Chapter 52
Caw, caw—the crows foraging for food perched on barren branches and let out an eerie cry. The black crows clustered together, staring at the newly arrived party of the Emperor’s investigators.
Surprisingly, the Evil Dragon Kaslante had been quiet through last winter, but Lüsenford remained on high alert. If the Evil Dragon rampaged or barbarians invaded during sowing season, the entire year’s harvest would be at risk.
In truth, Lüsenford was gloomy and bleak, with even arable land being so barren. To eyes from Kline, where spring had fully bloomed and summer loomed on the horizon, it seemed all the more so.
No matter how one looked at it, this was far too savage a place for a bright young lady from the vibrant south.
The rough stares of the Lüsenford folk, wary of outsiders, prickled like thorns. Unlike Kline, everything here felt crude, exhausted from endless war, and fiercely intimidating all at once.
The investigators had come to probe the incident where the new Duchess had nearly died, and they thought it was no wonder she might find this place grueling.
“Welcome. We bid you welcome to Lüsenford. His Grace the Grand Duke awaits you inside.”
To think he was waiting inside when he should have been rushing out breathless to receive the Emperor’s command. Did the Grand Duke not grasp the gravity of this? Well, the Lüsenford Grand Duke had always been known as exceedingly arrogant given his birth.
Clink, clink—the investigators climbed the stairs amid the sound of swords clanging against metal fittings and entered Lüsenford Castle, which yawned open like the maw of a pitch-black cavern.
He might be the Kranian Empire’s one and only Grand Duke, but he was a Grand Duke in name only—less capable even than a border count defending the frontier. What right did the Lüsenford Grand Duke have to hold his head so stiffly high?
If he had brought His Imperial Majesty’s precious niece here only to nearly let her die after mere days, that was dereliction of duty. The crime was grave indeed.
Several heavy, thick doors opened without a sound. Squelching mud was scattered everywhere, and the interior was darker and colder than the achromatic, barren outdoors.
The castle stood as a massive fortress, its stones—imbued with biting chill and interlocked without gaps—bearing the ponderous weight of ages.
Enormous axes, spears, and shields so massive one doubted any man could wield them hung on every wall, while arrow slits and crossbows lined every window. It was a place that could transform into a battlefield at any instant.
“Your Grace.”
The man who ruled this gloomy fortress stood alone in the hall, his broad, expansive back turned toward the investigators.
Even that silhouette alone filled the investigator with intimidation. They said those from Kline went mad after just a few years here, so the man who dominated this place was clearly no ordinary soul. Perhaps not human at all.
Would a man like that even spare a thought for the young Duchess?
The Grand Duke, who daunted even seasoned warriors, turned around. He possessed sharp, weighty eyes and an forbidding presence no one could approach lightly.
The investigator, receiving that gaze head-on, desperately tried not to flinch—but flinched anyway. Renowned as an honorable knight even in Kline, he felt his pride sting belatedly. But it was a familiar occurrence, so he let it go quickly.
“Grand Duke.”
He snapped his fist to his chest and saluted with crisp precision. Regardless of anything else, there was no denying the man commanded respect as a knight.
“You’ve come, Knight. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed, it has.”
Formal, stiff greetings were exchanged. Pheon, informed in advance by courier of who the investigator was upon reaching Lüsenford’s borders, didn’t even muster a sneer this time.
Would the Emperor, who had sent Beatrice away, have been careless in selecting the investigator? The man was young. And he was actual blood kin to Pheon.
Knight Isidore Dakiten—captain at Kline’s checkpoint gate and cousin to the currently fallen Empress—shared his black hair and cool mouthline but otherwise gazed at the far superior, gloomier Grand Duke with complicated eyes.
The Grand Duke, the Empress’s sole child from her womb, seemed to be waiting for him to speak.
“His Imperial Majesty, sovereign of our sacred Kranian Empire, has issued a decree.”
“I shall gladly obey.”
To Pheon, Isidore was a first cousin once removed, the heir to the title passed down in the Dakiten family. Before this cousin, forever at the Emperor’s beck and call, he drew out and read the imperial decree.
Of course, the excessive flowery preambles and honorifics at the start were so profuse that Pheon focused less on them and more on the light, dainty footsteps approaching from over there.
“……and thus, to Lüsenford Duchess Kaella de Shasser, a member of the imperial family……”
Naturally, even after marriage, the phrasing that slapped only her premarital surname onto her occasionally yanked at his nerves, but it was mostly fine.
Divorce or no, Kaella de Shasser would remain Kaella de Shasser. What meaning was there in tacking on Ferraro—his own surname, bestowed by his mother, whose origins he didn’t even know?
