The Demon of The North-Chapter 145 - 144. The Second Decree

Borgia Imperial Palace

Roxanne first heard of Liselotte through her wife, Vivianne, about how she had decided to return to Rothschild after receiving Vivianne’s warning. Even though Liselotte despised both her brother and her mother for what they had done during her marriage to Dietrich de Erengard, it didn’t make it any easier to hear that the territory she once loved was being plundered and torn apart.

"I don’t want Rothschild," Vivianne had said quietly when Roxanne received the news from Mara through the communication orb, which remained lit as voices from Rothschild echoed through it. "I’m content just being your wife."

There’s no bitterness in her voice, no resentment, only acceptance. The reason Roxanne let her wife hear everything, the reason she asked Vivianne, is because Vivianne still carried Rothschild blood. She shared the same father as Valdemar and Liselotte.

However, Vivianne had long since severed herself from that name, from that house, and from the pain it carried. But Roxanne knew better. She understood that Vivianne’s indifference came from wounds that had healed crooked. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

With that understanding, Roxanne issued another imperial decree without hesitation. The magic seal burned bright as her authority pressed down upon the words, clear and unquestionable.

Temporary headship of the House of Rothschild is granted to Liselotte—full authority to act, to command, and to decide whatever is necessary for the territory’s safety.

-

Rothschild Estate

The decree arrived at the Rothschild’s estate with a magic scroll, when it appeared, its parchment materialized in a flash of pale gold light, settling into Mara’s waiting hand as if it had always belonged there. The seal of the empire burns faintly at its edge, warm and unmistakable.

The hall in the Rothschild’s mansion falls into silence by the time they see the magic scroll, knowing fully well from whom the scroll is coming. Everyone present understands what this means.

There are, after all, only two ways to name the head of a noble house. The first is tradition-bound, slow, and political, by the vote of the elders and the vassal families, weighed down by favors, debts, and careful calculation. The second is absolute. Final. Beyond appeal; an emperor’s decree.

And this scroll, glowing faintly in Mara’s grasp, is the second. Mara exhales slowly, steadying herself before breaking the seal. The parchment unfurls on its own, letters rising in elegant black ink that reshapes itself as she reads. Her voice, when she speaks, carries easily across the chamber.

"By the emperor’s decree," she begins, tone formal and practiced. "I hereby state that Liselotte de—" She pauses.

Just a heartbeat too long. Her eyes flick up from the scroll, sharp and assessing, and land squarely on her cousin. "Are you two married yet?"

The abruptness of the question ripples through the room like a stone dropped into still water. A few nobles blink, startled. Liselotte stiffens, caught somewhere between composure and shyness. Leonhart, standing at her side, looks almost amused despite the tension coiled through the air.

"Not yet," he answers calmly. "Soon."

Mara hums in acknowledgment, nodding once as if filing away a minor administrative detail rather than the fate of a ruling house. She adjusts her grip on the scroll, the magic responding obediently. "Very well."

She resumes reading, her voice firm once more. "I hereby state that Liselotte de Rothschild is granted the position of temporary head of Rothschild Viscounty, with full authority over military, civil, and territorial matters. This appointment stands until further notice is sent."

The words settle heavy and irrevocable. Temporary, perhaps—but absolute while it lasts. For half a second, the room remains frozen in stunned quiet. Then the air shifts violently.

Valdemar moves.

The change overtakes him in a surge of fury and instinct, bones cracking, flesh twisting as his human form is torn away. Fur erupts across his skin in a violent rush of motion, his frame expanding, warping into the towering shape of a full-bodied werewolf. Claws tear into the marble floor as he lunges forward, a snarl ripping from his throat, raw, furious, stripped of reason.

"How dare—!" He never finishes the sentence.

Mara moves faster. She steps forward without raising her voice, without changing her expression, and catches him mid-charge. One hand snaps out, gripping him by the throat with terrifying ease, her half beastman blood truly extending her strength. The impact wakes up the hall, banners shuddering, torches flickering.

Valdemar slams into the ground hard enough to crack stone. He thrashes, muscles bulging, teeth bared, rage burning wild in his eyes—but he cannot break free. Mara holds him down effortlessly, her grip unyielding, her presence overwhelming.

Her gaze drops to him, cool and unimpressed. "It’s the emperor’s decree," she says flatly.

The magic in the scroll pulses in agreement, the imperial seal flaring brighter for a brief, dangerous moment. The weight of the empire presses down on Valdemar’s struggling form, forcing the truth into his bones: the present is not a decision he can fight. Not with claws. He doesn’t react with fury. He even refrained from using blood.

Slowly, the strength drains from him. His growl fades into a low, furious rumble, then silence.

Mara releases him at last, straightening as if she has done nothing more than settle a minor inconvenience. She smooths her sleeve, then turns and steps forward, holding the magic scroll with both hands as she presents it to Liselotte. The parchment glows faintly, its imperial seal still warm with authority.

"Now," Mara says, lowering herself into a formal bow, her voice carrying a hint of dry amusement, "what is your first order as the Viscountess of Rothschild, madam?" The hall holds its breath.

Liselotte does not hesitate. She doesn’t look to Valdemar, still restrained and seething, nor to the nobles lining the chamber walls. Her gaze remains forward, steady and unflinching.

