Chapter 167: What Frederick Wants
The interrogation room in the imperial palace’s administrative wing had no windows. Enclosed on all sides, the only light came from a flickering lamp mounted on the wall. Damian had been left alone in this dim, stifling space for hours.
For him, it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. The solitude gave him a chance to collect his thoughts, to piece together the chaos swirling in his mind. Sitting with his arms crossed and eyes closed, he waited in silence until, at long last, the door burst open.
Damian opened his eyes slowly. His gaze caught the glint of a silver badge on an imperial knight’s uniform before traveling upward to the man’s face. “I see Sir Diark isn’t here,” he said, his voice low and measured.
“The commander is busy,” came the sharp reply from Joseph Miller, the deputy commander of the imperial knights. “And there’s no need for him to personally confront a despicable man who’d kill his own brother without a shred of honor.”
“My guilt hasn’t been proven, yet you’re already treating me as the culprit,” Damian countered, his tone edged with defiance. “Is that the justice of the imperial knights?”
Joseph’s brow furrowed at the biting retort. Unlike his superior, Sir Ben Diark, Joseph had no personal rapport with Damian. In fact, he had always been wary of Damian’s growing influence, which rivaled that of the imperial knights themselves.
“Sir Damian Vandemir,” Joseph said, his voice heavy with accusation, “your crime is clear. You’ve forsaken the code of chivalry and brutally murdered your brother.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” Damian replied, his words clipped and firm.
Joseph’s lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Deny it all you want—it’s futile. We’ve already found evidence of your movements from your room’s balcony to Lord Oscar’s chambers.”
“And how do you know an intruder didn’t sneak into my room?” Damian shot back. “Perhaps someone deliberately left those traces to frame me.”
“Sir Damian, enough. This is pathetic,” Joseph said, leaning back in his chair with a leisurely air.
Damian held his ground, arms still crossed, his gaze locked on Joseph. The deputy commander’s smug smile, unwavering eyes, and arrogant confidence spoke volumes.
Whatever it is, they’ve found evidence, Damian thought. The imperial knights wouldn’t have dragged him here on mere suspicion. Whether genuine or fabricated, they had something tangible. He swallowed a rising sigh, the weight of the situation pressing against his chest. Oscar Vandemir’s death was a colossal trap, poised to drag him into ruin. And for now, Damian had no idea how to escape it.
“Do you know why I’m late?” Joseph asked, his tone taunting. “I was searching the room you and your wife occupied.”
Damian remained silent, his expression unreadable.
“Feeling nervous yet?” Joseph continued, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “You’ll feel worse when you hear what I found.”
From his coat, Joseph produced a cloth-wrapped object and placed it on the table. Damian watched, his face impassive, as Joseph carefully unwrapped it to reveal a bloodstained dagger. Etched on the hilt was the emblem of the Crimson Hawk Knights.
Damian’s fist clenched beneath the table, though he betrayed no outward sign of distress. The sight of the dagger tightened a noose around his breath, but he refused to let it show.
“It was found under the carpet in your room,” Joseph said, his voice dripping with triumph. “Looks like you hid it in a hurry, didn’t you?”
“I’ve never used that dagger,” Damian said evenly.
“Sir Damian, are you really going to keep playing innocent?” Joseph scoffed. “This isn’t just any dagger—it’s exclusive to your Crimson Hawk Knights. No ordinary person could possess such a thing.”
“And you’re certain of that?” Damian’s voice sharpened as he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the dagger without touching it. “When I was falsely accused in that scandal involving an illegitimate child, the so-called evidence was a handkerchief bearing the Vandemir crest. It wasn’t mine. Just as there are others in the Vandemir family, there are others in the Crimson Hawk Knights. This dagger isn’t mine.”
“So you’re saying another knight from your order killed Lord Oscar?” Joseph sneered, his tone thick with sarcasm. “What, on your orders?”
Damian’s brow furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. The implication that his subordinates could be dragged into this mess made him hesitate. He couldn’t afford to respond carelessly.
