Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 311 The Death of the Duke of Edmund

The nights in the North were bitterly cold, and the towers of Frostspear City were shrouded in snow and wind.

Inside the study, a dim candle flickered, casting dappled light and shadow on the heavy curtains.

The Duke of Edmund sat in that familiar high-backed chair, wrapped in a thick blanket, yet his fingers still trembled slightly.

His figure was gaunt and bare, a far cry from the imposing, city-wall-like figure he had been a few months ago.

He slowly poured the bottle of black medicine into his wine glass. The bitterness and potency mingled together, and he drank it all in one gulp. A knife-like burning sensation spiraled down his spine.

Edmund, however, did not frown at all, but simply looked silently at the opposite wall.

There was a map of the North, a family genealogy, and three portraits.

Father Beltran fought tirelessly for seven days and nights, battling the three Snow Oath Elders to the very end, his spear still clutched in his hand until his death.

The elder brother, Auden, was gentle and taciturn, but during the barbarian invasion, he used his last bit of fighting spirit to detonate the enemy leader in order to cover the main army.

The eldest son, Meck, died in the Great Rebellion. A traitor detonated a magic bomb, turning the entire battle arena to ashes, leaving not even ashes behind.

Edmund closed his eyes, and scenes of memories that had long since faded floated into his mind.

He was young then, full of vigor, standing atop the Frosthalberd Tower clad in silver armor, and once angrily rebuked his elder brother Auden.

"Leave the task of drawing the enemy's troops to me! The honor of our family cannot be extinguished in your hands!"

The elder brother remained silent, and finally led his cavalry up the mountain ridge until his figure disappeared into the rolling flames of war.

After that night, he took up the Frost Iron Sword and the fate of the entire North.

But now, looking back on his thirty years of guarding the border, what he sees is:
The city walls crumbled during the Great Rebellion, the council hall burned down by the Red Oath madmen, the Northern civil officials who were skinned and hanged, and the knights who ultimately froze to death in the Snow Valley.

He also saw the city, crawling with corrupted demonic energy, after the plague of insect corpses, and the trembling backs of parents burying their sick and dead children in the snow.

He personally ordered the burning of seventeen towns in the plague-stricken area to prevent the further spread of the insect plague, and he also personally signed a "survival code" that kept tens of thousands of refugees out.

Finally, there was the enemy army that surged in like a tide after the barbarians underwent a complete transformation.

Frost behemoths covered in bone spurs, vine-bound barbarians burning with fury, and frost giants roaring and howling beneath the sky.

The North... became a graveyard for countless people.

Edmund slowly opened his eyes; the pain had not subsided and had even intensified.

He looked at the old painting hanging on the wall, in which a blond, blue-eyed middle-aged man stood back to back with him on the battlefield, with a burning snowfield behind them.

Ernst August, at that time he had not yet become the emperor of the empire.

I was only fourteen years old at the time, and I went to war against the barbarian cold plains alongside August.

August patted him on the shoulder and said, "You are the future shield of the North."

He remembered those words for the rest of his life and guarded the northern border for the empire for the rest of his life.

But in the last decade, he began to wonder if he and the Edmund family were outcasts of the empire.

While food aid to the capital was slow to arrive, military supplies were repeatedly cut, and the number of dead in the north piled up like snowdrifts, the capital was busy fighting for power and dividing up the leadership.

Edmund understood that they never intended to save the North, but only to use it... as a shield.

The Shield of the North—what an ironic title.

But he still deeply loves this snowy land.

This land covered in white frost, these people toiling in the cold nights, these craftsmen who built the city walls with their own hands, and the knights who protected it with their lives.

But he didn't like this era.

An era in which knights became gold coins, glory became tokens, loyalty became folly, and human lives became livestock.

He once thought it was something he was going to protect, but now he realizes it was just a corpse wearing a new robe.

"What will become of the North after I die?"

Edmund pondered this question for a long time.

He knew his days were numbered, but he did not want this land to be buried with him.

And once again, the face of that young man—Louis Calvin—appeared in his mind.

Emily always spoke of her son-in-law with an undisguised reverence, describing Louis as if he were a legendary saint.

He initially thought it was just a little girl's perspective and didn't pay much attention.

But then came the intelligence reports from his own spies in the Red Tide Territory.

These spies were all from his most trusted old subordinates; some disguised themselves as refugees, some became officials of the Red Tide, and others were knights of the Broken Blade Knights.