“……Lüsenford must reveal everything openly to the world, and above all, ensure that the victim, Lüsenford Duchess and Ostein Duke’s Daughter, suffers no injustice whatsoever, by conducting a thorough investigation in accordance with imperial law. Lüsenford is commanded to cooperate fully with the Emperor’s investigator. That is all.”
Even before his regression, the Emperor had feigned concern for his orphaned niece, sending such decree-like missives full of petty nitpicks to grate on Pheon and the Lüsenford people’s pride. In the end, it only narrowed Kaella’s position, leaving her alone to bear the glares.
An emperor who had orphaned his niece out of greed for her inheritance would never truly care for her.
It was all for show—a scheme to suppress Pheon and Lüsenford. The Emperor reveled in wielding imperial authority in just such ways.
“This matter must of course be reported in full to His Imperial Majesty as well. I feel great responsibility myself, so investigate to your heart’s content during your stay here.”
Beneath the investigator’s glance of what can you do, Pheon recited his formal lines.
“All the incident reports have been gathered for your review, so check them over. Speak up for anything you need. We must of course obey the imperial command, so Lüsenford will exert its best efforts.”
With Pheon’s declaration like that, the Lüsenford people had no choice but to cooperate, willing or not.
“I must interview Her Grace. Is she well?”
“See for yourself.”
At the curt reply, as Knight Isidore Dakiten opened his mouth to say more, the dim hall brightened. No one had lit any fires—it simply felt as though the cold, cavernous hall had grown a touch brighter and warmer.
Into the hall, where knights armed with deadly weapons stood guard at every entrance, stepped a petite lady in a soft dress of abundant fabric—nothing like the thick uniforms and armor.
“Huh?”
And upon entering, she rounded her eyes wide, then broke into an unbelievably radiant smile.
“Brother!”
Who was this that the ever-poised young Duchess called “brother” so freely?
The one who had once been called “brother” nearly stepped toward her without thinking but checked himself. Kaella was smiling—Kaella, who hadn’t properly smiled since before their marriage. Smiling not at him, but at his cousin who so resembled him.
Isidore strode forward and saluted with the same crisp formality as he had to Pheon. But the look in his eyes wasn’t as cold as when facing Pheon.
“Your Grace.”
The delight at seeing her again was mutual for Isidore.
“Brother— no…….”
Ah, she’d slipped up from sheer joy. If the Lüsenford people learned the Emperor’s investigator was close to the Duchess, the looks they’d give her wouldn’t be kind. Kaella pressed her lips tight once, then parted them again.
Fingering the poison vial tucked habitually into the little inner pocket of her dress, she spoke in a calmer, softer voice.
“It’s good to see you again since the wedding, Knight Dakiten. Are the Marquis and Marchioness well?”
“They are in good health. Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. And how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. I’ve recovered quite a bit.”
Kaella answered as she reluctantly turned her steps toward Pheon.
“I heard you’d fallen ill from the food, Your Grace.”
“That’s what happened.”
But the voice and manner she’d deliberately made more dignified and solemn especially in Lüsenford sounded just a little different. A glimpse of the lively spark befitting her twenty-one years peeked through—something she’d thought lost forever.
As he watched Kaella approach him, Pheon felt an excruciating deprivation and thirst he hadn’t even realized until now.
“Grand Duke.”
She offered her greeting. He couldn’t recall how Kaella—who had lost her vitality day by day until she withered away to dust—had ever smiled so brightly, or how her voice would lift when she was in a good mood.
He observed her voice tone, the way she directed her gaze, the curve of her lips, even the movement of her facial muscles, with utmost attention.
He had tried to ferret out the discomforts or hardships she wouldn’t voice to him, but in truth, it had all been an effort to find even the slightest smile or spark of life on that face of hers, so finely sculpted it resembled a porcelain doll.
Even the mere brush of that lively smile passing by—even her eyes crinkling for a moment—delivered a massive shock to Pheon.
He wanted to see more. More of that faint vitality filling her pale face. Just a little more, more, more. Please, more.
Fill this horrific void.
“Have you come, my lady?”
Pheon’s response came out cracked. There was a black, bottomless void within him that even he himself didn’t know about.
He didn’t know when it had formed or even that it existed—a hollow space only Kaella could fill. So deep was it that he had no idea what to do.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m fine. It’s much warmer now.”
Kaella came to stand beside him.
He had thought her mere existence was enough, but now the endless hell he had discovered kept reaching out toward her. Smile just a little more. What must he do to make her smile more? His thoughts tangled, rolling uncontrollably in that direction.
“How is Her Imperial Majesty the Empress? Has there been any improvement in her health?”
Kaella asked after the Empress—surely what Pheon was most curious about. Knight Isidore Dakiten was the Empress’s nephew and heir to the Alemichi marquisate, after all; he might know something.
