Translator: Nox

Chapter 20

“Get your face out of the way.”

Daniel shoved Dominic's face, flushed with eager anticipation at the prospect of a new sacrificial lamb in his stead.

“Oof.”

Dominic staggered back with a yelp.

“Oh dear, are you alright? Dominic.”

Daniel felt a momentary pang at Frida's worried voice, but it quickly faded to indifference. The mask of a well-mannered noble youth had been bound to slip eventually—it was only a matter of time. And truthfully, it wasn't much of a mask to begin with. At least when he wore it, he made some effort to act politely. Always considering his wife first, showing respect... and what else was it? He must have hit his head hard three years ago. His mother's nagging, etched into his mind, was growing hazy. But recalling it felt bothersome. This was all her fault for recklessly crossing lines and stirring up his insides. If only she'd stayed quietly on her side of the line, they could have kept seeing only the good in each other. Why stir up trouble needlessly? Daniel perched casually on the desk, crossing his arms tightly with a huff. The delinquent-like posture drew a smirk from Dominic, who had been straightening his waist.

'I wondered how long you'd keep up the act.'

He'd been putting on such airs until now, but apparently even that had grown tiresome. Sure enough, Daniel's ensuing voice remained dry, monotonous, and prickly throughout.

“Rat or noble, he's a man sent by the Emperor. We'll have to keep him around for the time being.”

“We should increase the number of servants. Now that Munheim Castle has a chief steward to manage them.”

“Handle that as you wish, Madam.”

“We should have Baron Boild stay inside the castle for now, right? There's no suitable residence outside in the territory...”

“Do as you like.”

Finishing his words, Daniel merely nodded toward Dominic.

“Watch the rat once he arrives, but don't interfere for now. Don't block his letters either. Let the Dowager Empress think he's doing well.”

“Understood, my lord.”

“With a noble steward now, you're relieved of inner castle duties. Focus on the mercenary corps training.”

“As you command.”

Frida's gaze, laced with disappointment, stabbed into Dominic's retreating back as he answered eagerly. Daniel quietly regarded his wife, wrapped head to toe in heavy clothing. If she'd sent a letter claiming illness, she should have stayed holed up in her room out of consideration—or at least not made a farce of it by wandering outside the castle. He hadn't planned to entrust her with this anyway, given her restlessness to roam freely, but... this request should keep her confined to the castle for a few days. With his decision made, he spoke.

“We'll hold the knighthood investiture in two months. Make it as lavish and extravagant as possible. Throw it to Baron Boild as his first duty, and you just watch, Madam.”

“Lavish... and extravagant?”

Frida repeated the words, questioning if he meant it, and Daniel affirmed immediately.

“Yes. Prepare knight uniforms, banners, horse saddles—all flashy enough to turn heads.”

“Are you planning to make us a laughingstock?”

Daniel brushed aside Dominic's protest with a single gesture.

“Keep the new steward so busy he has no clue what's happening outside the castle. If you want to delay rumors of our road construction reaching the imperial court, that is.”

Only then did Frida grasp his intent, her slender neck bobbing slowly up and down.

“Ah... Yes. Understood.”

“That's all from me. You're dismissed.”

As Frida exited, Daniel called to Muriel, who reached for the study door handle.

“Lady Rosivalt, you stay.”

Muriel flashed a reassuring smile at Frida's anxious glance. Though inwardly, her mind buzzed like bees swarming a hive.

'Is today the day?'

Damn retribution. She'd rather take another punch and be done with it. *** In truth, the duke said nothing unusual to the sole remaining Muriel for a while. He merely perched on the desk, silently staring at her sword.

'What do you want?'

After a not-insignificant standoff, Daniel nodded toward her scabbard.

“Is that sword 'Koldar'?”

Muriel glanced down at the black hilt following his gaze and nodded.

“Yes. It is Koldar, the heirloom of the Rosivalt family. Bestowed by the founding emperor Karl I upon the loyal ancestor of the Rosivalt family.”

“I hear one must challenge and defeat its owner in a duel to claim it.”

As a famously renowned sword, many had shown interest, so Muriel preemptively offered unasked details.

“Correct. But only those bearing Rosivalt blood are eligible.”

“A pity for a knight reduced to nursemaid.”

With no sarcasm detectable in his tone, it was clearly sincere. Unable to retort, Muriel clamped her mouth shut. It wasn't entirely wrong, after all.

“How did someone like you end up as escort knight to the Harkbon count's daughter?”

Retribution for striking his face reduced to such a trivial question. Muriel bit the inside of her lip to hide her irritation.

“Count Harkbon once did me a great favor. I wished to repay it, but he asked for nothing but protection for his sole remaining daughter.”

She'd only meant to add a word about Miss Frida, yet words spilled unbidden.

“I'm worried about the Duchess overexerting herself here. With too few hands, she handles far too much personally...”

“The Harkbon count had three daughters originally, right? Two died young.”

His tone was utterly detached, as if discussing a stranger's affairs. Muriel's offended voice came out icier than even she intended.

“Yes. I heard both passed at sixteen. They suffered the same illness as Miss Frida.”

