Chapter 62
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Historically, the ideal subordinate was a master of reading the room—someone who could feign ignorance or expertise as the situation required to soothe their superior’s ego. Count Grimaldi was cut from a different cloth. He was a man of uncompromising conviction, charging ahead regardless of whose feathers he ruffled, even if those feathers belonged to the sovereign himself.
“I actually find the Count quite refreshing, unlike my predecessor,” Claude remarked. “His penchant for calculation and his icy demeanor are assets. I have little patience for sentimental fools who squander resources on ‘moral obligations’ and ‘duty.’ It’s a tragic waste, really. Quite a luxury.”
Claude shifted his focus to Adi, his eyes scanning her condition. “However, looking at you now,” he continued.
“It appears the Count isn’t entirely devoid of passion. The man clearly possesses a temper. Your current state has provided me with an excellent map of his triggers.”
In truth, Claude was merely verifying a suspicion he had long harbored.
“If anything,” he added, “you seem to be the one with the colder heart.”
Adi Grimaldi had proven to be the true wildcard in this equation.
“Planning to betray your own flesh and blood while maintaining that composure takes a certain level of detachment.”
Her audacity exceeded his expectations. He hadn’t anticipated her being the one to lay Lev Zid low, especially by turning the man’s own combat style against him.
Initially, Claude had dismissed her actions as a clumsy blunder. Now that it was evident her every move was calculated, he realized she was playing a game of her own. Her submissive exterior was nothing more than a carefully crafted mask.
“What exactly makes Duke Woodpecker a reliable ally?”
The question caught Claude off guard. His features tightened into a mask of stone, and he fell silent. Adi sensed she had crossed an invisible line, though she couldn’t pinpoint where the error lay.
“Did I grant you the authority to interrogate me?”
“My apologies, Your Highness,” she replied smoothly.
“The Grimaldi arrogance is clearly a hereditary trait,” he sneered, his warmth vanishing instantly. Adi realized her mistake; she had misjudged his personality. He was a mirror image of Spencer Grimaldi in one regard: he demanded absolute, unquestioning submission.
“Dismissed.”
“By your leave, Your Highness.”
Adi bowed respectfully before turning to depart. Her eyes, however, lacked any genuine hint of remorse.
Claude watched her go, finding the encounter unexpectedly stimulating. Once she had cleared the room, he signaled his head chamberlain, who retrieved a pipe from a nearby drawer. As the tobacco was lit, the flickering flame briefly pushed back the shadows of the dim chamber.
Claude squinted through the haze.
“If she truly shares the Count’s nature,” he mused, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke. He bit down on the pipe’s stem. “She might serve the crown, but it will be for the preservation of her lineage, not out of any personal devotion to me.”
There was no value in her inheriting that particular trait of her father’s.
“I will utilize her until she is spent, then discard her.”
He doubted their alliance would be a long-term arrangement.
The following morning arrived with a strange meteorological quirk: rain falling from a sun-drenched sky. Outside, the populace embraced the weather, wandering through the sunlit drizzle without a care for their damp finery. The festivities were in full swing. For Adi, however, the celebration felt worlds away.
On her return trip, she detoured to the administrative wing to check for correspondence. Her mother’s letters continued to arrive, but Adi left them unanswered. They were destined for the flames or the dark corners of a locked drawer.
The palace was a hive of activity, with carriages constantly ferrying nobles between the inner sanctum and the city streets. The royal gala was a grander, more refined version of the public street fair, and many aristocrats ventured out to sample the common festivities. Adi eventually made it back to the Duke’s estate.
The barracks were deserted. One knight was on duty, and the other had vanished—likely lured away by the festival. She was preparing to head back out when a soft knock sounded. Joel stood at the door.
“Are you holding up alright?” he asked, peering into the room.
“I’m fine,” Adi assured him. The speed of his arrival confirmed that her movements were being monitored.
“I should apply some healing magic to those injuries, Sir.”
“There’s no need.”
“I’ll focus on your body and leave your face alone for now,” Joel insisted. “His Excellency noted that you’re in rough shape under that armor. It’s hidden anyway, isn’t it?”
Adi remained silent.
“To be honest, it’s a direct order from the Duke. He was quite firm about me mending your injuries. Besides, everyone has already seen what the Count did to you. Since you’re on the early shift, why not let me heal the facial bruising as well so you can just stay out of sight? You can skip the dining hall; I’ll arrange for your meals to be delivered to the Lounge.”