“No new word has come even after the two of you wed and departed for Lüsenford. She remains…….”
Isidore shook his head. The Empress showing no improvement was sad news for the Lüsenford people as well.
Confined to the imperial palace, the Empress had struggled however she could to support the land where her son lived. The locals made vital use of whatever grains or weapons she managed to send.
“I see. And His Imperial Majesty?”
“His Imperial Majesty is sunk in profound grief. Despite summoning countless physicians, there’s no sign of Her Majesty stirring, and he grieves deeply. On top of that, receiving word of Your Grace’s unfortunate incident has left him in a terribly foul mood.”
When the Duchess collapsed from that bastard Turbéry’s doing, the Lüsenford nobles who had foreseen repercussions this far trembled in fear.
Even those who hadn’t known and thought, What’s that? What’s the problem? now groveled flat, merely gauging moods. To dare ignore the Emperor’s precious niece, the Ostein Duke’s Daughter born in Langpalar Palace.
The Emperor’s investigator, clad in gleaming white and gold armor, had brought knights bearing swords and spears in abundance.
Their imposing presence and opulence utterly cowed the Lüsenford folk. Before them, only the Grand Duke and Duchess—who had long witnessed imperial glory and majesty up close—remained unflappable.
“As the Grand Duke responsible for Lüsenford, I believe that incident never should have happened, and it is an indelible sin against Her Grace—but you as investigator will judge accordingly. Lodging has been prepared, so begin your investigation.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, Your Grace. Then, shall we start right away?”
Pheon nodded silently. Kaella seemed to have many questions for Isidore Dakiten. He was captain of the Kline checkpoint guard and heir to the Empress’s birth family to boot—and just happened to be of an age with Kaella.
Pheon and Kaella were a full seven years apart, but the Crown Prince, Kaella, and Isidore were near-peers, differing by only a year or two. So in a way, it was only natural for Kaella to feel closer to Isidore.
Kline checkpoint captain turned imperial investigator this time—quite the promotion. The Emperor, who had elevated the Empress’s mere baronial Dakiten family, no doubt intended to keep promoting Isidore.
He had first promoted the Dakiten barony to duchy amid outcry over the forced marriage to a baron’s daughter of mismatched station, only to demote it back to marquisate upon the Empress bearing Pheon, decrying betrayal—a petty bit of history aside.
“Your Grace. Are you busy?”
Kaella turned to ask Pheon. He recalled her from before the marriage—desperately fleeing the Ostein townhouse toward the checkpoint, her body burning like fire yet forcing herself onward.
She had thrashed in desperation, as if there might be a way through the gate. Even with the Emperor’s administrators out inspecting the checkpoint, she had braved the risk to attempt escape.
“What is it?”
“I have something to discuss privately.”
Had she known the checkpoint captain, Isidore Dakiten, well enough to beg escape from him? Would Isidore Dakiten betray his family to help Kaella flee? Were the two that close?
“The head maid has caught wind of the steward’s corruption.”
The vast void he’d just discovered—impossible to believe—kept nitpicking irrelevancies. Isidore Dakiten resembled Pheon quite closely. Plenty said from afar they could pass for brothers.
Perhaps even before the regression, Kaella hadn’t been seeing him but seeking Isidore in him?
No, that’s a leap. Too far.
Pheon quickly dismissed the thought. But it wouldn’t fade easily.
“She’s insisting we investigate.”
“You’ve gained an extra hand.”
“Yes.”
In their harsh marriage, there had been no chance whatsoever for Kaella to like him or hold any fondness. She had likely hated and despised him instead. Their doomed union had ended with the husband confining his wife, after all.
Trapped in the tower, starving because her incompetent husband couldn’t even secure food—how bitterly must she have cursed him then. No way she had liked him. So it all fit if she’d hated the marriage enough to attempt flight even before it.
Kaella had never liked him, not even a little.
Hey, check this out! Looks like Kaella has a crush on you!
Beatrice’s voice—cackling as she dragged out the gift Kaella had carefully hidden for him, mocking it—only conjured the image of teary-eyed Kaella. She had never once told him she liked him.
Are you insane? Don’t you know I’m dating Pheon? What the hell is this?
Stop it, Beatrice.
Ah, let go!
Kaella. Go. Hurry up and go.
Hey!
Go now!
Never once had she said it. Had she truly liked him—the one she’d embarrassingly forced away?
Just reckoning with the past made his breath catch presumptuously; he reined himself in. He needed to slap himself awake. He didn’t even have the right to suffer.
“I hope the investigation goes smoothly. Having Isidore—my brother—here might turn out to be fortunate.”
But why on earth did she think Isidore Dakiten’s arrival was such a relief?
And above all, Pheon was no longer “brother” but “Your Grace"—so why the hell was that bastard still “brother”?
