Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1295  Mandate In Effect

The news hit Alastair Greenvale like a punch to the skull.

The Royal Stabilization Mandate.

Alastair stood in the center of his command tent, fists clenched so tight they were trembling. Throbbing veins spread across his forehead, climbing like angry vines. The parchment in his hand crumpled, then tore as he squeezed.

He hurled it across the tent.

A rack of maps crashed to the ground next. A quill jar followed. The desk went over with a violent shove, scattering reports, ink, and pencils across the floor.

"This is what he thinks of me?" Alastair growled, voice raw. "This is what that decrepit bastard thinks of his own duke?"

He kicked the fallen desk again, hard enough to dent the wood. "I'm not incompetent! I can deal with this conflict! In fact, I'm winning! The Consortium is in a state of near collapse!"

The air inside the tent shook with the sound of his breath. Rage had settled into his muscles like hot sand. He looked at the fallen ink bottle rolling on the floor and kicked that too, sending it spinning across the rug.

The flap of the tent swung open.

Heavy boots stepped inside.

Stormlord.

One of the king's personal hounds. A captain of the Aegis Vanguard. A man who used to lower his head when entering Alastair's space out of respect. A man who used to speak with caution, because the Duke of Greenvale was still a great lord of the realm.

Not today.

Stormlord didn't bow. He didn't greet him. He didn't even spare him a glance.

He strode in with the confidence of someone walking into an abandoned stable he'd just bought for himself.

Behind him came a dozen administrators dressed in the gray-blue uniform of the central region's keepers. Every single one carried folders, ink cases, and markers. Their faces stiff, their posture rigid. They looked like a mobile tax office prepared to dissect every corner of the duchy.

Stormlord looked at Alastair's assistant without hesitation.

"Every document regarding everything Greenvale has done in this conflict. Reports, patrol routes, documents. Bring them to me."

The assistant froze, glancing helplessly toward his duke.

Alastair's jaw flexed. "What do you think you're doing?"

Stormlord, instead of looking at Alastair, observed the room, seeing the results of the duke's temper tantrum. He looked entirely unamused as he saw the papers he had asked for being stained on the ground.

With that displeased look on his face, he grunted in response, "My duty."

The simple, flat answer poured oil on Alastair's fury.

"You dare?" Alastair stepped forward with his voice rising. "You dare walk into my camp, in my territory, and act like this? King Alexios abuses the laws our ancestors created and signed in trust! He calls a wartime mandate for what?! Some little fucking boy?! Him, equal to three hostile factions?!" His voice climbed into a rough yell. "Don't insult me! This is nothing but a move to depose me! Everyone sees it! My vassals won't let this go! My fellow dukes will remember this tyranny!"

Stormlord stopped observing the chaotic room.

The hammer strapped to his back emitted a mechanical hum, flickering with gathering sparks. Little arcs snapped to life around the engraved runes.

Stormlord turned his head.

The expression on his face was no longer that impassive soldier's mask. It carried anger, entirely stripped of patience.

"Know your place."

He took a single step forward. His hammer and fists buzzed with rising charge.

"I will not tolerate that tone toward my king again. Is that understood?"

Alastair's fingers curled. His breath came harder. His instincts told him to step forward, not back. He was strong. In a fight, he wouldn't fold easily. He could match Stormlord.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was that this conversation existed at all.

That he was being talked down to inside his own command tent by a man who didn't have a single drop of noble blood in his veins.

That these uniformed clerks were already setting folders on the table, flipping pages, and marking inconsistencies.

That Alexios didn't trust him one bit. With this, it has become entirely official: The Greenvale Duke has lost every iota of his liege's trust.

Restraint pulled at his shoulders while combativeness throbbed in his chest. He held the line between them by force.

Stormlord closed the distance in two slow steps.

"And that 'little fucking boy' you mentioned… Why don't you stop him?"

Alastair's teeth ground together.

"Why is he running circles around you? You're pushing the Consortium back, yes. You're earning small points in the competition for Greenvale. But why are the mangled remains of your own vassals being buried right as we speak, Alastair? Why are illiterate peasants on the other end of the country whispering about your borders being unsafe? Why are nearly all your lords begging the central court for emergency intervention and reinforcements?"

Another step.

Now he was close enough that their armors nearly touched.

"Let me answer it for you."

His voice dropped to a tone that felt like a blade against a throat.

"Because you can't deal with the boy."

Alastair's breath stalled in his lungs.

Stormlord let the words sink in, then straightened and turned toward the administrators.

"We're done here."

The scribes continued their work, flipping pages and logging every detail.

Alastair stood frozen in place, rage and humiliation twisting inside him like a rope pulled taut.

And for the first time, he understood exactly how far the king was willing to go.

Alastair's nails dug into his palms. His breathing steadied as he realized one thing.

Stormlord hadn't taken command.

He'd taken papers. Reports. Logs.

He had not touched the chains of command.

He had not reassigned officers.

He had not issued battlefield directives.

The army of Greenvale still belonged to Alastair.

The mandate hadn't ripped Greenvale from his hands, not yet.

Which meant one thing.

He was still expected to fight.

He could still compete for the Syndicate heads.

He could still claw his way back into the king's good graces.

He could still reclaim his duchy's standing through sheer results.

He could still prove Alexios' judgment of his competence wrong.

Alastair exhaled through his teeth.

"So that's how it is," he muttered.

Stormlord wanted the documents. The king wanted oversight. But neither had stripped him of the one thing that mattered: the right to fight.

Fine.

He would fight.

He stepped out of the tent.

Cold morning air hit his face. The soldiers nearby stiffened as he emerged, sensing the storm inside him despite the stiff posture he forced onto his shoulders.

The camp stretched before him with tents arranged in rows, banners catching the early wind, fire pits burning with morning embers. Officers were gathering for the next rotation. Scouts returned with tired steps. Fresh recruits rubbed sleep from their eyes.

All of them looked toward him the moment he appeared.

They'd felt the tremor of his rage through the canvas moments ago.

Alastair knew that there was no room for weakness now. His entire lineage depended on what he did from here on out.

He began walking with purpose. His officers fell into step around him, confused but ready.

He was already forming the speech in his mind.

A speech to pull their spirits back from the mud.

A speech to make them forget the whisper of lost trust.

A speech to remind them that Greenvale was a mighty duchy that had been battling the beasts of the Confederation for tens of thousands of years. Losing to human parasites would shame all their ancestors, not just his!

By the time he reached the center of the camp, the words were already shaped. The men were gathering.

The banners swayed.

And Alastair Greenvale stepped forward, ready to turn his anger into fuel.

It was time to press on.

…

At the same time, multiple forces made their move.