Chapter 125
The monarchy stood firm. A heavy silence filled the space following the decree that Dalcatir alone possessed the means to assist Thuringen. Claude had challenged them, questioning their ignorance regarding why every other nation had turned its back on Thuringen, yet the throne simply brushed his concerns aside.
When told that a man of his limited experience—someone who had never led a diplomatic effort or understood the complexities of statecraft—could not possibly grasp the situation, Claude merely offered a cynical grin. It was a mask. Despite the fury boiling within him, he recognized that a public confrontation with the Crown was out of the question.
The moment he retreated from the assembly, Claude’s restraint vanished. He laid waste to the drawing room, and when that failed to soothe his rage, he moved to his study, smashing furniture and throwing everything within reach. His earlier composure had been a calculated performance; he knew how to play the political game when the stakes were high.
Survival in the palace required a keen understanding of who truly held the reins of power.
Meanwhile, Pasalis Macauliffe had emerged from the Council with a significant win. The establishment of a free trade hub was now a certainty. Although the exact coordinates and region remained undecided, the decree was final. Macauliffe was preparing to strike, and the western aristocracy was already maneuvering to align with him. Furthermore, it was clear that Macauliffe still harbored designs on the western reaches of the Woodpecker lands.
“Those goddamn vipers!”
Claude hissed, sending the final volume flying off his desk. Yuls remained entirely unbothered, sipping his tea without so much as a glance toward the prince. He knew Claude would eventually run out of steam. The prince was not known for his physical endurance, and his outbursts were as brief as they were intense.
True to form, Claude soon stumbled back toward Yuls, gasping for air. He collapsed onto the cushions of the settee. “Get me a drink.”
Yuls placed his porcelain cup on the mahogany surface. “Alcohol is off-limits. The King specifically mandated a dry environment for your benefit.”
Claude’s response was a sharp kick to the table. The heavy wood didn’t shift, but the impact sent a dull thud through the room and caused the tea to jump from the cup.
“Try the tea,” Yuls suggested calmly. “It might help you focus.”
“Go to hell.”
Yuls gestured for the head chamberlain to bring a fresh service. Ignoring him, Claude began to gnaw at his fingernails with focused intensity. It was a desperate substitute for the spirits and tobacco he was denied. Yuls watched with a trace of pity.
This was a relic of Claude’s youth, a nervous tic that had vanished years ago. Count Grimaldi had been the one to break him of the habit. Yuls wasn’t privy to the methods used, but the usually indulgent Count must have been uncharacteristically stern to see it through. Catching himself, Claude jerked his hand away and rubbed it against his trousers in embarrassment.
The chamberlain returned with two steaming cups, having anticipated the prince’s needs. This time, Claude accepted the gesture, though he expressed his lingering defiance by propping his boots up on the table next to the tea. He let out a ragged breath and shoved his hair back from his face. Yuls lifted his own saucer and spoke.
“There is something I want to run by you.”
“What’s that?”
“Macauliffe.”
Claude’s expression soured. He was aware of the Viscount’s fixation on Yuls—or, more specifically, on the Woodpecker estate. He had assumed the interest was entirely one-sided.
“Does he have your attention now?”
“Why do you say ’now’? Is someone else watching him?”
The dynamic was inverted; it was Macauliffe who was obsessed with the Duke’s lands. Claude surely grasped that reality without needing a lecture.
“I imagine Grimaldi is keeping an eye on things as well.”
“The Count?”
“Precisely. So, I’m asking if you intend to get involved.”
“I couldn’t care less about him.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“Because he’s someone I feel I need to watch closely.”
Claude’s feet hit the floor as he sat upright, a predatory glint in his eyes. He seemed satisfied by Yuls’s wariness. “You’re right to be cautious. Absolutely.” It was obvious to Claude that a hidden conflict was brewing between the two men.
“The thing you have to understand about Macauliffe is…”
Claude started to elaborate, then paused, shaking his head. “Never mind.” Yuls didn’t push for more. Claude was a man who spoke when the mood took him and stayed silent when it didn’t, regardless of how much one coaxed him.
“Are you planning to show up at the ball?”
“I believe I will,” Yuls answered.
A ball was a theater of status. It was a venue where one’s current standing was put on display for all to see. The luxury of one’s attire served as a silent ledger of trade routes and alliances. It was the premier market for social capital.
Yuls had a specific reason for appearing: Adrina.
Standard etiquette dictated that one rarely escorted the same person twice unless the relationship was significant. By bringing her again, Yuls intended to broadcast a message about their connection to the nobility, to Count Grimaldi, and to everyone else.