“…Why go to such lengths?”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s just… you’re being remarkably helpful.”
Joel was taken aback by her reaction to a routine healing spell. It was becoming painfully clear that Adrian Grimaldi’s upbringing had been a far cry from the pampered lives of other high-born knights.
“In that case, I accept,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet. This magic forces the body to repair itself at an unnatural speed. You might feel like swinging at me once it starts,” Joel joked. He often complained about how knights avoided healers; it seemed the more skilled a warrior became, the more they whined about the discomfort of magical recovery. He had seen massive men reduced to blubbering messes over minor aches.
Adi, however, was an anomaly. As the blue light pooled at Joel’s fingertips and seeped into her skin, she didn’t flinch or cry out. She merely knit her brows in quiet concentration. She was more stoic than any of the Woodpecker knights. He recalled hearing that she hadn’t made a sound even during the initial assault.
As the glow faded, Joel stepped back. “That’s the best I can do.”
“It was painful, wasn’t it?”
“…Yes,” she admitted.
Her blunt honesty surprised him; he had expected another stoic dismissal of the pain.
“Thank you.”
Despite the magic, her face remained a mottled mess of swelling and discoloration. Joel suspected the Duke would be far from pleased with the result.
Back in the drawing room, Yuls was huddled with Bert and Gavin over a stack of intelligence reports concerning Marquis Connolly’s private militia. Joel stayed on the periphery; the intricacies of noble armies were outside his expertise. He knew only that the Marquis was incapacitated and his wife was currently directing their forces.
The trio paused their hushed debate when Joel entered, then resumed after a brief nod.
“Did you tend to him?” Yuls asked. Joel confirmed he had. At Yuls’s silent prompt for more detail, Joel continued.
“His collarbone was definitely cracked. He shouldn’t have even been able to lift his arm.”
Yuls clicked his tongue in irritation. There was little they could do to retaliate against the Count directly. Had Adi been one of his own men, Yuls would have demanded blood or gold as restitution. But the politics of Pallesa Palace were treacherous. Given the friendship between the Count and the commander of the 2nd Knights Order, the incident would almost certainly be swept under the rug.
“And the facial injuries?”
“I managed to reduce the inflammation, but those bruises are going to be visible for at least a week.”
Yuls gritted his teeth. Who did Grimaldi think he was, treating a knight with such blatant disregard?
“Anything else to report?”
“Nothing unusual.”
“The pain must have been significant.”
“He’s built for endurance,” Joel noted. “Most knights would have been screaming, but he just looked a bit annoyed. Based on the mana draw, the internal damage was severe.”
“There isn’t much to him. Where did the Count even find enough of a target to hit?”
Joel held his tongue. Despite his slight frame, a knight was a knight. Adi was tall, resilient, and possessed a hidden strength. Joel couldn’t help but wonder about the Duke’s obsession with the young Grimaldi. That intense, lingering focus Yuls had shown was certainly more than professional interest.
“What’s the status of the transfer?” Yuls asked.
“The paperwork is in, but Kenneth Marks’s reaction is anyone’s guess. Also, Ionad has put in a competing request.”
“I expected as much. Do we have the lead?”
“Yes. We have seniority on the request. Unless he specifically chooses Ionad, we should get him.”
“And what of Spencer Grimaldi?”
“He’s been quiet so far.”
“Double the surveillance.”
They already had a significant presence watching the Count. Any more might tip their hand, though Yuls suspected the Count was already aware. Their intervention the previous day had been anything but subtle.
“Get more informants on the ground as well.”
Joel nodded, making a mental note to coordinate with Gavin. Even if a vassal’s duty was to obey without question, this entire situation felt increasingly surreal.
Yuls leaned back, resting his chin on his palm as he stared into space. His thoughts were a fortress. After a long silence, he let out a heavy sigh.
“I can’t get a read on him at all.”
“Are you referring to Sir Adrian?” Bert asked.
“Yes. It’s maddening. He doesn’t fit any mold I’ve encountered. I have no idea what leverage to use to secure his loyalty.”
A simple favor wouldn’t be enough to bind a man like that. Yuls needed to understand what Adi actually wanted for his future, but such personal information was impossible to glean through second-hand reports.
“For the time being…”
Direct confrontation was the only path left, though Yuls doubted he would get a straight answer.
“Clear my afternoon tomorrow.”
“Understood, Excellency.”
“And have Adi come to see me tonight. Not for duty—I just want to speak with him.”
“I’ll see to it.”
