IWAPUF 29

The chief designer of Louiasha completed her work with a final adjustment to the hem of my skirt.
She gazed at me with a warm, satisfied smile, as though her efforts had culminated in something
truly remarkable.
“Your hair is all done too,” announced another designer from Louiasha, her hands withdrawing
from my carefully styled locks.
Anasha, with a gentle smile, closed an empty box—perhaps one that had held some accessory or
finishing touch. “It’s perfect,” she said, her voice carrying a note of quiet pride.
And she was right—it *was* perfect. Every piece adorning me had been crafted with painstaking
care by everyone connected to Louiasha, designed solely for me, to fit me flawlessly. Anything
less than perfection would have been unthinkable.
“Since I’m even going so far as to be your walking advertisement, I assume there’ll be some
reward for my efforts, yes?” I said, a playful lilt in my voice.
“Oh my!” Anasha exclaimed, laughing. “Everything in the business already belongs to you,
Beonne, and yet you’re still so greedy!”
“I’m greedier than you might think,” I countered with a grin. “Even if I had all the money in the
world, I might still nag everyone that it’s not enough. So, you’d all better keep up!”
Anasha and the Louiasha staff erupted into bright, bubbling laughter, the sound filling the room
like a burst of sunlight.
I reached out a hand toward Lant. He grasped it quickly, pulling me to my feet with an eager
strength. But as I prepared to step outside under his escort, his face darkened abruptly, a shadow
crossing his youthful features. I ran my fingers through his navy-blue hair, tousling it gently.
Lant, still shy of adulthood, couldn’t join me at my coming-of-age ceremony. The disappointment
seemed to weigh on him, as though he longed to follow me to the celebration.
“Just wait four years,” I teased softly. “By then, even if you try to run off complaining, I’ll drag
you back to escort me to the party myself.”
His cheeks flushed a soft pink as he nodded, a shy agreement in the tilt of his head. I smoothed his
hair with an affectionate stroke.
“Is it really all right for me to attend?” Anasha asked, her voice tentative, her expression clouded
with unease as she looked at me.
Uninvited guests were barred from the party—that was the rule. Back then, I hadn’t extended an
invitation to her for my coming-of-age ceremony and wedding. It had seemed only natural; I
didn’t see her as an equal among the nobility. So, at that time, she’d been excluded.
“Of course it’s fine,” I replied, my tone firm yet kind.
“But I…” Her words faltered, and she lowered her eyes, unable to finish. She didn’t need to—I
understood. Though she now bore the title of countess, her roots were those of a commoner. That
mark, like an indelible shadow, would trail her to her grave.
Officially, she was a noble, granted a middle name as the legitimate wife of Count Pison, but such
distinctions were mere ink on parchment. In the unforgiving arena of high society, they held no
sway.
Nobles were a breed apart, their pride in their lineage piercing the heavens. To them,
acknowledging a noble of common birth was unthinkable. True, some commoners ascended to
nobility through marriage or extraordinary deeds, but most floundered in the social currents, cast
aside by their peers.
This was truer for women than men. A common-born man might earn a title through valor as a
knight, but such honors were life peerages, unpassable to his heirs. To the old blood, he remained
little more than a commoner in borrowed finery.
The real contention lay in rank gained through marriage. A woman’s status hinged on her
husband’s. Thus, a commoner like Anasha, wed formally to a count, could claim the title of
countess. It was a steep path, but not an impossible one. Yet no noble welcomed a commoner
outranking them. Those who climbed through matrimony were pariahs to the established elite.
Spreading rumors or offering cold shoulders were petty slights by comparison—exclusion was
routine, and any vulnerability invited public disgrace.
Nor did the scorn stop with the newcomers. It tainted anyone who dared associate with them. That
was Anasha’s fear.
“Anasha,” I said, my voice steady, “I could never consider you family.”
Her head sank lower, a tremor of hurt in her posture. My blunt words drew startled glances from
Lant and the Louiasha staff, their eyes wide with shock.
“But I *do* see you as a friend,” I added gently.
Her head snapped up, surprise rounding her eyes, which shimmered with unshed tears.
“It’s only natural for a friend to attend another’s coming-of-age celebration,” I said. “So, stand
tall.”
As Beonne Rossa Eliont, legitimate daughter of Marquess Eliont and fiancée to the crown prince,
I stood beyond open reproach. Should anyone dare, it would be no concern of mine—such people
offered me nothing of value. I knew the machinations of high society well. If I held my ground
with resolve, they wouldn’t touch me. My rank and lineage granted me that power; how I wielded
it was my choice alone. And I had no intention of yielding.
