Chapter 174: The Truth About Xian Mondor
Damian was gone.
Aracila returned home alone, brushing away a few tears before steeling herself. This parting, after all, was only temporary. If she could endure this uncertain wait, a longer future together awaited them. But even if Damian returned victorious from the northern war, the shadow of suspicion—accusations of patricide—would still hang over him.
“I have to clear Damian’s name, no matter what,” Aracila resolved.
To do so, she teamed up with someone who shared her goal: none other than Prince Lucas. Lucas had hesitated for days before agreeing to help Damian, and guilt gnawed at him for his delayed response to Aracila’s letters. So when she asked to see the evidence tied to Oscar’s murder, he was eager to assist.
Aracila took Colin, the aide Damian had left to support her, and went to meet Lucas.
“Back then, Sir Vandemir sneaked into the magistrate’s office to help you,” Lucas said with a faint smile, meeting them secretly in the courtyard behind the royal magistrate’s office. “Now it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”
“That time, we sent the whole office out to lunch,” Aracila replied. “But it’s not so easy now, is it?”
“So what’s the plan?” Colin asked.
“We make a reason for them to clear out,” Lucas said, his grin warm and conspiratorial as he held up a small, jet-black bead. Aracila narrowed her eyes, studying it closely. A faint pulse of magic emanated from it—a magical tool, no doubt. It didn’t take her long to recognize its purpose.
“A device that creates fake fire and smoke,” she said.
“Exactly,” Lucas confirmed. “We’ll slip this into the office to stage a fire. Everyone will come running out, and that’s our chance to slip into the basement.”
He handed her a map of the office’s interior. Aracila thanked him and tucked it away.
“This bead’s effect lasts ten minutes at most,” Lucas warned. “Even if I buy you extra time, you’ve got thirty minutes, tops. Get out before then.”
“Understood,” Aracila said, and Colin nodded firmly beside her.
Lucas signaled one of his men to plant the bead inside the building. Moments later, dark smoke began seeping from the upper floors, followed by vivid red flames. It was all an illusion conjured by the magical tool, but the panicked staff didn’t know that. Screams erupted as people poured out of the building.
Seizing the moment, Aracila and Colin slipped through a side door and entered the office. They navigated to the evidence storage room marked on the map without incident, but once inside, they were met with chaos. The room was overflowing with evidence, and finding what they needed proved daunting.
“Why is there so much stuff?” Aracila muttered, her voice tinged with frustration as she scowled.
The empire seemed to have no shortage of crimes and incidents—the storage room was packed to the brim. Could they really find the evidence from Oscar’s murder case within thirty minutes?
Realizing aimless searching wouldn’t cut it, Aracila paused to think. A duke’s heir had been killed; surely the evidence for such a case would be stored with extra care. “They wouldn’t keep it with the rest,” she murmured. “It’s probably separated.”
Colin, as if reading her mind, poked his head out from behind a stack of boxes. “My lady, there’s a restricted area over there. Should we check it?”
“Good idea. Let’s go.”
They approached a locked door. With a flick of her hand, Aracila used magic to undo the lock effortlessly. The room inside was small, lined with shelves holding various boxes. Among them, they found one labeled Oscar Vandemir Murder Case.
“Just as I thought,” Aracila said. “They kept it separate.”
“It’s such a high-profile case,” Colin agreed. “It makes sense.”
“Let’s find something—anything—that can prove Damian’s innocence.”
They dove into the box, sifting through its contents: Oscar’s bloodied clothes, items from his room, the knife used as the murder weapon, and even some leaves found on the balcony. While Colin pored over the case report, Aracila examined Oscar’s clothing.
“He bled a lot,” she noted, holding up a tattered shirt, now little more than a rag. “Did he put up a fight, maybe?”
More likely, he’d struggled desperately to survive. The sight of the blood-crusted, shredded fabric stirred a pang of pity in her, though she quickly pushed it aside. As she folded the clothes to return them to the box, something caught her eye.
“What’s this?” A small scrap of black fabric fluttered out of Oscar’s trouser pocket. Perplexed, Aracila picked it up. Embroidered on it was a white owl, its edges slightly frayed, as if torn from something larger.
“An owl?” she muttered. “Why would this be in Oscar’s pocket?”
