortable, filled with the scratching of pens and the shared weight of a coming war.
"You're not ready to stand alone yet," Mathilde said, her gaze fixed on the fire. "But you will be. And until then... I won't let them take you."
She tried to pull her hand away, to return to her usual cold distance, but Julian caught her fingers. He didn't say anything. He just held her hand for a moment. She didn't pull back.
[System Notification: Threshold Update.]
[Status: Attachment → Emotional Reliance (Low).]
[Affection Final: 73/100.]
The Stinger
POV Shift: The High Council of Electors (Nuremberg)
King Ottokar of Luxembourg looked at a list of names. He paused at House Andechs-Merania.
"The boy made a speech," Ottokar remarked. "A clever one. About roots and canopies."
"Clever boys grow into troublesome men," Duke Otto IV replied. "Send them to the Benevento border. If the Spanish don't kill him, the mercenaries will."
POV Shift: The Mediterranean
Off the coast of Sicily, a massive fleet bearing the crimson and gold banners of Spain cut through the waves. The Admiral stood at the prow, his eyes fixed on the Italian mainland.
"The Pope can excommunicate the land," he sneered, looking at the distant shore of the Papal States. "But he cannot stop the fire. Land the vanguard. Northern Italy belongs to the Crusade now."
The first drop of the storm had fallen.
To be continued...