Chapter 28
“You saw that, right?”
Roy’s expression was a mask of pure disbelief. Adi found herself equally paralyzed by the spectacle. To her, the initial sight of the man had been far more jarring than the face that emerged from beneath the shorn beard. He had resembled a beggar—or perhaps a predatory animal, with those dangerously long claws.
She wondered if he was the inspiration for the lycanthropes mentioned in old folklore. He had the wild mane and the overgrown nails, though he lacked the beastly ears. Besides, the legends said red-haired lycanthropes were a myth.
“Is that truly the Duke? He’s massive! And he looks so young on top of it!”
“He’s at an age where he might still be growing,” Adi noted.
“How much bigger can he get? I’m not exactly a short man myself, you know.”
Adi shifted her gaze up toward Roy.
In the central territories like Pallesa, the population tended toward average heights. Conversely, the Grimaldi bloodline was famous for its stature, a trait inherited from Northern ancestors. While Southern men were typically shorter, Roy Gallardo was an exception, standing quite tall for his region.
“He’s got at least ten centimeters on me,” Roy grumbled.
“What’s your height?”
“One hundred and seventy-five.”
“Then the gap is only eight centimeters,” she corrected.
“The man is a giant.”
“The Duke towers over me,” Roy continued, sounding defeated. “And those legs… it’s actually insulting.”
“Why take it to heart? You’re still in your prime.”
“He’s twenty-six; he’s well past his growth spurts.”
Despite his age, the Duke possessed the face of an eighteen-year-old—someone who had only just reached adulthood. Given those refined features, it stood to reason he would be striking once he was groomed.
“He’s a Duke, a royal successor, attractive, tall, and—”
Roy cut himself off, unwilling to further damage his own ego by listing more virtues.
“You’re a handsome man, Roy,” Adi offered.
“…I’m aware,” he replied with a small shrug. “I know I look good.”
“Of course. That’s why you’re in the 2nd Knights Order.”
While his martial skill was real, his aesthetics had certainly played a role in his selection. Roy had never lacked for self-assurance; men usually possessed a healthy dose of vanity. In his case, it was justified. From his youth through his training as a squire, and even during the dark years when his family fell and he was a wandering knight, people had always complimented his looks. He couldn’t ignore the truth of his own reflection.
But comparing himself to the Duke was a losing game. Roy shook off the thought and looked at her. “Are you feeling alright?”
Adi gave him a look tinged with mild amusement. “I’m not trying to win a beauty pageant against the Duke, Roy.”
“That isn’t what I meant…”
Roy wasn’t trying to compete either. The Duke was a different breed of handsome, and while Roy felt a bit eclipsed, they occupied entirely different social strata. His concern was actually for Adi’s health.
“You only just regained consciousness.”
“I feel surprisingly nimble.”
She appeared healthy enough, but Roy couldn’t erase the memory of her state the previous day. He had witnessed many people break down—both men and women. He’d seen squires weep out of spite when they failed their trials, or cry from sheer exhaustion. Usually, he just felt a sense of detached confusion at such displays.
But Adi Grimaldi’s grief had struck a chord deep inside him.
“…Your sister.”
He realized then how much that girl must have meant to her. Having navigated his own family losses, Roy felt a spark of empathy.
“Were the two of you very close?”
Adi looked up, startled by the personal question. When she remained silent, Roy felt the need to justify his curiosity. “I just…”
“You seemed…”
She had looked utterly shattered. He remembered her sobbing, swearing to protect the girl and take her away from that place. There was a raw fragility in her voice as she begged her sister not to go. In that moment, Roy had felt a sudden, fierce urge to ensure Adi wasn’t left to face the world alone.
Yet, it was the Duke’s hand she had reached for. And the Duke had allowed her to hold it.
The Duke even knew she called her late sister ‘Adi’. Roy hadn’t realized their connection ran that deep.
“Was Grimaldi really such a…”
“Roy,” Adi interrupted softly.
“I have no desire to revisit those memories.”
“…”
“I’m sure there are parts of your life you’d rather keep buried as well.”
Everyone carried burdens—secrets they wanted to scream out but kept locked away because trust was a rare currency. Roy had his own hidden pains, things he wished someone could truly grasp.