An uneasy feeling settled over her as she turned the fabric over in her hands. Just then, Colin looked up from the report. “It seems Lord Vandemir fought back,” he said. “A few of his right-hand fingernails were broken, and there was some kind of paint-like substance on his fingertips, staining them white.”
“Really?” Aracila’s gaze flicked back to the fabric. The owl was white, its edges smudged. And it had come from his right trouser pocket. “This might be a clue Oscar left about his killer,” she said, her voice tightening with realization.
In his final moments, Oscar might not have died as helplessly as she’d assumed. Perhaps, in his struggle against the assassin, he’d torn this scrap of fabric and hidden it in his pocket as a dying message.
“I’m taking this,” Aracila decided, carefully wrapping the fabric in her handkerchief to preserve it. They continued searching the box until their time ran out, then narrowly escaped the office.
Outside, Lucas was still stirring up chaos, shouting about a massive fire. When he spotted Aracila and Colin slipping away, he winked at them.
Back home safely, Aracila showed Colin the fabric and shared her theory. “The real killer must be connected to this owl,” she said with conviction.
“Then I’ll look into whether any underworld guilds or assassins use an owl as their symbol,” Colin offered.
“I’ll poke around the back alleys myself,” Aracila added.
“Just be careful, my lady.”
She flashed him a confident smile, brushing off his concern. There was little to worry about, really. With their resolve solidified, they clasped hands, vowing to catch the killer before Damian’s return.
Fourth Street was infamous for its nightlife, but hidden between the revelry were secretive dealings. For those with less-than-honest business, it was the perfect place to vanish into the crowd. Every evening, Aracila donned a black robe and roamed the streets, a fluffy white scarf draped conspicuously over her shoulders.
“I’m looking to hire an owl for a job,” she’d say casually, hoping the right ears would catch her words. The scarf was her signal—something distinctive to make her easy to find.
By day, she scoured the capital’s outskirts, distributing flyers that read, Looking for the Owl. She prayed someone would take the bait.
But a week passed with no leads. Colin’s efforts yielded nothing either. Doubts crept in. Are we chasing the wrong trail? Aracila wondered. She even checked whether any noble houses used an owl as their crest, but found none.
Lost in thought, she was surprised when an unexpected letter arrived.
Let’s meet. This time, I’ll come to your home.
The sender was Howard Lond.
Aracila frowned, puzzled. After Damian’s departure for the war, she’d visited Howard to break the magical seal on a box for him. Why would he seek her out now? Worried about stirring up trouble, she hesitated over whether to meet him. But before she could decide, Howard showed up at her door—uninvited, just as she’d once done to him.
“I don’t recall agreeing to a visit,” Aracila said, arching an eyebrow. “Am I mistaken?”
“No, you’re not,” Howard replied with a shameless grin. “But you know how it is—old age makes you impatient. I figured I’d take a page out of your book.”
Aracila pressed her lips together, unable to argue. She’d pulled the same stunt, after all. Sitting across from him multiple times in the drawing room, she sipped her tea and asked, “So, why are you here?”
“…To return this.” Howard carefully placed Monica’s jewelry box on the table—the one Aracila had given him in exchange for his help with Damian.
She eyed it warily, not reaching for it. “Why give it back? That was part of our deal.”
“It’s not mine to keep,” Howard said softly. “Monica left this for her son, not her husband.”
“So you’re returning it?” Aracila asked, searching his face. “No regrets?”
Howard gave a faint smile and nodded. Coveting what wasn’t his only invited trouble. Monica’s keepsake belonged with Damian, who’d stayed by her side until the end—not with the father who’d failed her.
“If that’s your wish, I’ll take it,” Aracila said. “I’ll keep it safe and give it to Damian when he returns.”
“Thank you,” Howard said sincerely.
“It’s nothing,” she replied. “It’s all for Damian, anyway.”
Opening the box absently, Aracila glanced at its contents: a diary, a glass vial, a folded note. As she did, a memory sparked—Howard’s reaction to the name Xian Mondor.
“Lord Lond,” she said, looking up. “May I ask you something?”
“Ask away,” he replied, his demeanor noticeably warmer as he nodded.
Aracila’s sharp remark had snapped him out of his haze, and there was no longer any reason to regard her with hostility as Damian’s wife.
“Do you know who Cyan Mondor is?” she asked.
“…Ah, now that you mention it, you’ve brought up that name before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, it was the name I found in the duchess’s jewelry box. But no matter how much I search, I can’t find anyone by that name.”