"Arrest anyone who has broken the emperor’s decree and endangered the empire," she says, her voice absolute.

The meaning is clear for everyone present. Valdemar is to be taken into custody, along with every accomplice who supported his plan to bring foreign orc vessels into Rothschild territory. Both the emperor and the empress themselves have already seen and verified the evidence. Denial and legal maneuvering are no longer viable options.

Valdemar’s snarl fades into something darker, colder. For the first time, realization dawns. Liselotte continues, her tone lowering but losing none of its authority. "Put my mother under house arrest."

A murmur ripples through the hall. She allows herself a brief pause, acknowledging the complexity of it. Her mother may not have orchestrated the plot. Valdemar acted on his ambition, reckless and unchecked. But negligence, silence, and willful blindness are sins of their own. Liselotte will not pretend otherwise.

Guards begin to move, their armor echoing sharply against the marble floor.

With Valdemar stand others, two heads of vassal families and one elder, faces pale, hands clenched, sweat gathering at their brows. They had spoken in favor of Valdemar’s plan and argued for opening the territory to foreign vessels despite the risk, despite the decree. Now the weight of consequence settles upon them.

"Lady Rothschild, you can’t do this to us," one of the elders protests, stepping forward, his voice trembling between outrage and fear. "We served this house for decades."

Liselotte turns on him sharply. "Yes, I can," she snaps, the restraint in her expression finally cracking. "And I am doing it."

Her voice rises, ringing through the hall like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Before Rothschild territory collapses under the weight of foolish decisions made by the previous head."

The moment they moved to restrain Valdemar, chaos arrived with coincidental timing. A thunderous thump shook the ground, followed by another and another, heavy enough to rattle the estate’s stained-glass windows and send dust everywhere.

The sound is wrong, too deep and too heavy to be cavalry and too uneven to be siege engines. Every head turned toward the iron gates just as a scream tore through the outer courtyard. Then the gates buckled.

Reinforced steel groaned like a dying beast as massive gray hands slammed into it from the outside. The hinges snapped with a shriek of metal, and the gates were torn inward, crashing onto the stone with enough force to crack it. Through the settling dust stormed figures straight out of nightmares.

Gray-skinned orcs poured into the estate. They’re enormous, taller than any Kaleindorian humanoid figure, their bodies thick with corded muscle hardened by a land that rewarded only brutality.

Their skin bore burn-scarred sigils and ritual brands, their tusked mouths split into savage grins as they scented fear. Crude armor of bone, iron plates, and leather hung from their frames, each piece etched with symbols meant to intimidate rather than protect.

In their hands were weapons that looked less forged and more torn from battlefields—jagged axes, spiked clubs, and blades still stained dark with old blood. Servants screamed and scattered. Vassals stumbled backward, pale-faced and shaking, their protests and arguments dying instantly in their throats.

Even the elders, who moments ago had been arguing over authority and blame, stood frozen, staring at the living proof of Valdemar’s folly. The orcs didn’t hesitate.

One of them laughed, a low, wet sound, and pointed a thick finger toward the mansion. Others followed, their eyes locking onto the women in the room with predatory interest. Their nostrils flared as they inhaled deeply, sensing omega pheromones, seeing a beta female, and feeling fear.

"Rich nest," one of them growled in a broken tongue, the words thick with amusement. "Good land. Soft prey."

Leonhart and Mara answered with a sharp whistle, loud, deliberate, and utterly lacking fear. There’s no anxiety in them now, only anticipation. Especially Mara. Ever since the empress had brutally eradicated an entire orc ship with her hands, Mara had been itching for a chance to face the survivors herself.

"Finally," Leonhart said, a grin tugging at his lips. He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. "Shall we proceed with the attack now, my dear?" He asks Liselotte, who’s nodded at him.

At his signal, one of the bird beastmen stepped forward at once, wings partially unfurling as she positioned herself protectively beside Liselotte. "Pardon me, Your Grace," she said, her voice respectful but urgent.

Before Liselotte could respond, the beastman carefully gathered her into her arms. Powerful wings spread wide, catching the air, and with a strong upward beat, she lifted them both from the floor. Liselotte didn’t protest. From above, she watched as the rest of Fenclade’s warriors surged forward, weapons drawn, while the Borgia elite knights moved in perfect formation to meet the orcs head-on.

Steel rang. Magic flared.

Valdemar staggered back, his mouth opening and closing without sound. His eyes are fixed on the creatures now standing within his ancestral home, the same halls his family had ruled for generations. The same halls he had sworn were secure. Now, he was filled with the very monsters he had invited in by casting a signal into the dark.

Reality crashed down on him at last.

Genevieve’s hand trembled at her side, fingers curling as fury and horror twisted her expression. In that moment, understanding struck her with clarity. This devastation and bloodshed is the true cost of her agreement. Not power. Not influence. But ruin.

From above, Liselotte saw everything.

She saw Valdemar’s shock, Genevieve’s regret, the orcs advancing with feral delight, and the defenders of Rothschild standing their ground with hesitation. Her gaze remained cold and unwavering, the last fragile remnants of familial attachment burning away as she took in the full measure of betrayal.

The bird beastman carried her swiftly toward the open air, wings slicing through smoke and shattered stone. As they passed beyond the broken windows and fractured gates, the sounds of battle swelled behind them.

Outside, the ground trembled. The fight begins.