Episode 93
* * *
The dining hall of Bilton Manor buzzed with life, welcoming its master after a long absence.
The cook, upon hearing from a servant that Dominic would take his breakfast in the dining hall and to prepare accordingly, had tears welling in his eyes, murmuring about how long it had been.
Each day, he had sent up watery soup to his master’s chamber, only to see it return barely touched, his heart burning with frustration. No news could have been more welcome than this.
As a result, the dishes he painstakingly crafted were a feast for the senses, their rich aromas teasing the palate even before a single bite. The food, meticulously arranged on the table, seemed to sate one’s hunger just by looking at it. The mere sight was enough to make one’s mouth water.
Yet, from a distance, one servant’s gaze lingered on Dominic with an air of ambiguity. This was the servant who, day after day, followed Dominic to Angela’s room and stood guard at her door.
He studied Dominic closely. Seated upright, dining with refined precision, Dominic was the very image of the master he had always known. Indeed, this was the familiar figure he expected.
But perhaps because of the stark contrast with the Dominic he had seen in recent days, something felt off. The servant couldn’t shake the peculiar sensation that he was looking at a stranger, not his master.
What’s more, last night, Dominic hadn’t visited Angela’s room as he did so faithfully. Instead, he spent the entire night in his own chambers and emerged with orders to prepare a proper meal.
The pallor that once marked his face, withered by longing for his daughter, now seemed strikingly vibrant. The change was abrupt, almost jarring.
One might think the servant should rejoice that the precarious, grief-driven steps Dominic took in the dead of night had finally ceased. Yet, an unsettling feeling gnawed at him.
The master sitting there, eating his meal, felt too unfamiliar. Each clink of cutlery made the servant’s fingers twitch involuntarily.
* * *
“Last night, the nobles came calling,” Truaga said to Kalian, who stood in the center of the emperor’s audience chamber.
Kalian, well aware of the reason for the late-night audience, responded with a calm nod, his expression composed.
“And yet, I’m still not convinced,” Truaga continued, gesturing to an attendant.
At his signal, the attendant presented a document—military papers Kalian had submitted for approval, notably excluding the Bilton family’s deployment. Truaga took the papers, his eyes scanning the contents with grave intensity before he spoke again.
“Is this truly the best course?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Kalian replied without hesitation.
His resolute demeanor prompted Truaga to exhale sharply through his nose and mouth. On the day Angela Bilton, the eldest daughter of the Bilton dukedom, had come to him and revealed her father’s compromised state, Truaga had already affixed his seal to this document.
A war without Duke Bilton was unsettling, but placing an unreliable commander at the heart of the battlefield was unthinkable.
Still, Truaga hadn’t returned the document to Kalian, unable to shake the unease of facing such an unprecedented situation. Comparing the reported military numbers of the Phaelon Empire and the Tarlan Kingdom only deepened his disquiet. The absence of the Biltons alone had narrowed the gap so significantly.
But Truaga knew he had no choice but to hand the approved document to Kalian. Whispers of war had been circulating for ages, and he couldn’t keep waiting for Dominic, who hadn’t shown his face even once.
Moreover, Kalian stood before him with an unshakably serene expression, one that banished any thought of defeat. That conviction swayed Truaga.
“Very well. The best course, you say.”
With a low murmur and a deliberate nod, Truaga handed the document back to the attendant, gesturing toward Kalian to indicate it should be given to him.
“You must not lose a single inch of the ceded territories,” Truaga pressed, his voice firm.
He had no intention of seeing Phaelon’s borders shrink, not even by a fraction, as long as he sat on the throne. The empire was to expand outward, always.
“I will honor Your Majesty’s trust,” Kalian replied, accepting the document from the attendant with the same steady expression.
War was unpredictable, even in the most favorable conditions, yet Kalian’s unwavering demeanor inspired confidence. Truaga nodded sincerely.
Kalian began to report on future plans in a voice as steady as his expression.
“The Konrad earldom will depart for the ceded territories at dawn tomorrow. Following that…”
It was then that an attendant burst through the entrance of the audience chamber, his urgency halting Kalian’s words as Truaga raised a hand.
The attendant hurried to Truaga’s side, whispering something in his ear. Truaga’s eyes widened momentarily, fixed on the attendant.
“What should be done?” the attendant asked.
Truaga glanced at Kalian, then gave a brief nod—permission granted. The attendant acknowledged it and swiftly exited. As Kalian stood, puzzled, a booming voice echoed from behind.
“Duke Dominic Bilton enters!”
Kalian’s jaw clenched. In the midst of a private audience with the emperor, he resisted the urge to turn and satisfy his curiosity, suppressing the fleeting anxiety within him. Instead, he kept his gaze firmly on Truaga.
But Truaga’s eyes were already locked on Dominic, unable to look away. Perhaps it was only natural—Dominic had practically shaped the map of modern Phaelon.
“I present myself before Your Majesty,” Dominic declared.
He stood before Truaga, utterly transformed from the man Kalian had last seen. Gone was the reckless figure who had drawn his sword in a desperate bid to protect Angela. In his place was a robust, confident man, radiating the authority befitting a pillar of the empire.
“You have some nerve showing your face after causing me such grief,” Truaga said, his tone almost petulant despite his age.
“It took time to shed my burdens. I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty,” Dominic replied with an exaggerated chuckle, his appearance far too pristine for someone claiming to have been unwell.
Kalian sensed it immediately—the document in his hand was about to be snatched away. Truaga’s eyes, fixed unwaveringly on Dominic, foretold the future. He gazed at the duke as if he were a savior.
