Episode 4
The Bedrock of the Deccan Empire — Taylor’s Golden Wheatfields
The vast of the Taylor duchy stretch beyond sight, feeding the empire with its abundant wheat.
“Ensure no one in Taylor’s lands goes hungry.”
This founding principle led Taylor’s dukes to improve peasant life and farming techniques. In time, the duchy became a breadbasket for the entire empire—depicted on its heraldry—so the third emperor gifted them a chapel and a splendid gallery.
Walk Down Glory Lane
Grace walked the hallowed gallery beneath her veil and wedding dress, through banners and lilies celebrating Taylor’s legacy. Guests whispered among themselves:
“She looks just like the late duchess.”
“Who could’ve predicted the Taylor heiress would marry the minor nephew of the Empress?”
“Quiet! Remember who you’re speaking of!”
Count Saxony scanned Grace approvingly and murmured, “She’s worth every coin.” Meanwhile, Rosette clenched her fist in fury—only to be distracted as the groom appeared.
His bruised eyes and disheveled appearance turned heads toward the chapel doors. A hush fell.
Officer Joseph , standing beside Walter Richmond, murmured, “Taylor marrying that rogue? It was a real invitation, right?”
Walter gave him a look—and a warning.
Walter’s tall, battle-hardened presence drew shocked glances from the assembled nobles—he was unmistakably not one of their own.
Even the old admiring cleric thought he resembled the long-dead emperor’s lost son, silent in every detail.
A Disgraced Groom
Jack of Saxony, his face marked by dark bruises, kneeled opposite Grace before the altar. His gaze lingered on her like a starving beast. The Archbishop coughed but pressed on with the ceremony.
“Do you, Jack of Saxony, take Grace Taylor to be your wife…?”
Jack swore before God, “Yes, I do.”
Then the question turned to Grace:
“Grace Taylor, do you pledge your purity of body and heart to this sacred union?”
It was the most traditional vow—no one expected anything different. But Grace paused. She felt the weight of every eye on her. She recalled her mentor’s parting words:
“The most important thing in a hunt is… waiting for the right moment.”
She exhaled, steeled herself, and answered:
“No. I have someone I love instead.”
Silence exploded. Jack gaped, his mother’s eyes widened, the Augustus Duke and Duchess were shocked. Even the Archbishop froze.
Panic rose among the crowd:
“Could she really be rejecting him now?”
“The groom has six bastards and bruised eyes—who could love him?”
The Archbishop tried to regain control:
“Grace Taylor, do you take Jack of Saxony to be your spouse… ?”
But Grace didn’t hesitate—she turned, looked steadily at Jack, and declared:
“I cannot love a single hair on his head.”
At her words, Jack finally exploded:
“You—after who you saw before the wedding, how dare you claim you cannot love me?!”
Grace’s defiant refusal shattered the ceremony, her vow of truth exposing the façade. The golden wheatfields’ duchy now witnessed its coldest reckoning—and Grace had struck first.
