Chapter 82
“Do you like it?”
Anette asked, gazing down at the bracelet fitted on Angela’s right wrist. A large turquoise gem was embedded in it, accentuating Angela’s snow-white skin in a way that, to Anette’s eyes, made it nothing short of stunning.
“How about this one? Isn’t this pretty too?”
This time, Anette gestured with her eyes toward Angela’s left wrist. There, a bracelet studded densely with purple gems sparkled. It suited Angela perfectly as well. With her fair skin and exquisite beauty, it seemed easier to find something that didn’t match her than something that did.
“Want to try this on too?”
Excited, Anette held out a jewelry box containing a necklace toward Angela. It was a necklace lined with tiny pink gems packed tightly along the chain. It was on a whole different level of splendor compared to the jewels Anette had thrust at Angela so far. It looked like it would pair well with the ring Angela was currently wearing.
“Wooow.”
At that moment, Mary, who was standing beside Angela, let out a huge gasp of admiration. Sensing it was a sound she couldn’t hold back, Anette looked at Mary and sought her agreement.
“Mary, don’t you think it’s pretty? What do you say—doesn’t it look like it would fit your mistress like it was made for her?”
“Yes! It would suit her amazingly! It’s so beautiful!”
Mary nodded vigorously, as if her head might fall off. Emboldened by that reaction, Anette urged Angela on.
“Come on, try it. Hurry.”
However, Angela still couldn’t erase the bewildered expression from her face. Anette had rushed over to the Florence estate at the crack of dawn, and her barrage of gifts had been going on for thirty minutes already, yet Angela’s face remained like that. It wasn’t as if she was unused to receiving presents.
Anette abruptly stopped her actions and turned to Angela, widening her eyes as pitifully as possible before asking.
“You don’t like it? Is it not to your taste?”
Her round, watery blue eyes stared intently at Angela. It was a gaze that made it impossible to say she disliked it. Angela let out a laugh, as if finding it absurd, then spoke firmly.
“I like them all. Thank you for everything. But you don’t have to do this…”
“Don’t say it’s fine.”
Anette shot up one hand to cut off Angela’s words. She had a feeling that the very words she didn’t want to hear were about to come out of her mouth.
“I’m feeling so guilty right now, like I want to kneel before Lady Bilton and beg for forgiveness, so please don’t say it’s fine and make me want to bite my tongue off.”
At Anette’s rapid-fire words, Angela chuckled softly. Seeing that face reminded Anette of the moment she’d splashed tea on her, and she felt like she just wanted to die. She should cut off her own hands.
“Don’t laugh. Don’t smile at me either. I don’t deserve Lady Bilton’s kindness.”
As she continued pouring out self-deprecating words, Angela finally had Mary fasten the necklace Anette had offered around her neck. It fit as if it had found its rightful owner. Only after seeing that did Anette’s expression brighten considerably.
Then, realizing that even this had turned into forcing Angela to accept her apology, Anette wanted to bash her head against something again.
Perhaps noticing the rapid shift in her expression, Angela smiled and spoke up.
“You really don’t have to do this. Didn’t I tell you? I know it wasn’t His Majesty’s will.”
Anette had heard the explanation from Angela about the entity known as Grace. Only then did Anette understand that she had been manipulated into acting that way. Even so, the guilt didn’t disappear.
Moreover, after doing something like that, she wished she could at least remember the place in the Taran Kingdom where she’d encountered that Grace woman and offer some help, but nothing came to mind. She must have slipped in among the people, glanced at Anette, and left.
“I won’t let Rasill, that bastard, get away with it.”
The moment she heard about Grace, Anette had also become certain about her father’s death. She murmured this while staring at the necklace glittering around Angela’s neck.
Soon, the necklace swayed. It was because Angela had nodded along with Anette.
“I won’t let Grace get away with it.”
It was a vow directed at each other.
Watching the two of them alternately, Mary pondered deeply in her mind about whom she should vow not to let get away with it.