“Do you even know what we were discussing? We were talking about waging war against the Tarlan Kingdom without you. How do you intend to take responsibility for this?” Truaga teased, nodding toward the document in Kalian’s hand.
“I’ll take responsibility by leading the campaign,” Dominic replied with a hearty laugh, as if stating the obvious.
Watching the two exchange words so amicably, Kalian subtly pressed his teeth together, careful not to let it show.
* * *
“Your Highness.”
At Cecil’s call, Ian yanked the blanket up over his head, covering even his shoulders. The sun was still high in the sky, but for Ian, who lived like an owl, it might as well have been the dead of night.
“Your Highness. Your Highness, please get up. Come on, now.”
Cecil chattered away, tugging the blanket back down. Ian glared at him through sleep-heavy eyes, his expression clearly asking why Cecil was doing this when he’d seen him stay up all night with his own eyes.
But Cecil, as if deaf to Ian’s silent protest, began scrubbing a damp cloth across Ian’s face without warning.
“Get the sleep out of your eyes, and tidy up your clothes.”
Tidy up his clothes? It was just pajamas. Ian was about to retort when he caught sight of a face behind Cecil. In the bright daylight, it was unmistakably Kalian’s face, looking even more irritating than usual.
What’s he doing here? Ian’s eyes demanded an explanation from Cecil. Cecil, with a sheepish look, silently pleaded that he didn’t know much himself but had let Kalian in because he seemed so urgent.
“Ahem.”
Embarrassed at being caught in such a state, Ian ruffled the back of his hair and slid out of bed. Kalian’s expression was impassive, but Ian, feeling awkward, spoke in a brusque tone to cover it.
“Storming into the Crown Prince’s bedchamber like this? That’s a grave offense, Count.”
“The one who let me in is Your Highness’s attendant, so any blame should fall on him,” Kalian replied.
It was a fair point, but the flat, unruffled tone grated on Ian’s nerves. He jerked his chin toward the table, gesturing carelessly.
“If you’ve got something to say, sit.”
Ian strode to the table and sat first. Kalian took the seat across from him, meeting Ian’s gaze. Ian’s eyes, in turn, slanted toward Kalian.
For a moment, they stared at each other, the silence heavy with no particular purpose, until Kalian finally spoke.
“I know how Your Highness feels about Angela.”
The words came out of nowhere. Ian had wondered what could be so urgent to rouse the Crown Prince from his sleep, and this was it?
It wasn’t even surprising. Ian knew that Kalian knew. They’d both avoided mentioning it until now, aware that bringing it up would do no good for either of them.
So why was Kalian dredging it up now? Curiosity piqued, Ian studied him more closely.
“I plan to take Angela with me on this campaign.”
The next words were even more absurd. Ian shot to his feet, his voice rising in outrage.
“What? Have you lost your mind, Count?”
Ian wasn’t the type to explode like this. He preferred to let things flow, to glide through life. Even when he felt Angela had been stolen by Kalian, he hadn’t lashed out with what he had. Instead, he’d chosen strange, petty ways to torment him.
Kalian, knowing this, felt a flicker of relief despite facing someone he’d rather avoid. It could only be Ian.
“There are circumstances.”
“What circumstances justify dragging my fiancée into a warzone?”
Ian shouted, then sank back into his chair, glaring at Kalian with a slouch, as if daring him to explain these so-called circumstances.
“It’s difficult to explain the details right now,” Kalian said, and as Ian looked ready to leap up again, he quickly added, “It’s about Angela’s situation. I’m as reluctant as you are, but I have no choice but to take her. And because of that, I have a request.”
Only then did Ian straighten, seeming ready to listen. As expected, when it came to Angela, no one in the world—save perhaps Kalian himself—would react as intensely as Ian.
That was why Kalian had come to Ian with this request, and no one else.
“If anything happens to me on the battlefield, please ensure Angela is safely brought back to Ron.”
Kalian had realized it the moment he faced Dominic alone after leaving the audience chamber. The look in Dominic’s eyes told him the enemy wasn’t only out there.
The thought came naturally: it might not just be enemy soldiers putting a blade to his throat on the battlefield. He hoped it was just a feeling, but bad premonitions had a way of becoming reality.
“Of course I would. Even without your request,” Ian snapped, his tone laced with irritation.
But as he spoke, he swallowed hard, wondering if Kalian had somehow sensed the fleeting thought he’d had of an enemy cutting Kalian’s throat under false pretenses.
Why else would someone like Kalian, of all people, say something so weak? The image of a triumphal march without Kalian was now hard to imagine. So why, all of a sudden?
“I knew Your Highness would say that,” Kalian replied, his voice carrying a genuine note of relief.
With Ian’s firm assurance, Kalian rose from his seat, as if there was no reason to linger.
“Wait, you’re leaving already? I had refreshments prepared,” Cecil stammered, carrying in a tray of treats Ian hadn’t even ordered.
“I’ll consider them enjoyed,” Kalian said, and with that, he left Ian’s room.
Cecil couldn’t tear his eyes from Kalian’s pristine retreating figure, his mouth agape as if he’d fallen in love at first sight.
“Cecil, you’re drooling,” Ian pointed out.
Cecil, snapping out of it, set the untouched refreshments in front of Ian and muttered, “Wow, what’s it like to serve such a proper master?”
“Cecil, care to find out what it feels like to be dew on the gallows?” Ian shot back.
At the grim remark, Cecil clamped his mouth shut, shrugged, and poured tea into Ian’s cup until it nearly overflowed.
Ian, oblivious to the tea, was lost in thought, replaying Kalian’s words.
He didn’t know the exact reason, but somehow, he felt like he’d lost to Kalian again.