I turned and left the room, Anasha lingering behind me. A murmur of voices rose in my wake, a
ripple of astonishment. Lant, still clasping my hand, tightened his grip.
“I like you, sister,” he said, his voice earnest.
“I like you too, Lant,” I replied, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “Though it’d be even better if you
dropped that ‘sister’ bit. Such a pity.”
He gave a sheepish grin. Lant was a gentle soul, but he had a stubborn streak that surfaced in the
oddest moments. That tenacity wasn’t a flaw—too much meekness wouldn’t serve the future heir
of the Eliont marquessate. Still, whenever he called me “sister,” I couldn’t shake the image of a
suave cabaret rogue wooing married ladies. I’d have to find a way to break him of that habit soon.
“Oh!” I gasped as we stepped outside. A grand carriage from the imperial palace stood waiting, its
polished frame gleaming. Beside it, Marquess Eliont stood, his face an unreadable mask. Lant
dipped his head in a swift bow.
The marquess cast a fleeting glance over Lant and me before climbing aboard. With Lant’s
steadying hand, I followed, settling into the carriage.
“Take care and safe travels,” Lant called after us.
He waved as the carriage rolled forward, and I returned the gesture, watching the estate shrink into
the distance. I smoothed my skirt and straightened my posture.
Being alone with Marquess Eliont always stirred an odd tension in me, a feeling I could never
quite shake. I should’ve asked Anasha to join us, I thought with a pang of regret—such foresight
had escaped me.
Beyond the rumble of wheels and the rhythmic clop of hooves, the carriage was steeped in silence.
The marquess, as ever, said nothing. With no words of my own to offer, we passed the time as we
always did: in quiet stillness.
At last, the carriage halted.
I checked my dress once more before stepping out. Sitting so rigidly had spared it any major flaws,
save for a few faint creases, which I smoothed with my hands.
As I adjusted the fabric and rose, a large hand appeared before me.
“…”
I looked up to find Marquess Eliont waiting, his hand outstretched. Ever meticulous in his
manners, he upheld the courtesies. Without a second thought, I took it.
With Marquess Eliont’s steady arm supporting me, I stepped down from the carriage. The palace,
a vision unlike its usual muted grandeur, shimmered with hundreds of lights, their brilliance
casting a radiant glow across the night. In the distance, I caught sight of a palace attendant who
had been waiting, now making his way toward us as he spotted me and the Marquess. I moved to
release my father’s hand, intending to smooth the hem of my dress one final time.
“What…” I murmured, my voice trailing off.
Marquess Eliont’s grip tightened around my hand, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that
caught me off guard. A flicker of confusion crossed my face at his unexpected firmness. His lips
parted slightly, trembling as if forming words, but no sound reached me.
“Do you have something to say to me?” I asked, my tone tentative. The palace attendant was
nearly upon us now. I tried once more to slip my hand from his, but his hold remained unyielding.
“Please, let go of my hand…” I began, a hint of exasperation creeping in.
“Today…” His lips moved again, the word so faint I could barely catch it, a fragile whisper lost in
the air.
“Pardon?” I leaned closer, straining to hear.
“You look very pretty today.”
The words struck me like a sudden chill, and I froze. Never in my life had I imagined such a
sentiment escaping Marquess Eliont’s lips—words I’d never dared to hope for. I’d noticed his
demeanor toward me softening ever since my maternal grandfather’s passing, after those days
when I’d wept until my tears ran dry. That much I knew.
In his own quiet way, the Marquess had begun to show consideration for me and Lant. He’d
entrusted me with full authority over the Eliont household’s affairs, granting me the freedom to
shape our home as I saw fit. Unless something pressing demanded his attention, he made it a point
to join us in the dining room each evening, sharing meals with us in steadfast silence. He never
spoke during those dinners, but I understood it was his way of looking after us, a gesture of care
woven into the stillness.
He was changing, little by little. What had sparked this shift in him, I couldn’t say, but I didn’t
mind it. The change hadn’t yet stirred my heart deeply, not in any profound way, but still—he was
my father. A lukewarm bond between us, fragile as it was, felt preferable to the cold distance of
strangers.
I turned to him and offered a small smile. “It’s my coming-of-age ceremony, after all. I have to
look my very best.”
“Indeed,” he replied, nodding slightly. His hand remained clasped around mine. The palace
attendant reached us then, bowing with practiced grace.
“Marquess Eliont, Lady Eliont,” he said, his voice smooth and formal. “I am Thomas, tasked with
guiding you both. I’ll escort you to the Erharak Hall. Please, follow me.”
Thomas turned and began leading the way. Marquess Eliont moved forward, my hand still firmly
in his. He showed no sign of letting go, and I didn’t resist. Holding his hand, I followed behind the
attendant.