Joseph wrapped the dagger back in the cloth and tucked it away, lifting his chin with a smug air. Pinning one of the empire’s finest swordmasters beneath his heel filled him with a heady sense of superiority. “Even if this dagger isn’t yours, we have other evidence proving you’re the culprit.”
“And what might that be?” Damian asked, his voice low.
“It’s—”
“This letter,” a new voice interrupted as the door swung open.
Joseph, who had been lounging with his legs crossed, scrambled to his feet and bowed hastily. Damian didn’t bother turning to greet the newcomer—he didn’t need to. He knew it was Frederick, holding a piece of paper as he strode into the room.
“Your Highness!” Joseph said, his voice deferential.
“Well done, Sir Miller, interrogating Sir Damian,” Frederick said with a genial tone. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’m fine, Your Highness,” Joseph replied.
“Still, it’s taxing work. Take a break,” Frederick said, his smile warm but his words carrying the weight of a command. “I’ll take over the interrogation.”
Frederick gave Joseph’s shoulder a friendly pat, and the deputy commander, recognizing the dismissal, quickly excused himself.
Frederick settled into the chair across from Damian, his lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It pains me to see a man destined to be a pillar of the empire reduced to a criminal who’d murder his own kin,” he said, his tone laced with mock sympathy.
“What’s this letter you mentioned?” Damian asked, cutting through the pleasantries.
“Curious, are you?” Frederick replied, waving the letter lightly between his fingers. “I can’t let you touch it—you might destroy the evidence—but I can read it to you.”
He smirked at Damian’s stony expression and unfolded the letter with deliberate slowness, savoring the tension. Then, in a clear voice, he began to read:
“‘To Grandmother,
This is Oscar. I hope you’ve been well in our absence. I’m writing to you during the New Year’s festival because I have a request. I won the equestrian tournament, earning the honor of attending the banquet. This time, I want to surpass Damian and be rightfully recognized as the heir.
However, during the tournament, I deliberately put Damian in danger to secure my victory. I believe he’s noticed and is planning retaliation. Please help me prepare for whatever he might do.’”
The letter was from Oscar, addressed to the Vandemir matriarch. In essence, it outlined his triumph in the tournament, his ambition to outshine Damian, and his fear that Damian, aware of his sabotage, was plotting revenge.
“It seems the fight for the family’s succession was fiercer than I thought,” Frederick said, folding the letter with a cheerful lilt in his voice. “The elder brother tried to kill the younger, and the younger struck back by killing the elder.”
Damian let out a hollow laugh. The letter painted him as having ample motive for murder. Oscar had even subtly implied that he feared for his life, claiming Damian posed a threat.
Physical evidence. Psychological motive. They had it all.
“No matter how strained your relationship with your brother was, to commit murder in the sacred halls of the imperial palace?” Frederick tsked, shaking his head.
“I didn’t kill him,” Damian said, his voice steady but resolute.
Damian barely restrained his fury, his voice taut as he shot back at Frederick’s soft click of the tongue. “During the equestrian match, it was Your Highness’s defense of Oscar that muddied the waters and let his crimes go unpunished. How could I have known to plan retribution?”
“And yet, how did you know?” Frederick asked, his tone rising in exaggerated mockery. “Did you see a chance to settle old grudges with your brother?”
At that moment, Damian understood completely. This was Frederick’s scheme.
I’m truly trapped.
Even before the New Year’s festival, Frederick had made a habit of mentioning the Vandemir family’s succession disputes in public, goading them. Damian had thought it mere provocation at the time, but now the true purpose was clear. Frederick wanted to plant the idea of a bitter rivalry between the half-brothers, making it plausible that one might kill the other.
He was framing Damian for fratricide.
Never in his wildest dreams had Damian imagined the crown prince would orchestrate such a reckless act at an imperial event. A bitter sense of defeat gnawed at him, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscles strained. His bloodshot eyes glared fiercely as he spoke in a low, simmering voice. “What do you want?”
“You already know, don’t you?”
Frederick stood, the smile fading from his lips. He was in a position to take whatever he desired, but there was something he preferred to receive willingly, if possible. Not that he had any intention of sparing Damian, even if he complied.
