Chapter 6: The Root of the Matter and the Sleep of the Just
The tension in the Council Hall was thick enough to choke a horse. The Emperor Frederick II sat upon his throne, resting his chin on a gloved hand, his gaze sweeping over the sea of bickering lords like a man watching a play he had already seen a thousand times.
"Does any among the lower nobility," the Emperor began, his voice cutting through the noise like a guillotine blade, "wish to address this Diet? We have heard from the Eagles and the Lions. Is there a word from the... humbler creatures of our garden?"
Julian, who had been trying to discreetly reach for a pitcher of water to soothe his dry throat, misjudged the height of the bench. As he shifted his weight, his boot slipped, and he shot upward to find his balance.
To the rest of the room, it looked like a bold, sudden stand.
The Emperor's eyebrows rose. "Ah. A fine, energetic young lad. Who is this?"
An attendant hurried to the Emperor's side, whispering fiercely. "Julian von Andechs-Merania, Sire. The last sprout of the branch family after the Great Purge."
"Merania," Frederick mused, his eyes narrowing with a flicker of genuine interest. "The house that withered. Speak, boy. What does the ghost of Merania have to say to the sun of the Empire?"
Beside him, Julian felt Mathilde stiffen. Her hand clamped onto his thigh under the table, her nails digging in with enough force to draw blood. "If you say something idiotic, I will sell you to the Venetians," she hissed.
[System Notification: Favorability Spike!]
[Lady Mathilde +3%. (Total: 38/100)]
[Sarcastic Commentary: Oh, look at that. Nothing turns her on like the threat of public execution. Adversity is the greatest aphrodisiac for a political widow.]
'System, help me!' Julian screamed internally. 'I don't have a speech! I was just thirsty!'
[System Message: Initializing 'Bullshit Protocol: Philosophical Mode.']
[Guideline: Speak in metaphors. If they understand you, you've failed. If they find you profound, you live.]
Julian cleared his throat, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked at the Emperor, then at the Seven Electors, and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Julian began, his voice steadier than he felt. "The Heavens seek clarity upon our great Empire. You are the Sun, guarding us with a glorious march of iron will. And the Seven Electors... they are the pillars of the world, holding the sky so the peace may endure."
A few dukes leaned forward. It was standard flattery, but delivered with a strange, haunting intensity.
"But the forest is a complex thing," Julian continued, the System's prompts flashing in his eyes. "The canopy is majestic, reaching for the clouds. Yet, a tree is only as tall as its roots are deep. If the soil is parched—if the smallest stones are crushed too tightly—the roots wither. And when the roots wither, even the sun cannot save the canopy from the wind."
He paused, letting the silence hang. He didn't mention taxes. He didn't mention the Barony's debt. He let them fill in the blanks.
"As for the South," Julian added, glancing toward the Italian delegates. "Spain is the shore, and Italy is the tide. One cannot command the tide to be the shore, nor the shore to be the tide. The will of the Heavens is a principality unto itself. Let the waters flow where they must, so long as the vessel of the Empire remains buoyant."
He sat down abruptly.
The hall was silent for five long seconds. The Duke of Saxony looked at the Duke of Bavaria. The King of Bohemia (Luxembourg) adjusted his spectacles, looking puzzled.
"The roots and the canopy," the Emperor whispered, a slow, genuine smirk spreading across his face. "What a philosophical lad. He speaks in the language of the Divine, yet his feet are firmly in the dirt."
"What did he actually mean?" whispered a minor Count nearby.
"I believe," a Bishop replied sagely, "he was arguing for the preservation of the feudal contract through the lens of ecological stability. Truly profound."
Julian felt Mathilde's grip on his thigh relax. She reached up and pinched his cheek—not painfully this time, but with a lingering, stunned affection.
"When did you learn to speak in riddles, you little monster?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly with relief.
[System Notification: Threshold Reached!]
[Affection Update: Lady Mathilde +2%. (Total: 40/100)]
[Rank Promotion: 'Nephew' → 'Boy' (A budding man of potential).]
"I don't know, Aunt," Julian exhaled, his adrenaline crashing. "The words just... came to me."
The stress of the encounter, the lack of sleep, and the sudden drop in tension hit Julian like a physical weight. As the Emperor began the formal process of adjourning the Diet, Julian's eyes grew heavy. He leaned to his side, his head finding Mathilde's shoulder. Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers as he drifted into a shallow, exhausted sleep.
Mathilde froze. She looked down at the boy who had just survived the Emperor's gaze, now looking like a tired child. Her hand twitched, as if to pull away, but then her fingers tightened around his. She didn't move. She didn't even correct his posture.
[System Voice: I hate you.]
[Julian (Dreaming): I hate you too.]
[System: This is a tragedy. I am a high-tier management interface, and I am stuck with a grumpy old mob who sleeps on duty. If the Protagonist Albrecht were my partner, we'd have conquered Italy by now.]
[Julian: Shut up... you bundle of mess... get lost...]
The Aftermath: The Carriage Reveal
"The Diet is adjourned!" the Herald's voice finally broke through the haze. "Next session in one week's time!"
Julian woke with a start as the hall began to empty. He realized he was still holding Mathilde's hand and pulled away, his face heating up. She merely stood and straightened her veil, her expression unreadable.
They walked out of the hall, passing Albrecht von Habsburg, who was still busy explaining "Honor" to a group of swooning noblewomen. Julian didn't even look at him. He had bigger problems.
Once they were safely inside their carriage and the wheels began to turn, Mathilde looked at him across the small space.
"You spoke well, Julian. But speech is air. Votes are iron. How did you cast your ballot for the petitions?"
Julian leaned back, the shadows of Frankfurt's buildings flickering across his face. "I voted for the Sky Pirate Crusade."
Mathilde's eyes widened. "The Habsburg faction? Why? They are the ones who want to drain the treasury for glory!"
"No," Julian said, his eyes sharp. "I voted for them because they were the winning side. I saw the tallies in the eyes of the minor lords. If we voted against them, we'd be targets. By voting with them, we remain 'invisible' supporters of the majority. It keeps us off the list for the Italian relocation."
He looked out the window. "In this world, Aunt, it's better to be a silent winner than a loud martyr."
Mathilde stared at him, a slow, chilling realization dawning on her. Her nephew wasn't just "cute" anymore. He was becoming a predator.
[System Notification: Progress toward 'Survival' Route: 15%.]
[Gold Earned from Quest: 500.]
[Current Status: Exhausted, but alive.]
The carriage rolled on into the night, carry