Chapter 52
Of course, the heir of a small frontier county—just a mere count’s son—might be unworthy as a match for the princess of a great empire. But right now, Byron was not an emperor, but a fugitive. In times like these, showing goodwill might yield unforeseen benefits in the future.
Naturally, the count had no intention of taking concrete steps like arranging an engagement when the success of the rebellion was far from guaranteed. He merely wished to soften up the young girl, make her pliant and easier to handle later.
Not just because he was his son—objectively, Gerald was a handsome youth, with masculine features. Tall, broad-shouldered, his clothes sat well on him. He was the type that left a favorable impression at first sight.
He’s the spitting image of my younger days.
Recalling the many women he had made weep in the past, the count looked upon his son with deep satisfaction.
Girls of that age were usually as simple as could be; let a good-looking man show them the slightest kindness, and they would quickly tumble headlong into love.
The count’s prejudice against young women, combined with his mistaken belief that Ayla was Byron’s biological daughter, created a disastrous delusion.
“…Yes, I understand.”
Gerald, who had just been sulking in silence, unexpectedly nodded his head in agreement.
What’s gotten into him? So obedient all of a sudden?
The count found it odd, but in truth, Gerald had already resolved to do so on his own. The nameless young lady had captivated his interest long before his father’s words. Now, with his father’s command as added justification, it only strengthened his resolve.
Gerald recalled the pretty, slightly aloof girl he had seen during the day and allowed a faint smile to curl at his lips.
“Did the meal suit Your Highness’s taste?”
After the grand banquet welcoming Byron and his entourage, the count poured wine into Byron’s cup and asked. They were now alone together.
It was a rare, precious wine the count had hoarded for years, too reluctant to drink. But when he heard Byron was a lover of drink, he seized the chance to open it.
“Mm, not bad. I haven’t had such a satisfying meal in quite a while. All thanks to you, Count.”
With his stomach full and at last settled into comfortable lodgings, Byron looked truly pleased as he accepted the wine.
“I am glad it pleased you, ha ha.”
The count laughed obsequiously, his smile servile to the point of groveling. It was almost pathetic to watch.
“For the trouble you’ve taken on my behalf, I shall not forget. Whatever I’ve promised, I will uphold, no matter what.”
Byron savored the fragrant wine and chuckled slyly. Truly, it had been a long time since he had felt this good.
“…Ah, about that promise.”
Despite Byron’s good mood and his assurance that he would honor his word, the count’s face suddenly clouded. Just moments ago, he had been grinning like a fool—his sudden change was puzzling.
“What is it?”
Byron set down his cup and fixed the count with a steady gaze, sensing something was amiss.
“The matter has… become difficult.”
The count had originally supported Byron’s rebellion not for Byron’s sake, but to back his preferred candidate for the throne.
With the mighty Pelles Empire looming over the continent, the candidate favored by its emperor naturally had an edge in the succession struggle.
But Emperor Hiram of Pelles, ever since his accession, had adhered strictly to a policy of non-interference in neighboring realms.
To the count, who wished to seat his chosen man upon the throne even by borrowing foreign power, this was an intolerably frustrating stance.
“Duke Baches… created a scandal. He was caught embezzling relief funds, and now he has been exiled to an island.”
The Duke of Baches was the late king’s youngest son, the current king’s half-brother.
Unlike the current monarch, who was born of a mere maid, the duke was the legitimate son of the queen. With nearly twenty years between them, he was almost young enough to be the king’s child.
The late king, overjoyed at the duke’s birth, had intended for him to inherit the throne. But when the duke was only three, the king died of a sudden illness, and the eldest son—today’s monarch—ascended instead.
Many nobles had argued that the current king, born of a lowly mother, lacked legitimacy, and that the duke was the rightful heir. The Count of Senosfon was among them.
But now, with the duke disgraced and cast out, his faction had all but collapsed.
“Half his supporters have deserted. Those same fools who once raged that a man of base birth could never be king now cling to him as if nothing had happened.”