“That place represents that for me,” she said.
Roy understood. It was the same for her.
“I see.”
He realized, with a touch of melancholy, that he wouldn’t be the one she confided in.
“Forgive me.”
It made sense when he thought about it. His fondness for Adi stemmed from a sense of shared hardship, but he was still her handler. He was under Bert’s instructions to keep an eye on her. They were comrades, perhaps, but the line between duty and friendship was still too blurred.
“Let’s find some food,” Adi said, changing the subject. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in a century.”
“Technically, it’s been several days.”
“Start with something light, like soup. You don’t want to shock your system.”
“I’ve never had a stomach ache in my life.”
“…You must have a gut made of iron.”
Adi let out a small laugh. When she mentioned she had been that way since she was a child, Roy felt a flicker of suspicion. He had heard rumors that Adi Grimaldi was a frail, sickly youth. How could she have such a constitution?
How did she become this resilient? She had bounced back from a poisoned blade in a matter of days.
“What do they feed you in Grimaldi?”
“Nothing special.”
“The cuisine?”
“There isn’t much of it. To be honest, the food here in Pallesa is far superior.”
“We should visit the South sometime,” Roy suggested. “You need a real meal. Seriously, did you grow up eating bear organs or something?”
“Where did the bears come from? They don’t live in Grimaldi. You’ll find them in the South or out on the western fringes, but not there.”
“Fine. Did you survive on mandrake root?”
“Roy, that’s a lethal toxin. You’d be dead.”
“…Right.”
Something felt off to him. It was a nagging sensation he couldn’t quite pin down.
“Have you developed an immunity to poison or something?”
Adi caught his inquisitive look and decided it was time to stop talking.
“Is it the mushrooms? I hear there are plenty there. Do you eat a lot of mushroom soup?”
“Adi, is potage your favorite?”
“Don’t tell me you prefer clear broth?”
“…Can we please just go and eat?”
Regardless of the soup options, Adi was determined to find meat. She needed protein and bread—anything to rebuild the strength she had lost.
The inner shirts worn by knights were designed for utility, made of heavy, sweat-wicking fabric. They were bulky to accommodate the armor worn over them. While they looked respectable, they were far from luxurious—especially for Yuls, who was accustomed to the finest silks.
An aide helped him out of Roy’s borrowed garment. A second servant arrived with a fresh wardrobe. Yuls donned a crisp, white shirt of delicate weave and layered a gray jacket over it. After securing a white cravat, the attendant fastened a sapphire brooch to the silk.
He had worried the blue gem would clash with his red eyes, but the effect was surprisingly harmonious.
“My aunt is going to be stunned,” Yuls remarked.
“She will be delighted, surely,” Bert replied.
“I doubt that.” Yuls gave a dry chuckle. “She would much rather I stayed a child. Children are far easier to manipulate.”
Appearance changed everything. People didn’t just judge a man by his face; they judged the status his clothes projected.
The servant finished styling Yuls’s hair. He had initially wanted it shorn short for convenience, but Bert had been adamant against it. The aide swept the trimmed locks back, looking proud of his work.
“It is a perfect look for you, Your Grace.”
Yuls studied his reflection. “It feels strange.”
He practiced a smile. “But I think I like it.”
Bert had mentioned a resemblance to the late Duke, but Yuls saw only his mother in the mirror. As a boy, he might have favored his father, but now, only his eyes remained as a testament to that lineage.
“I can already see Marchioness Connolly’s face falling.”
Her features would undoubtedly turn to stone the moment they met.
“I prefer this version of myself,” Yuls added.
He thought of how much his mother and the Marchioness had tormented each other.
“What’s your take, Sir?”
Bert gave a strained, awkward smile.
“Will she recoil in horror, or will she put on a mask and act as if nothing has changed?”
“She will likely pretend it’s of no consequence,” Bert guessed.
“Is that so? Want to place a wager?”
“The Marchioness will certainly be displeased.”
“Let her be unhappy,” Yuls said firmly. “In the end, she’s the one who needs me. She’ll have no choice but to come to me and bow.”
As Yuls began to hum a soft tune, Bert felt a growing sense of dread. The afternoon tea was shaping up to be a total catastrophe.
