Chapter 184: A Gorgeous Return
Duke Vandemir lit another cigar, his third in a row. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling from his lips, but the suffocating weight in his chest remained unshaken. Ever since his only heir was murdered, the atmosphere in the Vandemir ducal household had been steeped in gloom. The loss of his son grieved him, yes, but an even greater worry gnawed at him.
What would become of the Vandemir dukedom?
He had no other children to carry on the legacy. Damian was as good as nonexistent—not even his true son, but Monica’s. If the duke died without an heir, some distant relative from a collateral branch would inherit the title. Or worse, Damian might seize the dukedom for himself.
Better a collateral branch than that man. No matter what, I must stop Damian…
Yet, contrary to the duke’s fervent wishes, Damian had triumphed in the northern war and returned victorious. Anxiety gripped the duke. His family and title still stood, but there was no guarantee they would endure. To make matters worse, Frederick had grown distant, treating the Vandemirs with lukewarm indifference while cozying up to the Lester dukedom.
Ungrateful wretch! After all the money I poured into him!
The duke had personally funded weapons for Frederick when he claimed to need them. Even after Marquis Grant’s fall, Frederick had shown unwavering loyalty. But the crown prince, who had once been warm and obliging when Damian faced punishment, had turned cold as spring arrived, acting as though their business was concluded. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the subtle slights were enough to make the duke feel sidelined. Instinct told him the crown prince was demoting their family’s priority, ready to discard them if necessary.
He thinks our house has no future. That cunning young fox…
Adopting a nephew or siring a new child were options, but the duke was skeptical. The former risked betrayal—a nephew might play loyal until inheriting the title, only to stab him in the back. The latter was complicated by his wife, who, due to her age, could no longer bear children. Taking a new mistress to produce an heir was out of the question; she would never allow it.
That’s why she had Monica killed back then.
At the time, the duke had planned to pin the blame on Monica, extract compensation, and divorce her. But the duchess had taken a harder line, eliminating her entirely. The duke was no saint, but his wife’s ruthlessness surpassed even his own moral lapses. Her jealousy was fierce, and when provoked, she was unpredictable.
As he sighed heavily and reached for a fourth cigar, a knock came at the door.
“My lord, I have something to report,” the butler said cautiously, stepping inside.
The duke nodded absently. “What is it?”
“Well… someone claiming to know the true culprit behind Master Oscar’s death has come.”
“What?” The duke’s face twisted in disbelief. Oscar’s killer was Damian—clever enough to escape suspicion, but the duke was determined to make him pay for his son’s life and the damage to their house.
“Clearly a fraud. Beat him and throw him out,” the duke ordered, lighting the new cigar and waving dismissively.
The butler hesitated. “I’m sorry, my lord. The duchess is already meeting with him.”
“What?!” the duke roared. Since Oscar’s death, the duchess had been inconsolable, weeping daily. When the dowager duchess scolded her, she snapped back, a rare act of defiance. On advice that a grieving mother should be left alone, the duke had let her do as she pleased—or rather, he’d neglected her. Consoling her was too bothersome, and her mournful sobbing only deepened his own frustration.
And now, to think she’d fallen for a con artist’s lies. His blood pressure surged as he stood to confront her, but before he could move, the door flew open.
“My love!” the duchess cried, bursting in.
The duke raised his voice. “I heard everything! Letting some swindler into our home—!”
“That’s not important right now!” She grabbed his arm, her bloodshot eyes glinting with a faint madness. “We’ve been deceived! Used and betrayed!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The true killer of our Oscar is the crown prince!”
She collapsed to the floor, pounding her chest. Regret consumed her for having supported the crown prince all this time. The duke stared down at her, incredulous. “Have you lost your mind? Speak sense!”
“It’s true! I heard it all!”
“From whom? That fraud?” He pressed a hand to his temple, shaking his head in disgust. “You’re out of your wits.”
Glaring at her husband’s disbelief, the duchess shot to her feet. “If you think it’s a lie, meet him yourself and hear it!”
Thus, the swindler who had thrown a bombshell into the Vandemir household was dragged before the duke. His name was Brady, an assassin from an underworld guild. By his own account, he’d been on the run from the crown prince’s pursuit for a year, reduced to a wretched state. The duke fixed him with an icy stare.
“So, you’re the liar who dares insult the royal family and deceive my wife?”
“It’s not a lie!” Brady, kneeling before the duke, pressed his forehead to the floor. “Please, my lord, believe me! I speak only the truth!”