“I think that’s a wise move,” Claude remarked.
The message would reach the prince and the Crown as well.
“The border issues are stable enough for now,” Yuls added.
A few of his senior staff would depart early. Whether Dimitri or Gavin would lead the advance remained to be seen. Since Adrina and Bert would be in his personal party, it was likely Dimitri would stay behind. He recalled those two mentioning some sort of joint training, though he wasn’t sure of their progress.
“I expected you to be halfway home by now, frantic as usual,” Claude noted, taking a long drink of his tea. Despite his complaints, his boredom seemed to outweigh his distaste for the beverage. He swallowed it quickly, then grimaced, sticking out his tongue.
“This stuff is far too bitter.”
“Usually, I would have rushed back,” Yuls said with a light laugh. “But I’m taking a different approach this time. Ionad still requires my attention.”
Claude scoffed, “What could you possibly have to do here?” Yuls offered no explanation, but his mental list was long.
Lev Zid had been exiled by the Count, but the rest of the Escort Knight Division was still present. There was also the matter of disciplining those responsible for summoning Adi. He hadn’t landed on a perfect punishment yet, but a consultation with Ivan or Dimitri would likely yield a creative solution.
Then there was Lea Connolly. He needed to ensure there was no ambiguity regarding his lack of interest in her. If he appeared with Adrina Dean on his arm at the gala, the message would be undeniable.
—Perhaps she already knew?
A clever woman would have deduced it, but Yuls realized he knew next to nothing about her. Their paths had crossed at Pallesa Palace, but she had never registered as more than a background figure to him.
In truth, Lea was a secondary concern. His mind was currently occupied with the logistics of Adrina’s wardrobe.
He had already ordered a vast selection of gowns, so he could leave the final coordination to Billy. Her hair was short, but if they styled it to reveal her neck… No, that would draw too much attention from the other men. He dismissed the idea.
At their previous outing, she had opted for a minimalist look to avoid feeling weighed down. This time, he considered ordering her to wear something truly opulent. Knowing Adrina, she would likely find the extravagance irritating.
It was a strange contrast. Most nobles lived for the chance to adorn themselves, yet Adi found the whole process a nuisance.
Perhaps he should aim for something simple yet striking. Then again, with her natural radiance, she would look breathtaking regardless of the choice.
As he imagined walking her into the grand hall, Yuls thought of the Count. He expected the man’s face to twist in anger, yet he had a nagging feeling that Grimaldi would simply offer a polite, inscrutable smile.
“……”
Yuls could predict the Count’s actions, but the man’s internal logic remained a mystery.
“Well, if you’re going to be there, we should coordinate,” Claude suggested. “Should we arrange a meeting that evening?”
“With whom?”
“Macauliffe, obviously. A conversation between the three of us would be very enlightening.”
Claude began to weigh the benefits of a private sit-down versus a more public gathering with other lords. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock. A head chamberlain entered, addressing the prince. “Your Highness.”
“Speak.”
“An official from the Woodpecker household has arrived.”
Yuls and Claude traded a look of surprise. It was clear to Claude that Yuls hadn’t been expecting anyone.
“Let him in.”
Dimitri entered with a heavy, rapid stride. Yuls had expected Joel or perhaps Ivan, but Dimitri’s presence signaled something far more serious.
“Your Highness,” Dimitri said, bowing briefly to Claude before turning to Yuls with a grim expression.
“Your Excellency.”
“What has happened?”
“A bird just arrived from the south,” Dimitri said, his voice tight. “The Oak Forest is burning.”
The room went cold. Both Yuls and Claude were momentarily paralyzed by the news.
“…The forest is on fire?” Yuls repeated.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Dimitri’s face was a mask of tension. In that heartbeat, Claude’s mind went straight to Pasalis Macauliffe. It was a visceral reaction. Macauliffe’s reach was vast, and his intelligence was peerless. He must have discovered that Count Grimaldi was investigating him, even before Lev Zid’s departure.
And Lev had walked straight into a trap.
If that were true, what would be the first move?
Claude couldn’t see the full path ahead, but the reality of the present was undeniable.
This had Macauliffe’s signature all over it. He had torched the Woodpecker lands. But to what end? Was it merely leverage for the trade city? The idea of burning a forest to win a political argument was the work of a mind so warped that Claude found it impossible to track.
“We have to go back to Woodpecker immediately,” Dimitri insisted.
Claude let out a breath that sounded like a sigh of disappointment. “I guess you won’t be making it to the ball after all.”