* * *
As Kalian entered the audience chamber, he stepped onto the blue carpet leading up to the emperor. His strides were bold and precise, each one maintaining the exact same length without a single deviation.
A attendant, who had been staring blankly at this inhumanly perfect demeanor and forgotten his role, hurriedly called out.
“Count Kalian Florence arrives!”
The attendant, having fulfilled his duty belatedly, clamped his mouth shut and subtly stepped back. In the meantime, Kalian reached the front of Truega and performed the proper courtesy as a subject.
“I present myself before Your Majesty the Emperor.”
Truega, receiving this greeting that was the very model of a knight’s, waited eagerly for Kalian’s lips to part. His shoulders leaned slightly forward.
“The coronation of King Rasill in the Taran Kingdom has concluded successfully.”
However, disappointment clouded Truega’s face at this report that missed his expectations. He had hoped for some internal incident in the Taran Kingdom before the coronation, but it seemed that wish had been in vain.
“And.”
Moreover, the next words seemed to be even worse news, as a hint of tension seeped into Kalian’s otherwise expressionless face.
“Sir Tristan has lost contact with the Third Prince of the Taran Kingdom.”
Truega’s face contorted, etching every wrinkle into place.
The Third Prince of the Taran Kingdom was a man of excellent character, called the stuff of kings among his brothers and subjects alike. If not for Rasill, the Taran Kingdom would have been under his rule.
That was why he had been the most proactive in efforts to depose Rasill, and unlike Rasill, he valued a peaceful relationship with Phaelon.
Yet contact was lost? Right after the coronation had just ended—had he already been dealt with? A look of disbelief crossed Truega’s face.
“Since it’s only contact with Sir Tristan that’s been severed, we’ll need to investigate the detailed situation within the Taran Kingdom separately.”
However, the situation was unlikely to turn out positively. And Kalian surely knew that as well.
Kalian had long since dispatched his knights as sentinels to the ceded territories of the Taran Kingdom, the region most exposed to danger.
It was only a matter of time before war broke out. And when it did, it was clear that this conflict would not end as a small-scale skirmish. Evidence of Rasill’s seething ambition was cropping up everywhere.
“What happens if the Third Prince’s misfortune is confirmed?”
Truega’s question prompted Kalian to look up at him directly, delivering his report. The edges of his lips were firm, weighed down by the gravity of the phrase “the Third Prince’s misfortune.” The worst-case scenario.
“In terms of military strength, excluding the Third Prince, Your Majesty Anette holds the greatest advantage. However, as she is the Empress of Phaelon, if we set her aside as well, the difference becomes negligible.”
Though Kalian spoke of military rankings, Truega was not unaware that the words encompassed an evaluation of the qualities required of a ruler. After all, the size of a force was often a direct testament to the ability to command it.
Truega’s thoughts wandered. Would it be better to escalate the war and swallow the Taran Kingdom whole? Rather than letting it wither under a foolish monarch, that might be the better course. When was the last time Phaelon’s borders had shifted?
“Your Majesty.”
But the fleeting spark of greed was snuffed out before it could take root, exposed by a loyal vassal.
“The era of peace has only just begun. The outskirts may still be restless, but that is the soldiers’ concern. The people are only now breathing a sigh of relief. Do not command them to take up pickaxes and scythes to defend this land once more.”
At Kalian’s words, Truega extinguished the ember of ambition that had nearly caught fire. He trampled the sprouting greed back into the soil. Expanding territory was important, but land without its people was nothing but ruins.
The long wars of conquest had only just lost their meaning and settled into quiet. The hearts of the weary populace were finally seeing sunlight. There was no need to lose that now.
“The Count speaks wisely.”
Kalian’s words were so direct that the attendant, who had been clenching his fists in tension, let out a great sigh of relief.
Catching the sound, the Emperor flicked his gaze toward the attendant, who flinched and bowed his head. Truega then turned his eyes back to Kalian.
