Chapter 93
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When Claude made his entrance alongside a red-haired youth, it was inevitable that every eye in the room would lock onto them. This stranger, a complete ghost to the current social season, possessed an imposing height. Had his locks been gold, he might have been mistaken for the late Luigi. However, that man was in his grave, and the Kingdom of Dalkatir held very few souls with hair the color of flame.
The identity of the newcomer was the subject of immediate, silent suspicion, though most found the truth hard to swallow. The man they suspected—the Duke—was famously bound by a curse.
While whispers of a broken spell had drifted out from Pallesa Palace, the Duke had failed to show himself that day. Consequently, the nobility remained divided on whether the recovery was a miracle or merely a baseless fabrication.
The crowd kept a respectful, wary distance. Claude’s presence was intimidating enough on its own, but the fact that Count Grimaldi walked beside them added a layer of profound tension.
The Count had been an exile from Ionad for years, leaving many to wonder how he had secured entry. Gossip suggested he had been summoned to Pallesa Palace for a private meeting with the King, yet no one knew if this signaled a formal royal pardon.
As the onlookers hesitated, a single figure broke from the pack to greet the royal party.
“Your Royal Highness.”
“Viscount Carver,” Claude replied smoothly. “I trust you are doing well?”
“It is my privilege, sir. And Count Grimaldi, it has been far too long.”
Spencer Grimaldi was an old acquaintance of the Viscount.
Within the circles of government, a vast gulf separated the general Council from the elite Privy Council. The latter was a tight-knit group of elders who served as the vital link between the monarch and the legislature, and the requirements for entry were notoriously grueling.
Spencer had once been the sole representative of the Grimaldi line to hold a seat on that council, though those days were behind him.
“If I may ask, who is this gentleman?”
Viscount Carver’s curiosity turned toward Yuls. Claude shot Yuls a look that practically shouted his triumph, but Yuls simply ignored the prince’s smugness. Turning his attention to the Viscount, Yuls reached out to shake his hand.
“Family obligations prevented me from attending the festivities last year, Viscount Ennio Carver.”
The older man blinked, stunned. “You are familiar with me?”
“We are colleagues on the Privy Council,” Yuls remarked. “It would be strange if I didn’t recognize you.”
Confusion clouded Ennio Carver’s expression. A member of the Privy Council? That seemed impossible. The group was tiny—scarcely twenty men in total—and he knew every face.
He began to wonder if this youth was a sudden replacement for a deceased member. If so, the boy must wield incredible influence and enjoy the King’s absolute confidence.
Sensing Carver’s internal scramble, Spencer offered a dry comment. “It appears the rumors haven’t reached the Viscount’s ears yet.”
Claude gave a short laugh and draped an arm over Yuls’s shoulder. He had to stretch slightly to reach, as the Duke was taller than he had anticipated, but he masked the effort with practiced ease. “This is Woodpecker,” he announced. The revelation acted like a physical weight, crushing the noise in the hall into a heavy, suffocating silence.
There is a specific type of quiet that follows a shock so great the mind refuses to process it. Into that void, Viscount Carver’s voice finally cracked.
“I beg your pardon?”
That lone question shattered the dam. A torrent of hushed voices erupted as the nobility began to speculate wildly, their eyes fixed firmly on the trio. Yuls was no stranger to being the center of such scrutiny. This time, however, the stares lacked the old edge of malice. He realized with a touch of bitterness that his new appearance had bought him their favor. He found their shallow nature loathsome.
“You are truly His Grace, the Duke Woodpecker?”
“I would prefer not to be left waiting,” Yuls said coolly, “unless you intend to snub my greeting.”
Viscount Carver jumped, quickly seizing Yuls’s hand in a firm grip.
“I decided to arrive early for the season. Since the plenary session is approaching, I look forward to our cooperation.”
The Viscount could only nod, his mind reeling. Just a year ago, the Duke had been a mere child. Now, a fully matured man stood in his place. It seemed the curse had indeed vanished. But the mystery remained: how had it happened, and who was responsible?
The young man bore no resemblance to the royal bloodline. Only his eyes—a pale, haunting red—recalled the features of the previous Duke Woodpecker. Beyond that, he was a stranger to the family likeness, which only deepened the crowd’s shock.
Once Carver released his grip, a wave of nobles began to drift toward them, drawn by the Duke’s sudden transformation.
Claude had expected the attention, but he found he didn’t care for it. He had a natural distaste for large gatherings, particularly when he wasn’t the primary focus of the room.
With a slight scowl, Claude looked toward the lower floor. He spotted Adrina Grimaldi and Lea Lintu standing together. Though he couldn’t hear them, the warmth in Lea’s expression as she spoke to Adrina was unmistakable.
His interest was piqued, especially when he saw Marchioness Connolly approach the pair. After a brief exchange, the Marchioness began to lead Lea away.
Suddenly, the Marchioness stopped dead in her tracks.
She spun around, her face a mask of pure shock. Claude, an expert at reading lips, caught the single word she uttered.
