Translator: Nox

Chapter 18

Her eyes confessing affection were so resolute. Anyone unaware might mistake it for a declaration of war rather than a confession of love. Having blurted it out like checking off a long-overdue task, Frida shyly flushed her cheeks. In contrast, Daniel—the fatally alluring husband who had shaken his wife's heart in less than a month—remained utterly nonchalant. As if he'd never heard anything resembling a confession before. And rightly so; he was inured to florid, saccharine declarations dripping with pretension. Compared to the boisterous confessions from Shendal Castle women that exhausted him more than battlefields rife with clashing steel, this was hardly noteworthy. Recalling those haughty noblewomen who approached feigning elegance, only to gather and spout eerily similar lines, sent an involuntary shudder through him.

"Daniel, I love you. If I can be by your side, I'll gladly forsake my family, everything I possess."

Acting as tragic heroines, they endlessly droned about abandoning family, forsaking honor, fleeing to some unknown place. All whining for recognition of the sacrifices they'd endure choosing the bastard son of a Milabo mistress. If only they offered some novelty to endure it, but their heads seemed devoid of creativity.

"I might end up disliking you once I learn more about you, Your Grace."

At least that much piqued his interest enough to listen.

'Amusing.'

That was Daniel's full assessment of the confession from his twenty-year-old Duchess Rihardt, still unable to shed her girlish innocence. Misinterpreting her husband's silence, Frida hesitated, gauging his reaction.

"Is it... burdensome, perhaps?"

"I can't deny it."

After all, her sincere confession from a wife earnest in all things carried far more weight than the flighty banter of pampered noble misses.

"Oh, don't feel burdened!"

Frida bowed her head vigorously and scrambled off the bed in a fluster.

"I just wanted you to know how I feel."

"If you were worried about burdening me, you needn't have said it at all."

"Well... I'm the type who acts on my thoughts immediately. If I don't do it today, I might never get the chance, living like that."

Embarrassed, Frida bit her upper lip hard. It was indeed a problem. Once fixated, she charged ahead heedless of surroundings. Not just recklessness, but a habit of acting first and thinking later, turning her ever more self-centered. A terrible habit she couldn't seem to break, worrying her endlessly. Tucking the irritating stray hairs tickling her cheeks firmly behind her ear, Frida looked up at her tall husband.

"Regardless of liking you, Your Grace, I'll faithfully fulfill the duties assigned to me. So you needn't worry."

"Duties?"

And what exactly was he supposed to worry about, and why? At Daniel's questioning retort, Frida nodded firmly as if reaffirming her resolve.

"Yes. Whatever the Dowager Empress's reasons for choosing me, I'm the Duchess Rihardt, bound by duty to continue the line. I'll actively support and cooperate with your efforts to sire an heir. So if there's someone else you've had in mind, disregard my feelings and tell me."

Three years ago, the moment she heard of her betrothal to Duke Rihardt, she'd resolved it. No lingering on the impossible; focus on what must be done, what can be done, what should be done. She probably couldn't bear his child. But if he sired one, she could make lands and titles to pass on that the Dowager Empress couldn't easily touch. By creating an unassailable wealthy duchy no one dared belittle—one layer. With people drawn to settle and root—another layer. Layer upon layer, a sturdy fence; nurture it diligently, and it was possible. Everyone dies. Frida, Duke Rihardt, even the Dowager Empress. But the land, and the people rooted there, endure eternally without special names. The oak builder's son, the carpenter's daughter, her son, his grandson... Thus, may Dominic's children, Muriel's children share this land as their lifelong home. If time allowed, she'd build even sturdier walls for them—but she couldn't promise.

'I'll do what I can while I can.'

Steeling herself, Frida repeatedly wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt hem. Daniel's impassive gaze fell on her pale handback, veins stark against the sharp chill. Blinking calmly several times, he met Frida's eyes directly and asked.

"To what extent?"

"Pardon?"

"Your support and cooperation with my efforts. To be upfront, I have no intention of taking a mistress to sire a child. Bastard whispers have worn me thin."

Her white eyelashes fluttered rapidly, conveying her pure concern for him in mentioning mistresses—not to insult the bastard son.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way..."

He knew. Or so it seemed... Her transparently obvious feelings grated especially today.

"What to do? My child should be born from you, shouldn't it?"

Enough to shred the mask of the dutiful, empathetic noble husband playing along.

"For that, you'd need to faithfully fulfill a wife's duties... I'm curious. How far does your active support and cooperation go?"