What followed was an entirely impulsive remark.
“Summon Ian.”
Ian.
The Crown Prince of the Phaelon Empire, born to Truega and his first Empress.
Now grown, he was wandering foreign lands, claiming to learn about the world.
Kalian, as if fully understanding the weight of abruptly summoning such a figure, merely bowed and said, “Yes, Your Majesty,” without a single question. His face remained impassive.
Truega had spoken on impulse, irked that Kalian seemed to be handling all the duties befitting a crown prince alone. Yet seeing Kalian accept the order so matter-of-factly made Truega feel petty and foolish.
Still, he had no intention of retracting the command. Broadening one’s horizons by traveling was important, but if war was to break out, Ian needed to be present, to see and learn from it.
Kalian promised to return with reports as soon as he received news from the Taran Kingdom and left the audience chamber. To the end, he maintained the demeanor of a courteous and loyal knight.
“Hah.”
But once outside the audience chamber, Kalian’s face transformed entirely. His stride through the palace corridors carried a menacing edge. The mask of loyalty was cast aside, replaced by a visage brimming with irritation and sharp emotion.
Ian.
The very name that had slipped from the Emperor’s lips was the cause.
The moment that name reached his ears, Kalian nearly lost the composure he had so carefully maintained. He wanted to demand why the Emperor would summon him. It was a statement that could cast doubt on his loyalty. Only through sheer, stubborn endurance had he managed to hold his tongue and leave.
To think he would have to summon Ian with his own hands.
Kalian let out a derisive scoff. Of all people in Phaelon, he was the one who least wanted Ian to return.
* * *
“Your Highness.”
“…”
“Your Highness? Your Highness!”
Cecil, shaking a man sprawled carelessly asleep in the grass, grabbed a cup of water from a nearby lake when he showed no signs of stirring.
“I’m up, I’m up.”
Just as she was about to splash it on his face, the man bolted upright, waving a hand in the air.
“Put that down, Cecil. Now.”
The Crown Prince of the Phaelon Empire, Ian, had an air as bracing as the icy lake water.
“Cecil?”
Only after her name was called again did Cecil toss the water she’d meant for Ian’s face into the nearby bushes and stow the cup in her pack.
“Cecil, if we were in the palace, you’d be executed. You know that?”
“Fine, go ahead and execute me. It’d be better than dealing with this mess and that.”
Ian’s playful remark was met with a curt retort from his attendant, Cecil. Her words were layered with pent-up frustration at the wanderlust of the Crown Prince.
And they were utterly sincere. Wandering through unknown lands, unable to set foot in the palace—wouldn’t execution there at least bring some peace of mind? She’d nearly died from snakebites, from eating poisonous herbs, and now, having wandered into a desolate place with no sign of human life, she felt she might die of loneliness.
Sure, Ian was with her, but frankly, Cecil thought she’d be better off without this prince.
This wretched man. What great sin had she committed in a past life to deserve this?
“Why’d you wake me?”
“Oh, a messenger bird arrived.”
Mid-lament, Cecil shifted her demeanor and handed Ian the note brought by the bluebird.
“What’s the news?”
As Ian’s expression grew increasingly ambiguous while reading the note, Cecil asked. Folding the note, Ian replied calmly.
“War clouds are gathering with the Taran Kingdom.”
“We need to hurry back, then!”
Cecil’s face lit up as she shouted. It wasn’t the right thing to say with war looming, but the thought of returning to Phaelon filled her with joy. Ian let out a short laugh and stood.
“I was already on my way back.”
He brushed off his clothes, shaking off clinging blades of grass, and spoke casually.
“We’re already near Phaelon.”
“Here… you say?”
Cecil scanned the unfamiliar forest, where towering trees enveloped everything, making it hard to see even ten steps ahead. And this was the way to Phaelon?
“Yes, it’s been a while. My Phaelon.”
