YWPWYLFDM 11

Chapter 11

It was a ghastly sight—something she couldn’t bear to watch any longer. If Byron spouted even a few more drunken absurdities, she might have lost control and leapt in to strangle him herself.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Byron staggered toward the bed and collapsed onto it. Considering how drunk he was, it was almost impressive that he had managed to find the bed on his own.

She stayed hidden for quite some time, watching carefully to see if Byron had truly fallen asleep. He didn’t so much as stir. He was so still that she wondered for a moment if he might actually be dead.

All that remained was to slip into the room. But the distance between the tree she was perched on and the window was just a little too far.

If she leapt with all her strength, she could probably grab hold of the window ledge—but it would be noisy, and far too conspicuous.

There has to be another way…

Her eyes swept the area. Just then, the clouds shifted, and the moonlight illuminated the building’s outer wall. There, she noticed a decorative relief carved into the stone. She couldn’t tell what the carving depicted, but it looked sturdy enough to serve as a foothold. With that, she could enter far more quietly.

…I’ll give it a try.

Byron was fast asleep, dead to the world, and there wasn’t a guard in sight. Resolute, Aila balanced on a thick branch and launched herself toward the wall.

Step one was a success. She clung to the wall without incident and carefully stretched her foot toward the window frame.

Got it.

Tap, tap. Two faint noises sounded, but Byron, lost in his drunken slumber, didn’t stir. Hidden against the wall, she quickly checked outside—none of the distant guards had noticed anything either.

She slipped inside without issue and headed straight for his desk.

That was where the letters she’d been dying to read were kept.

Casting one quick glance to make sure Byron was still fast asleep, she examined the stack of fine stationery sealed with red wax. Luckily, they had already been opened.

I have thought deeply on the proposal you sent me.

I too wish to hunt down the young lion running wild.

But you must know as well as I do that it is no easy task to hunt a lion guarded by a great white wolf.

Besides, was it not you who once failed in your attempt to hunt the old lion?

So I must decline your offer.

What in the world does this mean…?

“Hunting lions”?

Byron was the last man who would ever be involved in hunting. He hated anything that required physical effort and spent nearly all his time indoors. His pale, sunlight-deprived complexion was proof of that.

It was clear enough that “hunting” wasn’t meant literally.

She sifted through the other letters. Their contents were much the same—all speaking of hunting lions or wolves. The handwriting and seals differed, suggesting they were from various correspondents.

If only there were more concrete clues…

She carefully put the letters back. Just then, she noticed a draft of a reply Byron had written. It hadn’t been sealed yet—perhaps he’d been unsatisfied and was planning to rewrite it. Either way, this was a rare opportunity.

Swallowing dryly, Aila read the reply.

I know full well what concerns you.

Yes, that arrogant wolf guards the lion. Naturally, you must be afraid.

But you need not worry. I have raised an excellent hunting dog.

My loyal hound will soon deal with that white wolf.

So let us join forces and hunt the lion together.

P.S. I remind you, lest you’ve forgotten: I still have proof of what you and I did together in the past.

Aila set the letter down, her expression grim. She sank into thought.

The hunting dog Byron speaks of… is it me?

Byron did keep dogs, but they were nothing like hunting hounds—tiny, pampered creatures more suited to a lap than a chase.

Yes. It must be me.

She herself had often thought of her role in his schemes as that of a dog. If the “hound” was indeed her, then the “great white wolf” had to be her father, Lord Roderick Ellen Weishafen.

A cold sweat broke out on her skin.

If killing the head of House Weishafen—the Empire’s so-called Guardian Duke—was only one step in a larger plan to murder someone else… what did that say of the “young lion”?

She couldn’t be sure who that was, but the wording suggested someone of at least ducal rank.

…Just who is Byron?

Face pale, Aila stared at his slumbering figure for a long time, chilled to the bone.

Who was this man, to be weaving such dreadful plots?

Eventually, realizing she had lingered too long, she slipped back out. She needed to return to the attic before she was missed.

Back in her attic room, Aila lay awake, turning the letters’ cryptic words over in her mind.

Who was the “young lion”?

Perhaps it didn’t refer to a person at all, but to something else entirely.

She had assumed the white wolf meant Roderick, but maybe it symbolized House Weishafen itself. If so, then the lion too might stand for another noble family or organization.

If I’d known it would come to this, I should have paid more attention in my lessons…

Frustrated, she tangled her silvery hair with her hands.

For two years as a noble’s ward, she had endured the lessons in etiquette. After that, Roderick had gradually begun instructing her as if grooming her for succession—teaching her the history of the Empire and the ducal house, the political climate, and the major noble families.

But back then, Aila had been far too preoccupied with Byron’s schemes, which were nearing their climax. She hadn’t listened properly, convinced she’d never be heir to the duchy anyway.

Now she racked her brain, sifting through scraps of memory, but she still couldn’t grasp the identity of the “young lion.” Exhausted, she finally drifted into uneasy sleep.

“Master.”

Byron, who had finally fallen asleep after drinking late into the night, scrunched his face at the unwelcome voice that disturbed him. Everyone in the household knew how much he despised being woken before he rose on his own.

“…Master, you must wake.”

It was the voice of Cloud, Byron’s ever-loyal shadow.

Cloud was not one to disturb his sleep without good reason. Knowing this, Byron grudgingly sat up in bed. The sky outside was still dim with dawn.

“Isn’t this about the time that girl is supposed to be training? Why aren’t you supervising her instead of waking me?”

He made no effort to hide his irritation. For him, morning still felt like the middle of the night.

“My apologies, but urgent news has arrived. I knew it was impertinent, yet I had no choice but to wake you.”

Urgent news? For Cloud—who never disobeyed his master’s moods—to do this, it must be something dire indeed.

“What’s happened?”

It had better not be something trivial, Byron thought darkly as he drained the water from his bedside table. His throat was parched from last night’s excesses.

“It concerns Lady Heiling’s health.”

Heiling was Aila’s middle name—but it was also the maiden name of Ophelia, the Duchess of Weishafen. Since becoming duchess, the name had been relegated to a formality.

But among Byron’s followers, who dared not call her “Duchess” before him, and could not presume to use her given name either, “Lady Heiling” was the only title permitted.

Byron choked on his water and broke into a fit of coughing.

“W-what did you say? Explain yourself, now!”

Byron was usually unhurried, but when it came to Ophelia, he could never stay calm. She was the one person who could make him anxious, restless, desperate.

“The word came urgently from our source inside the ducal house. I don’t know all the details, but it seems her condition is grave. She suddenly collapsed and has yet to regain consciousness…”

As Cloud spoke, Byron’s face grew steadily paler.