INWY~13

Chapter 13

The storm that raged for three days stole more than anyone could count. 

Entire neighborhoods in Behern’s eastern and southern districts lay ruined.

Thousands were left homeless, and the cost of property damage was staggering.

And all of it fell upon the shoulders of the Grand Duke of Venachert.

The Grand Duke does not turn away from tragedy.

Venachert’s Grand Duke leads disaster recovery—how much compensation will follow?

Naturally, Dante could not ignore such devastation, and so it was only natural that these headlines filled the morning papers.

But with work pouring in without end, with new reports and petitions piling on each day, Dante was worn down to the bone.

Reichert, you damned bastard.

Grinding his teeth, Dante scrawled his pen across the page. 

The moment the royal family saw the damage—thousands displaced in Behern—they washed their hands of the matter, claiming the capital itself was suffering too greatly to spare any aid.

Not that it was entirely bad. 

With his reputation in tatters after the annulment scandal with the Grand Duchess, perhaps this was an unexpected chance to turn the tide.

And yet, even knowing this was the perfect opportunity to rebuild his image, fury still seared his chest. 

The Crown Prince, dumping the burden on him without hesitation—it made Dante want to overturn the royal house then and there.

The noble sacrifice of the Grand Duke of Venachert shall never be forgotten by the crown or the people of Behern, and his service will forever…

When such a worthless letter arrived from the palace, Dante barely skimmed it before tearing it into shreds and tossing it into the fire.

The advisors present were silently horrified at his irreverence, but none dared speak. 

Everyone knew—Dante Venachert cared nothing for such posturing.

And so, all they could do was hold their tongues and watch his temper in silence.

It had been five days since the rains stopped. 

Dante had done nothing but process petitions and reports since then. 

He had hardly eaten, barely slept. His nerves frayed thinner with each passing hour.

No matter how many approvals he signed, the papers never dwindled. 

With a sharp snap, he flung down his pen and reached instinctively for his cigar case.

Click.

“…Ha. Damn it all.”

Empty.

The case was bare. 

A savage curse escaped him, followed by the violent crash of the case as he hurled it into the wastebasket. 

His bloodshot eyes glared around the office.

The men gathered—managers, legal advisors—shrunk into their papers like cornered mice. 

Sweat trickled down their temples as they tried to disappear from his notice.

Days without rest had left the Grand Duke wound tight as a wire. 

Everyone knew to tread with utmost caution.

Then Dante’s gaze froze on one man. 

The manager stiffened, realizing he had been singled out. 

He was the one who had submitted that pathetic report weeks ago.

“What are you waiting for? Bring me a cigar.”

The man bolted from his seat, nearly running out the door.

Poor bastard.

All eyes flicked toward the door with the same unspoken thought. 

Ever since his mistake, the man had been living under Dante’s heel.

But Dante paid them no mind, snatching up the next file with a jerk. 

His brow furrowed instantly.

“You expect me to believe it will take two weeks to repair damage from three days of rain? Contact the site director. Cut the schedule.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll see to it. Also… they’ve reported costs may rise slightly.”

“How much.”

“About five hundred thousand krang.”

The man’s voice faltered as he peeked up nervously. 

Dante glared, then exhaled through clenched teeth.

“Tell them it’s approved.”

Idiots. 

Slow, useless fools.

He raked a hand through his hair with a snarl.

“Hudson.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The butler, who had been managing orders among the advisors, stepped forward. 

His haggard expression mirrored that of the others—drawn, weary, strained.

“Any news?”

The question carried no subject, but Hudson knew at once what he meant. 

He lowered his head.

“…Nothing yet, Your Grace.”

At that moment, the manager returned, breathless, sweat beading his brow. 

Hudson took the cigar box from him and set it carefully before Dante.

Only then did Dante light a fresh cigar, his reddened eyes cutting back to the hapless man.

“If your next report is as worthless as the last, it will be your last.”

“I—I’ll give it my utmost! Forgive me!”

The manager bowed low, voice trembling. 

Hudson’s brows knit with pity.

It was no wonder. 

Since that disastrous report, the man had endured enough abuse for a lifetime. 

Yet he couldn’t even quit.

None of them could. 

Every man here was bound to House Venachert by contracts as harsh as slavery.

The manager caught Hudson’s eye, and the butler gave a subtle nod toward the door. 

Go. Get out while you can.

The man seized the cue, bowing again before scurrying back to his place.

Meanwhile, Dante lit his cigar, drawing in the bitter smoke. 

Only then did the exhaustion of the last eight days ease, if only slightly.

He exhaled, eyes half-lidded.

It had been eight days now since the accident—three days of storm, five since the skies had cleared. 

They had scoured Behern from corner to corner, considering even the possibility she had moved on from the crash site.

And yet… no trace.

She must be dead.

…It would have been better for you if I had died then and there. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t.

Riena’s calm, steady voice rang in his mind, her brave facade etched in cruel clarity. 

She surfaced in his thoughts without mercy.

Dante’s brows drew tight. 

He lit another cigar, grinding his teeth.

Even in death, she was nothing but a hindrance.

Even announcing her passing would ruin him.

The instant he declared her dead, his fragile reputation would shatter completely. 

All his efforts now would be rendered meaningless.

“Dismiss the search parties,” he said at last, voice low and cold.

“Yes, Your Grace. At once.”

“And prepare a funeral. Quickly.”

Hudson’s eyes widened in shock. 

The Duke’s tone was flat, devoid of grief—only weary disdain. 

Slowly, Hudson bowed his head.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

***

She dreamed a long dream.

She must have been nine years old.

That day had begun, as always, with her father’s hand striking her face, his boot slamming into her stomach.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“You wretched brat! I fed you, clothed you, and you dare steal from your father’s purse!?”

The endless terror, the searing pain.

“I—I’ll never do it again! Please, just once, forgive me!”

Even as his kicks drove the breath from her, she crawled back up, begging until her palms bled.

“Don’t come crawling back until you’ve earned five times what you stole!”

Only when she was thrown out barefoot into the dead of winter did Riena finally escape that suffocating fear.

But then came another—the cold.

Shivering, lost, she stumbled through the streets until she reached the fountain at Behern Square.

Once, she had marveled at that fountain, the sun making its waters sparkle like jewels.

Now, in the freezing depths of winter, it was long since frozen solid.

She huddled beneath it, forced to beg passing strangers for hours.

“Please, sir, just one krang.”

“Get lost, beggar brat! Who let you sit here in the middle of the square?”

“Let her be. In this weather, she won’t last long anyway. Tch. Child, pray to God while you can.”

The words cut colder than any kick. 

More painful, more humiliating.

All she earned for her suffering was three krang. 

She had stolen one krang from her father—meaning she needed seven more before she could go home.

She had taken it only because she was starving. 

Two days without food had driven her mad.

Huddled and weeping, dressed in nothing but rags, her bare arms and legs were raw and swollen with frostbite. 

She could hardly feel the pain anymore.

In that moment, Riena knew. 

She would never make it back home. 

She would freeze to death here, tonight.

Should I… pray to God one last time?

The thought barely formed—

…

…

…

“Haaah!”

With a ragged gasp, Riena jolted awake, sitting bolt upright.