"Your Majesty, regarding this disaster in the Northern Territory, I have a few points I'd like to discuss."
The speaker stood up from the corner of the long table, a slender middle-aged noble dressed modestly yet neatly.
He bore no emblem of the old nobility, nor the dragon-patterned epaulettes of military generals, only adorned with a newly minted gold rose insignia, the shared symbol among a batch of council nobles appointed in the Imperial Capital in the past decade.
He was Marquis Collins, not of noble birth, yet he frequently surfaced in various affairs within the Empire, known for "reconciliation, compromise, rationality," regarded by many veteran councilors as a harmless newcomer.
But now he stood at the most sensitive juncture.
Sitting on the left side of the long table, Eleanor slowly bowed her head.
This was actually an undercover seed planted by the Calvin Clan for years, and the words he was about to speak were a draft written by Duke Calvin.