“Well, that’s only natural.”
Howard let out a soft chuckle as he replied. Aracila, puzzled, watched him gracefully lift his teacup.
Why is it natural? Is it not a real person’s name?
Sensing her questioning gaze, Howard spoke with a voice tinged with amusement.
“Because it’s not a real name.”
“What do you mean? If it’s not a real name… is it a nickname or an alias?”
“Something like that. Cyan Mondor is an anagram of Monica Rond.”
Cyan Mondor and Monica Rond. Aracila’s lips parted slightly, stunned that she hadn’t thought to connect the two names.
“Our Monica, when she was a teenager, had all sorts of things she wanted to do behind her family’s back,” Howard continued. “Mixing with commoners, trying her hand at small businesses. That’s when she used the name Cyan Mondor. We all knew but pretended we didn’t.”
Howard’s eyes glistened with moisture as he recalled memories of his daughter. Who could have known that a girl so full of dreams and curiosity would ruin her life through marriage?
He let out a pained sigh, almost unaware of it himself. Aracila, without a word, refilled his empty teacup.
“…Thank you,” he murmured.
“No, it’s nothing. Honestly, I’ve been curious about Cyan Mondor’s identity for so long, and now that I know, it feels like a weight’s been lifted. Thank you.”
“Haha, you shouldn’t always believe everything at face value. Keep your perspective broad, and you’ll see more than what’s right in front of you.”
Howard smiled warmly, pointing to the jewelry box with a finger.
“For example, that eagle crest carved on it is the symbol of our Rond family, but some people mistake it for a hawk. I suppose they’re more familiar with hawks.”
Aracila, about to nod absentmindedly, froze.
A white cloth with an owl drawn on it. Her mind began to whirl.
Cyan Mondor and Monica Rond, hawk and eagle—different yet similar creatures.
Owl and barn owl.
…It wasn’t an owl. It was a barn owl.
She had mistaken it because the paint had smudged, distorting its form. As the realization washed over her, Aracila sat speechless for a moment.
“Oh, and do you perhaps not know that either?”
“…Know what?”
“How to open the diary inside.”
Aracila stared blankly at the diary. The magic sealing it was so complex, and with more pressing matters at hand, she hadn’t yet managed to unlock it.
Could it be that Howard knew this too? It felt as though the secrets that had been gnawing at her were unraveling all at once.
“Then, my lord, do you know the conditions for opening the diary?”
“Of course I do, since I’m the one who gave it to her. It’s something only those of the Rond family can use, enchanted with a special kind of magic.”
When Howard extended his hand, Aracila retrieved the diary from the jewelry box and handed it to him.
He placed his hand firmly on the diary. A pale green light seeped from it, enveloping his hand.
“When you first use this diary, you must let a drop of your blood fall on it. The magic within will then recognize only those who share the same bloodline, allowing them to read its contents.”
“…So that’s why I could never open it, no matter how hard I tried.”
Blood-bound magic was far stronger and more resilient than ordinary spells, nearly impossible to break. Not even a master of the Magic Tower or its heir could easily undo it.
That’s why the Magic Tower strictly forbade mixing blood into magical artifacts or spellwork.
“Exactly. This book was commissioned long ago, when the Rond family produced its first empress. It was crafted by the master of the Magic Tower at the time, paid a fortune to safeguard sensitive information and secrets.”
Aracila’s brow furrowed slightly at Howard’s explanation.
So, the master of the Magic Tower had broken the Tower’s rules for money. Or perhaps for power.
As the magic dissipated, Howard opened the diary to its first page and handed it to Aracila.
With Damian absent, if the diary were to close again, she wouldn’t be able to read it.
“Since it was made at such a high cost, it’s only right to use it for generations, don’t you think? Every Rond descendant receives one of these enchanted books upon reaching adulthood. Most use them for ledgers or secret records, but Monica wanted hers to be a diary.”
“I see… But is it really alright to tell an outsider like me all this?”
These were matters that, by all accounts, shouldn’t be shared outside the family. Yet Howard had revealed everything to her without hesitation, which struck her as odd.
Does he think I’m trustworthy? Not that I’d go around blabbing, of course.
Still, this was the family Damian’s mother came from, and Howard had just openly emphasized their blood ties. If anything went wrong, it could bring trouble to Damian.
To her surprise, Howard’s expression flickered with momentary panic before he spoke again after a long pause.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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