“Died of illness, did they?”

His furrowed brow suggested he'd never heard of the Harkbon daughters' misfortune. Died of illness? Was that even a question? Otherwise, would healthy girls die wielding swords like her at that blossoming age? Dominic had called her lord heartless—could the rumors underestimate his cold-bloodedness? Having seen him firsthand, she understood the words now. Muriel swallowed hard, choking down the resentment rising to her throat.

“Yes. The two who passed had hair, brows, skin... everything identical to Miss Frida, save eye color.”

“People die just from pale skin? Over something so trivial? Bad luck, that's all.”

Duke Rihardt scoffed dismissively. Something surged from Muriel's chest, boiling up her throat. Pale skin? Because of that skin, Miss Frida can't endure sunlight or wear revealing clothes. What of her worsening vision? That frail body cared for you these past three years. Washed and wiped your unconscious form daily. Morning and night, massaged your limbs fearing they'd stiffen, no matter how exhausted she was. Do you even know whose credit it is that you've recovered your strength so swiftly? That delicate girl gnawing away at her own life to keep you alive. And? Just bad luck? You dare say that with that gaping mouth! Silently screaming every curse she could muster, Muriel took deep breaths to force it down. Though born of misunderstanding, she'd landed a punch, so her chest felt somewhat relieved. Emperor's mad dog. Wicked black beast. Words swordsmen used for Duke Daniel Rihardt. Her fourth brother, who'd seen him on the battlefield, called him the 'Serene Slaughterer' too. Stabbing with a sword while looking as if strolling rather than fighting. Rumors like that didn't arise without cause. There was reason aplenty.

“No early deaths in the Rosivalt family?”

What now? Muriel's composure finally cracked at the unexpected question.

“Of course there are. A younger sibling, several cousins...”

“Most with reddish-brown hair like yours? Gray eyes. Rosivalt traits.”

“Yes.”

“By your logic, doesn't that mean you suffer the same illness?”

“Pardon? That... what do you...”

Uncrossing his arms, Daniel flexed his wrist softly as he rose from the desk. His slow steps alone filled the study with his presence.

“Family dying young with similar hair, skin, eyes. To me, Harkbon and Rosivalt seem hardly different.”

“But Miss Frida...”

“If you, Lady Rosivalt, died in some unfortunate accident tonight?”

Daniel stood before Muriel. Tall enough that she, of height matching Dominic's, had to tilt her head slightly.

“My wife would outlive her escort knight despite her short-lived fate known across the empire. Quite fortunate for someone with a fatal illness.”

His face radiated chill as he spouted incomprehensible nonsense.

“Stop fretting over my wife. How about testing your own luck instead?”

“My luck?”

“Yes, luck. To beat me, a fallen nursemaid like you must rely more on fortune than skill, no? Though I haven't wielded a sword in three years.”

Daniel blinked languidly, like a sated predator.

“If you win the duel, I'll grant one wish. Anything. No conditions.”

A duel out of nowhere? But win, and any wish granted? Doubting her ears, Muriel asked back.

“Anything?”

The duke nodded lightly, his lip twitching.

“But if I win...”

It was the most unappetizing smile she'd ever seen.

“Koldar is mine.”

*** With each bend of Daniel's arm, the count rose from his lips.

“Fifty-four, fifty-five.”

His left arm's sensation had returned far swifter than the right. Lifting his body felt easier with the left than the right alone.

“Fifty-six, fifty-seven.”

His left arm bore his full weight, obediently bending and extending, right arm resting tamely on his lower back. Then, the silent wall—devoid of even an ant's passage for days—resounded. Knock knock. Ending at sixty, Daniel lowered his knees to the floor, wiped forehead sweat, and glared at the wall connecting to the duchess's room. Knock knock. Bold enough to barge in and rummage uninvited before—now making her presence known. Abandoning the towel for sweat, Daniel headed straight for the door. Click.

“Your Grace. I have something to discuss... Oh my!”

Frida, facing Daniel shirtless, quickly turned her head and shut her eyes.

“Why... the, uh, clothes...”

“Surprised? I thought you'd be familiar with my body after washing me for three years.”

“Well... you were unconscious then.”

Right. I lay still like a corpse, and you kneaded me at will. Damn. Heat from his workout flushed his body. Stepping back, Daniel slung the shirt haphazardly tossed on the bed over his shoulders.

“To what do I owe the visit? I thought you wouldn't come near this door.”

“I heard people in the castle saying you'll duel Muriel tomorrow—is it true?”

“It is.”

Breaths quickened behind as he donned the shirt.

“Your Grace, Muriel isn't just any knight. Among Rosivalt swordsmen, she's the strongest, with peerless skill—rumored for imperial knight commander since youth.”

Turning, he met Frida's wide-eyed, worried gaze looking up.

“I worried you might not know...”

Worried? With everyone fretting you'd drop dead tomorrow, who worries for whom? Daniel advanced slowly, backing Frida to the wall one step at a time until her back met it, propping a hand above her head. Frida fixated on his sneering, twisting lips, missing the faint red in his eyes.

“Has my wife not heard the rumors about her husband?”