Chapter 3
The council chamber, which had only just fallen quiet, stirred once more at Harvich’s words.
“…What do you mean by that?
Are you saying the duchess truly carries Your Grace’s child?”
“As you say, I fear our plans may already have been exposed.
For her to become pregnant at such a time…”
“Then why not change our course while we can?
The emperor still has no heir, does he?
What if we raised Your Grace’s child as a candidate for the throne…”
“So we waste decades as the empire’s hounds, waiting for the child to grow?
Was life so satisfying—marching to war at their command, bowing for a few wagons of grain?”
Murmurs of discontent spilt through the chamber, the voices of vassals dissatisfied with the current state of things.
“But if we can avoid conflict with the imperial family, should we not?
Consider the lords who agreed to sell grain to the north.
If they cower under imperial pressure and refuse trade, then what reason do we have to declare independence?”
“He speaks true.
Cassius holds no advantage in geography.
Should the empire conspire with foreign powers and launch a joint assault, it is we who would be imperilled.”
“Then we seize the high ground before they do!
And who can say how the imperial family will act?
If we hesitate over every petty risk, we will never move forward!”
The more heated the debate, the darker the mood grew.
Harvich listened in silence to every voice before at last opening his mouth.
He spoke slowly, letting his gaze sweep across them.
At his words, the chamber erupted once again.
“If we err, blood will flood the land.
There is nothing to gain in haste.
You each have but one life, do you not?”
With his vassals glancing at one another in uneasy silence, Harvich rose from his seat.
“That will be all for today’s council.”
He drew his cloak about his shoulders and left the chamber.
He meant to speak with Lincia once more.
Lincia Durand.
The bride he had received as a consolation gift when the merchant guild that promised aid to the north went bankrupt.
“Is this your idea of help?”
Lincia only bowed her head, saying nothing.
“…Ha.”
He knew his anger was misdirected.
“…I am… sorry.”
Harvich had never been given a choice.
Without this dowry, there were people in the north who would starve where they stood.
If it meant saving them, he could cast away his pride a thousand times over.
“…There will be no wedding ceremony.”
Lincia was the living symbol of his humiliation.
A frail woman, shivering in the northern cold without even a scrap of fur to warm her shoulders.
Harvich had stared at her in silence.
“I am sorry.”
Over and over, Lincia had spoken only those words.
He remembered that day still—the way her shoulders had trembled, fragile and small, when she received the diagnosis of her pregnancy.
That pitiful woman had never once been of help to him.
***
A knock came late that night.
At such an hour, even the maid who attended Lincia would have been long asleep, and there was no one else who might come to her.
Yet again, the sound came, sharp and deliberate.
“…Who is it?”
Rising cautiously from her bed, Lincia stepped toward the door.
“It is I.”
At the sound of Harvich’s unmistakable voice beyond the door, her lashes quivered.
The shock and disappointment she had suffered from him still lay raw and unresolved.
Lincia’s hand gripped the latch as she wavered, unable to muster the courage to face him.
“May I come in?”
But the politeness in his tone carried such weight that, as if bewitched, she opened the door.
He stood there, looking tired, worn by the day.
“I apologise for calling at such a late hour.”
“It’s fine. But more importantly…”
The sight of him apologising only deepened the distance between them.
Even after two years of marriage, Lincia still felt Harvich belonged to a world beyond her reach.
“What brings you here?”
The question itself felt almost absurd.
For the reason was all too obvious.
The child.
Surely he still doubted whose blood it bore.
He lingered at the threshold, lips parting, closing again, until at last a long sigh carried out the heavy question.
“Can you tell me whose child it is?”
She had expected it, and yet her chest ached.
Lincia opened her mouth—then pressed it shut.
“If the imperial family forced you, I can protect you.”
His voice was courteous, but to her it cut all the deeper.
He sought to help her, and yet his words carved a wound into her heart.
“…It is your child.”
Since learning of her pregnancy, Lincia found her hand straying often to her belly whenever fear overtook her.
In this place, where she had no allies, the mere presence of the child felt like the arrival of a single loyal companion.
That small act had become her anchor.
But Harvich’s silence filled her with dread, and she rushed on.
“…It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me.
If it hinders your plans, I won’t claim the child is yours.”
Her voice broke, thick with unshed tears.
Harvich released his grip on the door and stepped forward.
The door swung shut behind him.
In the one small space that was hers, Harvich now stood.
His face, troubled and concerned, seemed almost tender.
Yet the words that left his lips were merciless.
“There are drugs that can make a woman believe she is with child.”
Her heart plummeted at his cold reply.
“…You think the diagnosis was mistaken?”
“If you were not unfaithful, then yes—that would be the most likely cause.
Without relations, there can be no child.”
Lincia trembled with anger, yet she could not understand him.
Or rather, she could not fathom why he treated her as he did.
If he did not trust her, if he truly could not believe the child his own, then why did he not simply cast her aside?
Once, perhaps, he had held back for fear of the imperial gaze—but now?
There was no reason left to keep her near.
“…You cannot even imagine that it might be yours?”
Her voice shook.
In the pale wash of moonlight, his white hair gleamed, his crimson eyes unreadable.
Just that was enough to steal her breath.
And then came his sigh, slow and weary.
“Must I humour your delusions?”
His voice carried no weight of feeling at all.
Lincia’s face burned crimson.
“I only wish to pity you.”
His pity shamed her more than any insult could have.
Looking at him, she had once dared to hope—foolishly—that perhaps, if not love, then at least some faint affection had begun to take root.
A pathetic, shameful hope she could never give voice to.
“For now, I want you to step away from managing the accounts.
I trusted you not to make trouble for me.”
Harvich’s gaze shifted to her belly.
“…”
He said nothing more, but she understood at once what he meant by trouble.
Under that chill gaze, Lincia’s lips trembled open, then closed again.
She wanted to scream at him—but no w
ords came out.
“That will be all.”
As he turned to leave, his eyes lingered one last time on the hand she kept protectively over her stomach.
Then the familiar, unfamiliar scent of him drifted away, leaving her chamber hollow once more.