Daniel's long fingers wound around the ends of Frida's hair. Only holding the snow-white strands—like Altas's eternal glaciers—did he realize he'd sometimes wanted to touch them. Cold. Unable to decide if the untimely chill was hers or his, Daniel rubbed the white locks between his fingertips a moment longer. Then, they brushed her slightly parted lower lip.

"This far?"

Only by seeing it reflected in her pupils did he know a sardonic smile curled his lips as he gazed down intently. Why he wanted to push harder than usual... he didn't know. Perhaps a warning not to cross lines rashly, or irritation at talk of liking and duties. His fingers left her lips, lightly tapping the frayed edge of her drooping dress front. The teasing glimpse of pale flesh beneath.

"Or here?"

*** The Boild Barons held no land worthy of the title "estate." With direct heirs scarce, most had been sold off through collateral lines over generations. What Stefan inherited with his barony was this modest manor near the capital Chellino and scraps of land barely sustaining a few servants. Fortunately, Boild descendants excelled in reading, writing, and eloquence. Stefan had inherited that too. Thus, he scraped by as a tutor to noble sons with money but empty heads. In youth, he'd harbored ambitions to flaunt his talents. But at forty, with no heirs or notable wealth to bequeath, worldly affairs grew wearisome.

"Sigh..."

His sighs had multiplied since meeting the Dowager Empress on Chamberlain Count's recommendation.

"Duke Rihardt has awakened. The Duchess managed well alone, but as you know, Harkbon daughters are unpredictable. I'd like Baron Boild to oversee the duchy."

Dowager Empress Margret, offering the Munheim Castle steward position, remained kindly benevolent throughout.

"Chamberlain praises you highly. I have great expectations. Ah, you tutored my cousin Alfred too?"

True to her rational Baichen heritage.

"He once suggested a capital vault to manage goldsmiths' wealth—your idea, I heard. I thought you essential to the empire then; fate brings us together now."

Admirable, hiding sharp claws while awaiting the prey to bare its neck.

"Share good ideas from the duchy often. Who knows? I might bring you to His Majesty's side."

What nonsense. As if a connectionless minor noble could reach the Emperor. Ten years younger, he'd have seized the heavenly opportunity, devouring her crumbs eagerly. But now he knew: the role was a dog to be boiled post-hunt. Worst case, beheaded by Duke Rihardt before it ended. Her intent was obvious; no lord tolerates a rat in his domain. The war-mad duke shunned no battle, not even hopeless ones others begged to abandon. Who knew? He might be wolf chow the moment he set foot there. No heirs or wealth to leave—why risk it? Feign fever and collapse? Half-measures wouldn't fool the hyena-masked Dowager Empress. Deep in thought, Stefan's knife screeched horrifically across the plate.

"St-Stefan..."

"Ah, sorry. Did I startle you, Matilda?"

His wife Matilda, golden-haired with green eyes typical of Svergenians, lightly shook her head.

"No. What's troubling you? You've barely spoken all dinner."

"Trouble? Nothing like that."

Setting down his fork, Stefan reached across the table and clasped her hand tightly. Two years younger, Matilda remained flower-like beautiful in her late thirties. His sole treasure amid lacking wealth, power, or fame. Unwilling to distress his beloved wife, Stefan forced a bright smile.

"My worry's always the same. I'm aging, but you still look seventeen. What if people mistake you for my daughter?"

"You too."

Smiling gently while glancing sideways, Matilda hesitated before speaking.

"Stefan. I have something to tell you."

"What? Good news? Your face looks promising."

Matilda shyly nodded.

"I waited fearing you'd be disappointed, but the doctor says it's stable now."

"Doctor? Were you ill?"

Hurling down his knife, Stefan shoved back his chair and rushed to her.

"Where? Where does it hurt?"

Unlike her anxious husband, Matilda's expression was serene. Folding her eyes into half-moons, she gently patted his hands gripping her shoulders.

"I'm pregnant, Stefan."

*** Alone in the empty Training Ground, Daniel trained his stiffened arms. The ball rebounding off the wall smacked precisely into his gloved palm. Pang! Driving power into his arm to smack it back, it slammed the wall hard and hurtled toward him swiftly. Pang! Hard. Pang. Slow. Pang! Hard again. Adjusting intensity, the ball accelerated until its rebound was invisible to the eye. Daniel caught each impossibly fast incoming shot without fail.

"Can I look forward to proper wifely duties tonight?"

His focus shattered; his arm swiped empty air instead. Whoosh. Winter blizzard winds howled where his hand sliced. His flat chest heaved raggedly with each rise and fall, harsh breaths escaping. Half-teasing, half-irritated provocation.

"Damn it, why nod there!"

Recalling his wife's response, he ripped off his glove and slammed it to the ground.