The count scoffed at their hypocrisy, calling them gutless and disloyal.
“Hmm, so that’s how it is. A difficult position for you, Count.”
“…Yes. I am deeply troubled. Your Highness’s understanding means much to me.”
He let his brows droop and put on a pitiful smile, milking his plight for sympathy.
But Byron’s response exceeded all imagination.
“What trouble is there? Once I take the imperial throne, it will be no hardship to place Duke Baches on the throne. Or… perhaps even better, why not you yourself, Count?”
“P—pardon?”
Himself, on the throne? The thought had never once crossed his mind. The count’s neck stiffened in shock.
“Never considered it? Tch, Count, it seems your ambitions are smaller than I thought.”
Byron chuckled at the man’s astonishment and sipped his wine, curious to see what ripples his words might cause. The flavor was indeed sweet and fragrant.
“…”
The count fell silent, lost in thought. He drained the wine he once considered too precious to touch, yet his throat felt parched.
It was true—he had never thought of such a thing. But if he thought about it carefully…
Not bad. Not bad at all.
In fact, it was an enticing idea. The prospect awakened a greed he had not known slumbered within him.
A faint smile spread across his flushed, wine-reddened face. Byron saw it and knew his words had struck their mark.
“…Does the lodging suit Your Highness? I trust there’s nothing wanting?”
The count asked with a mild smile, his voice steadier now. He was not trying to change the subject; it was his way of responding with deeper courtesy to a generous offer. Byron understood that well.
“Well… let me see. Nothing in particular—ah, one thing comes to mind.”
Byron’s lips curled into a sly smile.
“My daughter’s room—its lock works only from inside. Could you have it changed, so that it locks from the outside as well?”
“…Pardon? Your daughter’s room?”
The count blinked in confusion. Why would a father wish to lock up his own daughter? It was incomprehensible.
True, when Gerald rebelled against him, the boy often drove him to distraction. But never had he wished to imprison his own child.
“Ah, allow me to explain. Since we are in this together, I’ll share a secret with you, Count.”
Byron chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling prettily as he smiled.
“That girl—she isn’t my daughter. She’s a hound I’ve raised. A very useful hound. Ah, but she doesn’t know it herself, so you must keep the secret.”
It was a dazzling, almost inhuman smile—so beautiful it chilled the blood.
The count shuddered briefly in fear, but the fear was soon swept away by another feeling: bitter disappointment.
…So it was all for nothing.
He had entertained hopes of gaining an imperial princess for a daughter-in-law. To learn she was not his real daughter was crushing.
Well… a crown prince’s throne is better than an imperial marriage, anyway.
The count quickly shook off his letdown, forced a bright smile, and refilled Byron’s empty cup. This banquet, he thought, might prove the most significant moment of his life.
Ayla’s daily life did not change much, even in foreign lands. At sunset she was locked in her room; at dawn she rose early for grueling training. Nothing was different.
Only her attitude had changed. Ever since realizing Byron’s curse bound her body, she had grown far more cautious.
It was inevitable—she had to survive if she was to take her revenge, if she was to atone to her parents.
Still, her teacher, Claude, had grown noticeably gentler of late, more lenient than before, and her body enjoyed more ease. Like now.
“Let’s take a short break, my lady.”
Claude tapped the armrest of an iron chair that had been placed there at some point. Beside it sat two steaming mugs, their sweet scent of chocolate betraying their contents.
“…Thank you. I’ll enjoy it.”
Ayla sat down and accepted the cocoa he offered.
To sit in this foreign garden, amidst spring blossoms just beginning to bloom, and sip cocoa—it was a new kind of experience.
She leaned back in her chair, prepared to savor the rare peace. That is, until she felt the prickling sensation of being watched.
This garden belonged to a secluded annex deep within the count’s estate. Aside from a handful of trusted servants, entry was strictly forbidden.
Yet someone was here, watching in secret.
Claude felt it too. Without a word, both master and student sprang toward the rustling bushes, blades drawn, and leveled them at the intruder.
“Who’s there?”