“Malvina?”
The reaction from the man beside him was instantaneous. Claude glanced at Spencer Grimaldi and saw the Count’s features turn to stone. It made perfect sense. The Marchioness and Spencer were contemporaries; she would have known the Countess Grimaldi during their younger years in society.
“Remind me of the Countess’s name,” Claude said softly.
“…It is Yvette Grimaldi, Your Highness,” Spencer replied stiffly.
“Ah, Yvette. And her maiden name was Malvina, correct?”
Spencer remained silent.
“Yvette Malvina.”
It was clear the Marchioness recognized the resemblance. The rumors that Adrina was the image of her mother were clearly accurate.
“I have some matters to attend to downstairs,” Claude remarked, giving Yuls a parting pat on the shoulder. The surrounding nobles flinched, giving the Prince a wide berth as they tried to gauge his temperament.
Claude was pleasant enough when the mood took him, but his outbursts were legendary for their violence. Many wondered if he was offended by the Duke stealing his spotlight. While he was unusually patient with Woodpecker, no one wanted to be nearby if his temper suddenly flared.
“The Duke hasn’t been out in public for a long time,” Claude added. “Make sure he enjoys the evening.”
The Prince’s expression seemed calm, so the onlookers relaxed and began to swarm the Duke with renewed vigor. Claude leaned toward Spencer.
“Count, keep a close eye on the Duke.”
“His Grace is more than capable of looking after himself, sir.”
“I’m well aware.”
The subtext was clear: Spencer was to ensure the Duke stayed on the upper level. Spencer wasn’t pleased with the restriction, but he knew it wasn’t the right moment for him to descend to the lower floor either.
Claude cut through the throngs of people and headed for the staircase. He caught the eye of the head chamberlain—the same man who had been serving wine earlier. Claude whispered a quick instruction. The chamberlain shook his head slightly, his lips moving as if to say he was making the necessary arrangements, though the specifics remained a mystery.
Spencer pushed the Prince out of his mind. He was already being besieged by nobles looking to curry favor. It was a golden opportunity to build his political faction, and he couldn’t afford to waste it.
“This is tedious,” Yuls muttered.
To him, the spectacle was nothing but a nuisance. He wasn’t there to seek help; he was the one with the power. Every person reaching for his hand was looking for a way to use him.
“It is a necessity of your position, Your Grace,” Spencer reminded him.
“Is that not so, Viscount Carver?”
“Indeed,” Carver agreed. “Many will seek your favor now. You must learn to distinguish true allies from those who would undermine you.”
Spencer watched Carver carefully, sensing the man was already looking for a way to tether himself to the Duke’s rising star. He narrowed his eyes, thinking that as long as they were merely trying to align themselves with Woodpecker, the situation was still under control.
*
Downstairs, Claude watched Adrina as she leaned against a white wall. Her red gown was a bold choice for the heat of summer, yet it suited her perfectly, making her look like the very essence of the season.
She stood with a refined, lonely grace that seemed to ward off any potential company. She made no move to socialize, and no one dared to cross the invisible barrier she had projected.
She was a wallflower, though one far too striking for the label. To the others, she was perhaps a beautiful but venomous flower to be avoided. Claude, however, had no such fears.
“Adrina.”
She turned her head slowly toward him. Claude found himself thinking that she would look better with longer hair; while her current style was elegant, the length was in a difficult transition phase that limited her options.
Still, she was undeniably impressive. He noted that the Grimaldi household clearly employed a top-tier staff, as both she and Yuls were dressed to perfection.
“It’s quite cruel of them to leave you here all by yourself.”
Adrina looked at him with genuine confusion. She seemed completely oblivious to the social stigma of being a solitary woman at a ball. Claude felt a flicker of genuine pity for her lack of self-awareness.
“I am referring to your father and your dance partner.”
“Are you trying to be provocative?” she asked.
Claude’s brows shot up. His expression was one of feigned hurt, as if he couldn’t believe she would snap at someone who was clearly on her side.
“You must realize we are being watched,” Adrina said. “Every move the Crown Prince makes is under a microscope.”
“I only came to request a dance,” he said smoothly. “I thought it only polite to offer my greetings first.”
Adrina thought to herself that his version of ‘greetings’ was remarkably abrasive. She realized that for a man of his status, etiquette was a tool used for superiors, not those he considered beneath him. His arrogance was a natural byproduct of his upbringing.
“Besides,” Claude added, “it doesn’t bother me if people gossip or if your secrets come to light. That isn’t my concern.”
He wasn’t lying. As the Prince, he was untouchable. For Adrina, however, the consequences would be far more severe.
“So, Adrina,” he said, his eyes making it clear that she should comply if she wanted to avoid a scene. He held out his hand.
“Will you dance with me?”
Adrina looked at his hand before glancing up at the balcony. She could see the Duke and the Count watching her from above. Their stares were heavy with meaning, but she couldn’t quite grasp what they were trying to tell her. Saying nothing more, she placed her hand in Claude’s.