Reaching out, Frederick gripped Damian’s shoulder tightly. His face, smooth and untroubled, betrayed no hint of guilt for his vile actions. “Make sure this storm doesn’t sweep up innocent people along with you.”
“…”
“At least then, I’ll leave those around you untouched.”
A hollow laugh escaped Damian’s lips. He rubbed his face with his palm, his jaw so tense it felt like the bones might protrude. When he thought of the people he had to protect, there was no other choice. The question’s answer was already decided, and Damian didn’t agonize long. He couldn’t let this storm he’d been caught in harm the innocent.
After Damian was taken away, Aracila was soon expelled from their room. The imperial knights insisted on searching it, forcing her out without regard for her protests. Backed by the Emperor’s authority, they were immovable.
Fuming, Aracila sought out her parents’ quarters. The moment she entered, knights stationed themselves at the door, strictly controlling her movements. Trapped with her parents, she waited anxiously for any news of Damian.
Please, let him be released safely.
But events unfolded against her hopes. A murder weapon was found in their room, and Damian was formally imprisoned. Aracila couldn’t believe it, but before she could argue, she was all but banished from the imperial palace.
The New Year’s festival had ended abruptly due to the sudden murder, and the imperial court sent all attendees away. Aracila tried to stay, insisting she needed to see Damian, but she was forcibly placed in a carriage. Inside, her face burning with indignation, she protested, “Damian didn’t do it. He’s not the one who killed Lord Oscar.”
“Calm down, Aracila,” the Marchioness said, her voice steady but trembling faintly at the edges.
She and Marquis Hugo had been shaken by the morning’s news of Oscar’s death. To make matters worse, their son-in-law, Damian, had been dragged off as a suspect and now branded the culprit. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on them, their worry no less than Aracila’s.
“It’s not him,” Aracila insisted, gripping her mother’s hand, her voice rising with emotion. “Oscar was killed at dawn, but Damian was on the sofa from eleven last night. I know because we share a room, and I couldn’t sleep late. He never left, not once. He didn’t go near the balcony.”
“But Aracila, your testimony may not hold weight—you’re his wife,” the Marchioness replied. “And what if he slipped out while you were asleep?”
“Mother, Damian wouldn’t resort to something as low and cowardly as murder. Someone’s framing him, I’m sure of it.”
“Who? And why? Let’s be honest—if Oscar’s dead, Damian stands to inherit the Vandemir title. His death benefits Damian, doesn’t it?”
The Marchioness’s sharp question left Aracila momentarily speechless, her lips parting without sound. Her mother was right. If Damian escaped a murder conviction, he’d be the sole heir to the dukedom. Oscar’s death was, in a twisted way, to his advantage.
But Aracila believed in him, as she always had. Damian wasn’t the kind of man to commit a heinous murder with her by his side.
“I don’t know who framed him or why, not yet,” she said earnestly, “but I trust Damian. Please, Mother, Father, trust me too.”
The Vandemir family would never defend Damian. If even the Hugo family turned their backs, he’d be pushed to the edge of a cliff.
As the Marchioness let out a troubled sigh, Marquis Hugo, who had been silent, finally spoke. “We’ve always trusted you, Aracila. If you truly believe Damian’s been wrongfully accused, I have some advice.”
“What is it, Father?”
“As soon as we get home, secure any documents Damian kept under tight guard.”
The Marquis’s eyes gleamed with cold clarity. Though he often seemed jovial, he was the astute head of a noble house. His ability to read situations and anticipate outcomes far surpassed his talented but less experienced daughter.
“Framing someone for murder suggests a motive beyond mere ruin,” he continued. “Damian’s been stirring trouble lately—exposing illegal slave auctions, poking into dangerous places. Be cautious.”
“I understand,” Aracila said, nodding.
Relief washed over her; her parents weren’t abandoning Damian outright. Nervously tapping her nails, she gazed out the carriage window. The sky was heavy with dark clouds, mirroring her unease.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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