As Camio hastily exited the grand hall, the long corridor outside offered him momentary solace from the clamour of his guests. The servant, with eyes full of dread and lips quivering, hurried behind the young duke.

“What is it again?” Camio demanded, as he stopped and turned towards the servant, his eyes searching for clarity.

“Your Grace,” the servant hesitated, taking a deep breath, and looking to the floor. “There's been an attack. Your grace’s foes have taken us distracted, celebrating. The guards... many are dead, and the invaders have hoisted the flag of Duke Estragon atop Marchoss. They intend to head to the capital, and they may yet be assisted by Countess Mireille at… usurping the imperial capital and Schameister.”

Camio’s mind sank, his head pained him acutely. He had known that the time would come when the empire would be challenged, he had intended to do it himself, but he had not expected others to move so quickly, and to decisively threaten his very first day as duke. The weight of the news settled on him, replacing his ceremonial garbs with garbs of war. How dare they attack on the very day of his ceremonial ascension!?

He quickly composed himself, knowing that immediate action was required. “Summon the captain of the guard, gather my council, and brief Lady Adelaide.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the servant bowed and hurried off to execute his orders.

Meanwhile, within the confines of the grand hall, the mood had shifted palpably. The whispers that were once a background hum had evolved into overt discussions. The sudden exit of their duke had left the nobles in a state of uncertainty, and, in that void, speculation reigned.

Sir Furcas, always one to seize an opportunity, approached a group of barons from the coastal region. “It seems our young duke is already facing the trials of leadership,” he mused aloud, emphasizing the word ‘young’ with a sardonic twist.

Among the guests, there were those who quietly observed, taking mental notes. They had not gained knowledge of what exactly had happened, but discussion clearly pointed something with the words “Estragon” and “flag”, so the lesser nobles already had many conjectures of what sort of trial their liege would be facing.

As the captain of the guard entered the grand hall to approach Camio's trusted advisors, he was intercepted by Lord Marchoss, who suddenly seemed very sober – and very concerned. “Captain, what are the news?”

The captain hesitated for a moment, then whispered, “Follow behind us, you should see this.”

Lord Marchoss frowned, “And the Duke?”

“Gathering his council as we speak,” the captain replied.

Marchoss did as he was told, and his peers were left to turn the castle into a hive of bee noise. There was a logic to that – reacting with all his might and attention would mean he was weak, and so the duke wished his guests to continue the feast, problematic as they may be.

Another side of the hive, military activity was bustling. Scouts were sent out to assess the extent of the invasion, and messengers dispatched to call upon allies. The guard was mustered in full, and the knight order prepared its main force – which, clearly, did not include sly foxes like Sir Furcas. The council room, usually a place of quiet deliberation, echoed with heated arguments and strategic discussions.

Lady Adelaide, always a pillar of wisdom, and now the duke’s most trusted advisor, argued for action. “We must send envoys to Duke Estragon, perhaps this is a mere show of might, a negotiation tactic, and we might have him leave if he knows we will bring your mighty sword upon him.”

The captain of the guard concurred in silence, and so did the knight’s grand master.

The dissent, however, came from Marchoss. “Your grace, please, my domain is not very fortified indeed – we must use diplomacy. Surely you could offer to marry Estragon’s daughters or something. Please, Marchoss will be forever indebted to your grace.”

Camio, taking in all perspectives, spoke. “We will reinforce our defences here, protect our people, and send envoys to Estragon – for now. But we will also prepare for war. I will not be perceived as weak. Have our forces ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. After we have news from our envoy, we shall see what will be done of Estragon. And if things go well, we might very well snatch the imperial capital from right under that arrogant fool’s nose.”

The Lone Star began to crest over the horizon, casting a golden hue on the Castle of Schameister. But the beauty of the dawn was marred by the restlessness of all within the castle.

Camio stood at his chamber’s window, looking out at his duchy. The news had spread, from a loose guard to the treacherous nobles, and to the once jubilant populace – who now moved with caution and fear. The threads of dissent had not just been woven; they were now taut, threatening to snap and plunge the realm into chaos – and to serve his head, lands, and legacy to the pigs.

As he came outside, Lady Sybella awaited him. Her beauty, usually a subject of admiration, seemed to Camio like a mask, hiding intentions he could not easily decipher.

“My Duke,” she began, her voice soft and soothing, “Estragon's move is bold, but not so… very… unexpected. There are many in this castle, even those who feigned joy at your ascension, who might see an alliance with him as... beneficial.” She was careful with her choice of words.

Camio looked at her, his eyes searching for a hint of treachery. “And where do you stand, Lady Sybella?”

She smiled, that enigmatic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, barely noticeable. “I serve the realm, my Duke. And I believe in its future. But remember, in this game of power, not all threads are visible, and not all loyalties are worn on sleeves. Perhaps, however, I could wear my loyalty right here,” she showed a great emerald ring she wore that day. “And perhaps then I could show you the hidden poetry of treason. I am, after all, well acquainted with poetry.”

As the lady walked away, Camio pondered her words. The day had brought revelations, challenges, and a foreboding sense of war. The threads of dissent were not just external; they wound their way through the very heart of Schameister, threatening to unravel the fabric of his duchy even if he were to attack Estragon. The young Duke knew that the days ahead would test his mettle, his wisdom, and his very right to rule – and, as much as he wanted to refuse, Lady Sybella could deliver him internal peace.