Translator: Nox

Chapter 12

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She was overwhelmed by the scene before her and froze in place. Ladies in all manner of beautiful dresses, adorned with perfume, fans, and silk slippers, paid their respects to her.

Carlz whispered in her ear.

“Madame, you must proceed inside.”

Only then did she regain her composure, lift her chin, and approach the hostess, Duchess Mülze.

‘Stay calm. You’ve been practicing for this very moment for weeks.’

“Thank you for inviting me, Duchess Mülze.”

Fortunately, her voice did not waver.

The elegant duchess bowed deeply to her.

“It is an honor for you to grace my salon, Your Grace. May I have the privilege of introducing Your Grace to the guests?”

As Sumona had predicted, the duchess—a mid-tier noblewoman—seemed eager to serve as her debut sponsor.

She nodded in relief.

The duchess took her hand and presented her to the ladies.

“This is the Grand Duchess Morte, Amarion. I trust you will all make her time here enjoyable, as she honors my salon with her presence.”

“Hello, I am Amarion Morte.”

Countless wives offered compliments in turn. ‘A pleasure to meet you, how beautiful you are, and your gown is exquisite.’ Most sought ties to the Morte family, but that was hardly a bad thing.

Facing their friendly gazes, she relaxed. Even with Carlz required to step back, the gathering was far less daunting than she had feared. She recalled the servants’ repeated encouragement: as Grand Duchess, she was untouchable.

For some reason, excitement stirred within her. She felt she could finally excel at something and truly aid Victor.

That was until a lady smiled and veiled her mouth with her fan.

“I hear His Grace the Grand Duke dotes on Your Grace immensely, and it certainly appears so.”

Another wife unfurled her fan with a smile.

“How could he not? Your Grace is so very precious to him.”

Yet another lady lifted her fan to her lips.

“I thought he cherished her like a fragile flower… I never imagined he’d display her to us.”

Their laughter rippled on.

As she listened, her smile faded.

Something was amiss.

What Sumona had emphasized most was discerning veiled insults. Social barbs were subtle, often slipping past unnoticed. Though Sumona insisted it wouldn’t be needed, she had drilled every nuance relentlessly.

All those lessons crystallized now. One truth stood clear:

They had no intention of welcoming her into their circle. Nay, it was a mercy they hadn’t ejected her outright.

Embarrassment burned; she clenched her skirt.

‘These are ladies I’ve never met—why such hostility?’

‘I am the wife of the Empire’s greatest hero.’

They cackled like hyenas.

“It’s a virtue to be so adored by one’s husband.”

“Naturally. Especially in an unforeseen union…”

“Love does bloom from sudden encounters, after all.”

“And isn’t the Grand Duchess a knight? It’s straight out of an old fairytale.”

She tried to make sense of it.

Unforeseen marriage.

Sudden encounter.

Husband’s affection.

It struck her at once.

These were the slights reserved for lowborn women who wed into nobility.

She frowned sharply. Regardless of their differing stations, how could she, Victor’s wife, endure such words?

Another lady pressed further.

“Well, the Grand Duke did have a fiancée once.”

‘What… are you saying?’

“Oh dear, I’ve misspoke before Your Grace.”

The lady curtsied mockingly, aping Amarion’s earlier greeting.

At that moment, someone parted the throng of venomous women. A young aristocrat glided forward, perfectly at home amid the greenhouse blooms. Beautiful, with warm auburn hair, large blue eyes, and long, doe-like lashes fluttering with each blink, she curtsied gracefully before Amarion.

“A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. I am Nanael Welch.”

She stared at the woman in disbelief.

She knew the name already. Per Sumona’s briefing, she was Duke Welch’s daughter—the Empire’s premier social flower. From a knightly lineage, she dominated Capital soirées and drew suitors aplenty.

Sumona had relayed the facts briskly; even gossip-loving Carlz had fallen silent, ending the report there.

Shoving aside nagging doubts, she greeted the lady haltingly.

“Hello, I am Amarion Morte.”

Nanael beamed, gloved hands veiling her mouth. At a glance, it seemed genuine delight—but her eyes remained cold.

“Your Grace’s tiara is exquisite. Though it pales beside your hair, of course.”

‘My hair is a northern trait…’

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Thank you…”

“Your Grace, from which family do you hail? I’d love to hear your life story!”

Nanael clasped Amarion’s hand amiably.

She longed to pull away but lacked the nerve. Her voice emerged faint.

“I was born to the Count of Amari, in the northern reaches of the kingdom…”

Her words were cut short by Nanael’s clustered confidantes.

“Don’t press her, Nanael. Mind your manners.”

“Is that so? Forgive me, Your Grace. A lady’s education is ever so brief.”

Nanael curtsied with exaggerated vivacity. Her friends tittered.

“Yet I grasp your joy. They say the Grand Duke’s ailment improves, thanks to you.”

“Oh my, what ‘ailment’? It’s unbecoming for outsiders to meddle in family matters.”

Nanael chided her friend sharply.

Amarion watched the farce unfold, dazed.

Nanael Welch played the Grand Duchess’s hostess. Yet none called her on it. Half the ladies stood mute; the rest sneered openly at Amarion. Whispers assailed her from all sides.

–“Such a brazen woman…”

–“Without the Grand Duke’s famed insomnia, would she even have reached the Empire?”

–“Be it potions or spells, she’ll cling by any means—how dare she…”

Her heart plummeted.

Dawning horror gripped her.

They knew.

‘I’m the woman sold to Victor… to watch him sleep.’

***

She couldn’t fathom her earlier eagerness.

The veiled barbs persisted; neither Duchess Mülze nor any moderate intervened. At last, unable to bear it, she fled the salon.

Sir Carlz trailed her, jesting that she was merely overwrought. Amarion nodded mutely. Assuming fatigue, Carlz pressed no further.

In the carriage’s stifling silence homeward, dark ruminations swirled.

Their words stung, yet… rang true.

Daughter of a count, yes—but Amari’s obscurity stemmed from its northern wilds. The title was a mere pretext to billet more Imperial knights northward.

She had never seen the Capital, never debuted. Beyond her estate lay monsters; noble visits were fantasies. She knew more sellsword captains than ladies.

For such a woman to wed a Grand Duke was absurd.

Was she even worthy, like young Miss Welch…?

Every garment felt ill-fitting. All knew she didn’t belong.

***

She spoke to no one at the second tea party. A few rumor-blind souls approached, but enlightenment spread swifter than wyvern wings in social season. Soon, they shunned her too, privy to the scorn Amarion Morte inspired.

She yearned to retreat to the Grand Duke’s mansion, barricade the bedroom. To confide in Victor…

…for it was grueling.

Yet was she truly noble…?

***

She alighted the ornate carriage, throat parched. Beneath the twilight sky, the mansion’s lights beckoned ballgoers.

Hosted beyond the Capital, the ball dwarfed prior gatherings. Men’s inclusion lent electric fervor.

This time, with Carlz, it would fare better. Clutching his hand confidently, she entered.

But resolve crumbled. Amid the ballroom throng, Nanael Welch shone, encircled by admirers. Amarion pivoted hastily to Carlz, evading her gaze.

Carlz regarded her with concern.

“What’s wrong, Madame?”

***