Today was my coming-of-age ceremony.
—
### Act 8. Confession
“The information is scarcer than I’d hoped,” I said, my brow furrowing.
“There’s precious little known about the western region,” Evan Li replied, his tone apologetic yet
measured. “If you grant me more time, I’ll send someone to gather further details.”
I mulled over the documents he’d handed me, my thoughts tangling as I read. The western region
lay to the west of the palace, bordering the desert nation of Inayari. That proximity to the arid
sands left the west parched, its soil too poor to yield thriving crops. Agriculture faltered there, but
in its place rose vast salt mountains and deposits of fine gemstones. The people of the west
sustained themselves not by tilling the earth but by mining salt and precious stones. Rich in such
treasures, the region had honed a mastery of craftsmanship, its techniques renowned. Most of the
capital’s celebrated artisans hailed from those rugged lands.
“Isn’t there some way to learn more from here?” I pressed, glancing up at Evan.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.
In the empire, the migration of a lord’s subjects was freer than in many neighboring kingdoms,
save for a handful of exceptional territories. Even so, most clung to the lands of their birth,
reluctant to abandon the homes they’d known all their lives. To uproot oneself and start anew
elsewhere was no small feat—it was like striking bare ground with nothing but resolve. Unless
their lord was a cruel tyrant who made life unbearable, people rarely forsake the territories their
ancestors had tilled for generations. Among them, the westerners stood out, their aversion to
leaving even more pronounced. Beyond a few famed craftsmen drawn to the capital, scarcely any
called the west their origin.
The reasons for such reluctance boiled down to two: either life was good enough to stay, or the
lord barred their departure.
Officially, only in the border regions could a lord legally restrict migration. Those areas, by their
very nature, were shadowed by the threat of war. Who would choose to dwell in a place so steeped
in uncertainty? Naturally, people shunned the borders. The emperor had granted the lords of those
volatile lands full authority over their subjects’ movements, leaving it to their discretion to permit
or forbid relocation.
Yet now, peace reigned—an era so tranquil it was dubbed a golden age, unmarred by war for years.
Even for those in the border regions, the specter of conflict had faded, its terror dulled by time.
Most border lords had loosened their grip, allowing their people to move freely. But even without
such constraints, few sought to leave their homes behind.
The western region was no different. Parts of it pressed against Inayari’s borders, where raids were
a frequent scourge. Still, the lord there imposed no formal ban on migration. And yet, the people
remained, their resistance to leaving almost absolute. The handful of western craftsmen in the
capital lingered only because the palace had summoned them, their skill with gemstones too
valuable to ignore.
With so few westerners here, our means of uncovering more about the region were painfully
limited.
“So, unless we send someone directly, this is all we’ll get?” I asked, my voice tinged with
frustration.
“For most places, perhaps not,” Evan admitted, hesitating. “But the Duke of Deisha’s household…
that’s trickier. As you know, my lady, it’s a matter the palace itself treats with caution. I’m truly
sorry.”
He bowed his head, guilt etched into his features. It was the first order I’d given him, and he felt
the weight of failing to fulfill it.
It wasn’t Evan’s lack of skill—far from it. The task I’d set was simply that daunting.
*But there’s something I need to know…* I thought, my mind circling back.
The papers Evan had compiled were impressively thorough for a region so shrouded in mystery.
Details no commoner could hope to know spilled across the pages: the trade routes for salt and
gemstones, the names of western lords, their traits, their family ties. It was clear at a glance how
much effort he’d poured into this.
My complaint about the scarcity stemmed from one glaring absence: information on the Duke of
Deisha’s household, the very thing I sought most. Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised me. The
current Duke of Deisha had lived in seclusion for years. His family line began with him—there
was no storied lineage to trace. Little was known of the man himself, so what could anyone hope
to uncover about his house? How he lived now, in particular, remained a mystery to all.
The Duke of Deisha was a figure who’d let the chance at ultimate power slip through his fingers, a
prize dangled just beyond his reach. They called him the unfortunate prince. In private, he was the
emperor’s cousin—his father had been the current emperor’s uncle. Had he been born mere
months earlier, he might have claimed the throne instead of standing in its shadow. His father, the
eldest son of the previous emperor, had been the crown prince, a man rumored to excel in both
scholarly pursuits and martial prowess. But that prince bore one fatal flaw: he left no heir.
The current emperor’s father, by contrast, had lived a life of excess. Beyond the emperor, he’d
sired a brood of children—a legacy of indulgence. The emperor himself had followed suit,
fathering many of his own. Like father, like son, as the saying went.