But the news they brought back was so consistent that it aroused his suspicion.

This young lord is so clean, so positive, so perfect.

"A pioneering lord, within three years, receives 100,000 returning civilians, rebuilds farmland, establishes a robust military and industry, and ensures the loyalty of his people..."

If it was acted out, it would be too perfect.

Therefore, he also suspected that these were just vanity projects concentrated in a few places.

He even instructed a trusted old knight to personally travel to the edge of the Red Tide territory to see if there was any consistency, or if this was only the case in the core territory.

When the old knight returned, he only said one sentence: "That place is where I would like to retire."

This sentence is more effective than anything else.

You can act for a month, or a year, but can you act for three or four years? Or for a lifetime?

Can he act in a way that even farmers look at him with respect? Can he act in a way that even a refugee is unwilling to flee south?
Edmund looked at the map; the area of ​​Red Tide Territory had been painted red instead of gray.

He didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't deny it.

Louis accomplished what he had wanted to do but couldn't when he was young.

In just a few years, they took in exiles, cleared the wilderness, and united the knights into one.

At least under Louis's rule, those people lived a life that he himself could never provide.

Perhaps the North will be reborn under Louis's rule.

Thinking of this, Edmund couldn't help but sigh softly.

“Emily…” he murmured.

That was his smartest, most stubborn, and most mother-like child.

Edmund had intended not to disturb her, not to disturb her, who was pregnant with a new life, until he died.

In this stage play that was destined to end, she was not allowed to see herself grow old and collapse.

But now he suddenly wants to see her, and this thought has been going on and on these past few days.

Between the Red Tide and the Frostspear lies the mud and ruins of post-war reconstruction, and even more so, the relentless cold currents of the North.

It's selfish of her to put her in danger.

But he still... wanted to see her.

After a long silence, Edmund suddenly laughed.

The laughter was like rusty armor, making a soft, clicking sound in the still night.

"Forget it. Let me be selfish one last time."

He reached out, opened the bookcase beside him, and it took him a while to pull out the hidden compartment.

Inside lay a sealed letter, which had been kept secret for some time.

The pale red wax seal was imprinted with the emblem of a frost-covered halberd, and the edges of the letter paper were slightly yellowed.

He wrote this letter more than once, and revised it more than once. …………

Only seven days after the letter was sent, Chi Chao's carriage arrived at the gate of Frost Halberd's inner palace, and the first one to jump down from the carriage was the stubborn yet gentle girl he remembered.

“Father,” Emily called out with a smile, her eyes slightly reddening, “I’m back.”

Edmund squinted at her, said nothing, just nodded slightly, and then extended his old and withered hand.

Emily gently took its hand, just like when they were children.

In the days that followed, laughter finally returned to the Frost Halberd Inner Palace.

Emily brought pastries made from Red Tide's specialties, Elena personally brewed tea, and their young son Isaac chased after the cat.

Edmund sat in a chair by the window, like a quiet observer, watching the painting that seemed to be in his dream.

At night, Emily played chess with him, deliberately losing, but her father saw through her act.

“Don’t go easy on me,” Edmund coughed twice, but then gave a rare smile. “I don’t need you to fake it.”

She simply nodded and smiled, but secretly clenched her fist in her sleeve.

Actually, Louis came too.

But this time, he deliberately remained "transparent," neither disturbing others nor trying to make his presence known.

The matters that needed to be explained had already been discussed six months ago on the night of the Burial Valley and in the secret correspondence exchanged during the past six months.

Power, commitments, and future direction have all been arranged.

Therefore, he did not intrude into this warm family atmosphere.

He chose to stand outside, quietly watching over the man who had once been the shield of the North, as he welcomed the final peaceful moments of his life.

It was still dark on the morning of the seventh day.

Emily went to her father's room and found the door ajar and the fire still warm.

Edmund, dressed in a casual robe, sat in a high-backed chair by the window, gently holding Isaac in his arms.

The child was still small and slept peacefully in his arms.

His withered hand gently cradled the back of the child's head, as if protecting a spark of life.

Emily quietly approached and found her father with his eyes closed and a calm smile on his lips.

He felt no pain and did not struggle.

In just one night, like an aging eagle, it quietly sank into the earth.

…………

It was early morning on the third day after the Duke's death.

Outside Frostspear City, on the southwest hills of the old city—the "Guardians' Cemetery".

This is a silent white stone slope, surrounded by forests on three sides and facing north towards the snowfield, where the bloodline of the Edmund family has been buried for generations.

