The ultimate goal of all this is to force Roland to speak up at the Snow Peak Conference, to make a collective voice for them and pry open the fortress of power tightly controlled by Louis.

"What we need is just a 'starting point,'" Brooke said earlier, "As long as Lord Roland speaks, the other nobles can effortlessly go along with it."

In their eyes, Roland wasn't a senator or a senior, but a stone.

They worked together to push it down the mountain, letting it crash open the doors to power. Whether it would be smashed to pieces was not their concern.

Now that "stone" has finally loosened.

Roland looked at the document on the table, his throat choked.

He knew that once this letter was sent, it would not only challenge the authority of the Red Tide but also anger the young and decisive lord.

But worse still, if he didn't send it, these "allies" sitting in the room would see him as a coward hindering the restoration of power, isolating him from the noble group.

They had already agreed, already voiced the same opinion, and had already laid out the plan.

And he was merely the piece placed in the center of the board.

A piece that had no choice but to move.

Roland's hand shook as he picked up the letter, as if he were holding a hot iron, not a piece of paper.

"I... I will try to send it... see his reaction."

At the moment the words fell, it was as if everyone in the room simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief.

Brooke's lips slightly curled, Sirius raised his chin, and Harris let out a low, mocking laugh.

No one forced him further, no one said more, precisely because they had long been certain that Roland would do this.

Viscount Brooke smiled, raised his hand to signal: "That's right, the future of the Snow Peak Conference depends on us to gradually win back."

The applause did not start, but everyone nodded.

No one mentioned danger, no one mentioned consequences.

At this moment, Roland understood that he was never their "representative."

Just an excuse for them to gain power.

As long as that letter was sent, they could righteously proclaim at the Snow Peak Conference: "This isn't my idea, it's Viscount Roland's suggestion, Lord Calvin please consider it carefully."

And if it really angered Louis, they could pat their chests and say: "We were merely seconding the motion."

After the serious matters were discussed, an air of relaxed yet shallow frivolity spread in the room.

Viscount Brooke was the first to laugh, propping up his legs and picking up a teacup, chatting about the post-war ball.

"After all, no matter how chaotic, etiquette cannot be dispensed with. If no one hosts the opening ceremony of the first post-war ball, the entire county would laugh at us 'refugee nobles'. "

Baron Harris let out a cold snort but agreed: "I've heard the nobles in the South are having a splendid time. Red tea, roses, and lace gloves, noble decorum should be regained bit by bit from the details."

"Do you know, Viscount Parlan's young daughter fell in front of three noble ladies at last month's winter feast. She was wearing an old-fashioned gown and dared to call herself of 'noble blood.'"

The group laughed lightly, diving into a round of low-level noble gossip.

Whose daughter eloped, which young master was in debt, who forgot their speech at a ball, and whose gift to the Duchess was a fake jewel.

These topics floated like light and ephemeral bubbles amidst the aroma of tea, laughter, and diagonal candlelight.

They exchanged cups, lightly folding their sleeves, as if they were still in the carefree banquet hall of yesterday, not in this borrowed council hall.

Even if they were clueless about wartime intelligence, they must be familiar with the intrigues among nobles, this was their familiar and proud world.

It doesn't talk of strength, or victory, only whose children are handsome, whose banquets are grand.

Even if they lost families and were forced to flee, they still tried to weave a facade with the golden thread of old, masking their humiliation, as if as long as the conversation stayed on etiquette and jests, they were still "true nobles."

Only that old duke – Roland, curled up in the corner, never joined the conversation.

His face was pale, as if he had just been chilled by the cold wind of a winter night.

But no one noticed him.

They had already used him up.

"Knock, knock, knock."

Suddenly, three measured knocks at the door seemed like an invisible hand, abruptly shattering the liveliness in the room.

The laughter stopped, conversation came to an abrupt halt.

The air seemed to freeze.

Viscount Brooke's hand trembled slightly as the raised teacup's rim tapped against the saucer with a crisp "ding."

Sirius instinctively reached for his waist, where a sword had once hung, but had long since been surrendered.

Harris's expression was the coldest, but his knuckles quietly turned white.

Viscount Roland even jerked from his chair, almost falling back, his mind's first reaction was:

Have our words been overheard?

They hadn't ruled out the possibility of "walls have ears."

The Red Tide Inspectorate had always been tight, whoever spoke a bit more in the tavern or complained about the ration allocation might be summoned the next day for a "talk."

They had long heard that Louis liked to plant "eyes and ears" in the shadows.

That young lord might quietly listen to every word you said in what you thought was the safest place.

"...Who is it?" Viscount Brooke tried to maintain his composure, asking towards the door with a voice pressed extremely low, as if praying it was merely a servant delivering tea.

What came instead was a slightly old, familiar voice.

"Sir, it's me."

Viscount Brooke was startled, then breathed a sigh of relief, slightly relaxing as he said, "It's my old butler, no need to be nervous."

He waved his hand toward the door: "Come in."

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