“Oh?” The duke signaled a knight by the door, who strode forward and drove a blade through Brady’s hand.
“Aagh!” Brady screamed.
“Still sticking to your lies?” the duke sneered.
“Ugh, it’s true! I’m not lying!” Brady insisted, writhing in pain. When a second blade pierced his leg and he still didn’t waver, the duke’s resolve began to soften.
Brady repeated to the duke the same story he’d told the duchess. Though skeptical at first, the duke felt his certainty waver.
“Why would His Highness order Oscar’s assassination?”
“I—I don’t know the reason, my lord. But the payment came from the Lester dukedom.”
“The Lester dukedom?” the duke repeated.
“Yes. After the job was done, they paid the balance with glee. They said they could finally expand eastward.”
The duke’s face hardened. The Lester dukedom lay west of the Vandemir lands. To them, the Vandemirs were the east. Expanding eastward meant…
They plan to seize our dukedom!
The pieces clicked into place. If the duke died without an heir, the Vandemir dukedom would be left leaderless, ripe for the taking. The Lesters were plotting a bloodless conquest, aiming to absorb the Vandemir house under their own.
Ha! They’ve allied with the crown prince and made us their sacrifice!
He recalled Frederick’s zealous push for Damian’s execution. At the time, lost in his own rage, the duke hadn’t noticed anything amiss. But in hindsight, Frederick’s fervor bordered on obsession. When Damian was sentenced to war instead of death, Frederick’s deep disappointment had turned into coldness toward the duke.
Now, the duke understood why.
Frederick had orchestrated Oscar’s murder to eliminate Damian, whom he personally despised, while positioning the Lester dukedom to claim the Vandemir title as a reward.
“How dare they! Those wretched snakes dare—!” Unable to contain his fury, the duke hurled whatever he could grab. Brady, cowering on the floor, subtly curled his lips into a smirk.
A chasm had now opened between the crown prince and the Vandemir dukedom, one that could never be bridged.
A grand party was held to celebrate Damian’s return, ostensibly to honor his victory in battle and his smooth reintegration into noble society. But the true purpose of the event lay beneath the surface: to bring Frederick and the Duke and Duchess of Vandemir together in one place, igniting the tensions between them. To ensure their attendance, Aracila had invited the ducal couple, while Lucas had extended an invitation to Frederick. A rumor was carefully spread that the emperor himself would make an appearance to bestow gifts, a falsehood designed to make refusal unthinkable. After all, who would dare miss an event graced by the emperor?
Frederick, in particular, was cunning enough to suspect the rumor might be a lie, but the slim chance it could be true would compel him to attend regardless. Aracila had spared no effort in making the party as extravagant as possible. The entrance to the mansion was adorned with fresh flowers, diamond chandeliers hung in every corner, and intricately crafted golden falcon statues were displayed prominently. The grand hall itself had been expanded through renovations to accommodate the occasion, as invitations had been sent to nearly every noble family active in the capital’s social scene. A spacious hall was essential to host such a crowd, ensuring every guest could revel in the splendor.
In the days leading up to the event, Aracila had orchestrated a campaign to shape public opinion in Damian’s favor. Articles and anecdotes proclaiming his innocence were circulated widely: “Did Damian Vandemir truly kill his brother? The suspicious truth of that fateful night!” and “Lord Vandemir, my savior… A tale from K, a northern border guard.” These stories seeded doubt and stirred sympathy, setting the stage for the night’s true objective.
On the day of the party, Aracila poured the same fervor she’d used to decorate the hall into adorning herself—a first in her life. Her maid, Audrey, was practically buzzing with excitement, and Aracila didn’t bother to rein her in. The theme of the evening was extravagance to the point of madness, and she intended to embody it fully.
“Whew! All done, my lady!” Audrey exclaimed, wiping the sweat from her brow as the hours-long preparations concluded just before the party’s start. Stepping back, she gazed at her mistress with awe, her hands flying to her mouth as if to contain her admiration. Aracila had always been doll-like in her beauty, but today she was breathtaking beyond compare.
She wore a black off-shoulder gown, its neckline adorned with delicate feather-like embellishments. Intricate silver embroidery adorned the bodice, while the hem was layered with rich purple chiffon, adding a voluminous elegance. Dozens of diamond fragments sparkled along the skirt’s edge, banishing any hint of plainness, and her slender waist was accentuated with a cluster of purple roses. Her hair, half-tied to reveal her ears, was adorned with earrings of black sapphire and amethyst. A finely crafted diamond necklace graced her long neck, enhancing her radiant features without overwhelming them. The effect was dazzling, amplifying her natural brilliance.