At this moment, the entire cemetery was enveloped in snow and mist, as if heaven and earth had lowered their voices, lest they disturb the peace of this sleeping soul.

There was no public square for mourning, no procession of carriages from distant nobles, and no overwhelming obituaries and funeral music.

Just as he wished in his lifetime.

Everything was kept simple, arranged solely by the Frostspear City government. The group consisted of only family members, representatives from the three major knightly orders, former subordinates and Frostspear officials, and a few Northern nobles still stationed in the city—a mere few dozen people.

The crowd stood silently before the tomb, no one spoke, and even coughs seemed to be frozen in their throats.

The coffin was carved from a single piece of Northern blackwood.

Simple and silent, covered with coarse gray cloth, it seems to have grown naturally from the snowfield and returned to the earth.

The one presiding over the funeral, standing in front of the wooden coffin, was the Dragon Ancestor Priest of Frostspear City.

An elderly man, over ninety years old, was dressed in an ancient ceremonial robe in shades of dark blue and silver-gray. The scepter in his hand was engraved with ancient inscriptions, and a pale silver ribbon hung from the end of the scepter, dancing lightly in the wind with his slightly trembling gestures.

He didn't announce it aloud, but spoke softly in a hoarse voice in the silent snow:
"On the coldest border, he raised his sword above his head; on the most silent battlefield, he stood guard until the last man. He was not a perfect man, but he accomplished everything a loyal subject could do."

The priest paused slightly, tapped his scepter, and placed it on the snow in front of the coffin: "Today, he will no longer bear the burden."

Coincidentally, at that moment, the wind seemed to suddenly stop.

Emily stood before the coffin, her posture straight, her belly protruding, as if she were using all her strength to resist the cold wind and her grief.

She remained expressionless, for she was the daughter of a Northern nobleman, the daughter of Edmund.

Louis stood beside her, saying nothing, but gently holding her hand.

His hand was warm and firm, just like the one who had been sleeping and had given her support countless times.

Mrs. Elena, supporting young Isaac, stood to one side.

She wore a dark black cloak, her expression blank, her eyes unfocused. Her mind was still lingering on the image of her husband laughing a few days ago, and she had not yet truly accepted the fact that this man had passed away.

Isaac looked up at the sky, reached out to touch a falling snowflake, but couldn't catch it.

After the high priest finished reading the final part of the oath, Ferran, the Grand Master of the Cold Iron Knights, stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and loudly proclaimed the oath:

"Duke Edmund has returned to the silent snow, and we swear we will not dishonor his will!"

The Broken Edge Knights, the Silver Fang Knights, the Frost Iron Formers...

One knight after another took off their helmets and knelt on one knee in the snow.

Finally, several of the duke's guards slowly lifted the coffin and placed it into the pre-dug stone cavity.

There was no funeral music, no drumming, only the dull sound of the wooden coffin slowly touching the ice and snow.

After the ceremony, everyone silently withdrew. The knights bid farewell one by one and returned to their posts. The old subordinates and officials helped each other off, their faces full of sorrow as they left.

Elena led Isaac away, her gaze lingering on the cemetery several times.

Emily remained standing, watching everyone leave.

She remained calm and even exchanged pleasantries with others, comforting her stepmother.

Until she returned to the inner palace and pushed open that familiar study door.

The interior remains as it was during the Duke's lifetime.

The old, high-backed chair still leaned against the fireplace, a thick blanket draped over its back. On the small table beside the chair sat an unfinished bottle of medicinal wine, with an unfolded love letter lying next to it, its corner slightly curled up.

The fire in the stove had gone out, but everything still carried the lingering scent of his father.

Her shoulders trembled slightly.

Then, as if an invisible string had snapped suddenly, Emily lunged at the chair and buried her face in her arms.

Only then did the sobs that had been suppressed for so long finally break free from the depths of her throat, a hoarse and heart-wrenching sound.

Emily cried so hard she was almost speechless, as if she was tearing out all the emotions that had been weighing on her chest for the past six months.

Just then, a warm hand gently landed on her shoulder.

Louis appeared beside her without her noticing.

Without uttering a sound, he simply sat down slowly, opened his arms, and gently embraced his wife.

Emily didn't struggle, or even look up, letting the tears flow freely.

And those emotions that had transformed into hard armor finally crumbled quietly in the familiar aura.

The fire in the stove quietly reignited, illuminating the cold night little by little.

(End of this chapter)