Aracila studied herself in the mirror with satisfaction, a mischievous thought flickering through her mind: Those who want to see me fall would be absolutely livid right now. She was thriving—perhaps too visibly so. A smirk tugged at her lips as she heard that Damian had arrived. Giving her attire a final check, she stepped out to meet him.
Damian was no less striking, clad in a black formal suit embroidered with golden threads, his chest adorned with several medals. A red cape draped over one shoulder rippled like waves with each step.
“Damian, how do I look?” Aracila asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. They had agreed beforehand to dazzle and provoke Frederick and the ducal couple with their ostentatious display, and she wanted to ensure her appearance hit the mark.
But Damian, gazing at her intently, gave an unexpected reply. “You look beautiful.”
“…That’s not what I meant,” Aracila muttered, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her cheeks. Clearing her throat, she quickly changed the subject. “By the way, I heard the Duke and Duchess of Vandemir arrived in the capital last night. That means they’re very likely to attend tonight.”
“And I just received word that Crown Prince Frederick is already here,” Damian added.
“Perfect,” Aracila said with a nod.
Chatting softly, the couple made their way to the entrance of the grand hall. As the evening’s hosts stepped into view, all eyes turned to them. Aracila clasped Damian’s hand tightly, gliding across the carpeted floor with grace. Her blue eyes scanned the crowd, picking out the faces she sought: Frederick, his smile twisted with disdain, and the ducal couple, already bristling with irritation. Ignoring them, Aracila ascended the steps to the dais and began to speak, her clear voice resonating through the hall.
“First, I’d like to express my heartfelt gratitude to all of you who have joined us tonight to celebrate the safe return of my beloved husband.”
Damian slipped an arm around her shoulders, and Aracila leaned slightly into him, her smile radiant. The sight caused Frederick and the ducal couple to visibly stiffen, their expressions souring for entirely different reasons.
“Thanks to your support and encouragement, Damian was able to rise above false accusations and achieve great deeds,” Aracila continued, her tone light but pointed. “And while I have this moment, I’d like to extend my thanks to those who made this possible.”
With a subtle glance downward, she caught Lucas standing below the dais with an attendant. A questioning look passed between them—Are you ready?—and Lucas gave a slight nod. Aracila linked her arm with Damian’s and continued, “In particular, I wish to offer my deepest gratitude to His Highness, Prince Lucas, whose keen insight recognized Damian’s innocence and provided invaluable support.”
She and Damian bowed respectfully toward Lucas, drawing the crowd’s attention to him. Lucas, with a magnanimous smile, ascended the dais. “Haha, I only did what was right, yet I’m flustered by such gratitude,” he said with a chuckle.
“Not at all, Your Highness,” Aracila replied warmly.
“I came tonight to honor Lord Vandemir, who brought a vital victory to the empire despite the harshest of circumstances,” Lucas declared. With a snap of his fingers, an attendant stepped forward, presenting an ornate golden box. Lucas moved aside to ensure the box was in full view, then spoke clearly. “This is a gift bestowed upon you by His Majesty the Emperor, which I have the honor of presenting on his behalf.”
At least one part of the carefully spread rumors was true: the emperor had indeed sent a gift to commend Damian’s victory, despite the unresolved questions surrounding his guilt. Though the emperor himself wasn’t present, the appearance of his gift sent a murmur through the crowd.
“His Majesty truly sent a reward for Lord Vandemir? Wasn’t he sent to war to atone for his brother’s death?”
“Then those articles must be true! The ones claiming Lord Vandemir was falsely accused of murder.”
“From what I’ve heard about his actions at the northern border, there’s no one more upright and honorable. How could such a man kill his own brother?”
The distinction was critical: fighting in the war to atone for a crime was one thing, but being innocent and still enduring such trials suggested someone else might have framed him. The whispers in the crowd grew louder, yet the trio on the dais remained composed. Aracila and Damian accepted the box with expressions of joy, betraying no hint of the undercurrents at play.
Then, a voice rose from the crowd. “If Lord Vandemir is innocent, does that mean someone else killed the young lord?”
The question, cautious yet bold, came from a planted ally Aracila had arranged to amplify the moment. She turned toward the speaker, feigning a troubled expression, and prepared to respond.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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