Chapter 7
“A painting like that in the Duchess’s bedchamber…”
Why would they hang a painting of military triumph in the Duchess’s room, instead of a beautiful landscape or a moving mural of love?
“As if to prove they’re truly a warrior family.”
Rudice let out a faint laugh.
The Draphania family was a warrior clan to their very bones. Naive people who would even grind down their own flesh and bones to show loyalty to the imperial throne.
Lying still, staring at the ceiling, Rudice eventually turned her head. This time, her eyes fell upon the door that led to Quinlan’s bedchamber.
The door that had never once opened in her past life.
This time, she would open that door. This time, she would live—and tell a story of survival with him.
Quinlan.
Rudice quietly whispered his name.
“Quinlan.”
When the sound reached her own ears, it struck her again—she had really returned.
Yes. She was back.
She hadn’t died, and neither had he.
Then this time, things had to end differently. This time, she would make sure they both survived to the end.
Should I have wrung more information out of Jeff?
But almost at once, Rudice shook her head. If that rat was still alive, who knew what secrets he might have leaked, or how much havoc he might have sown.
It was regrettable, but this was better. Besides, she had no intention of letting such vermin stay by her side.
Since I killed Jeff, I suppose I do need someone else to be my hands and feet…
She was tired. There was still so much to think about…
“…”
In the end, exhaustion won out. Rudice drifted into sleep.
The flame of the candle crackled softly, casting its warm glow over her slumbering form.
The lights of the Duke of Draphania’s study still burned brightly deep into the night.
“So, this was all Rudice’s doing?”
Quinlan asked Belmond as he flipped through the documents that dealt with everything that had happened.
Belmond, the commander of the ducal guard, had also been overseeing household affairs during the duke’s absence.
“I don’t believe Her Grace was entirely ignorant, Your Grace. She often sought my advice on matters.”
“Rudice asked you for counsel…?”
“Yes.”
Quinlan closed the folder with tight lips.
It wasn’t hard to see.
Rudice hadn’t neglected the household while he was gone.
The records in the documents showed how she had done her utmost to lead House Draphania, and the opinions of the other servants supported it.
Rudice Draphania had conducted herself as befitted a Draphania.
“She even executed her own attendant?”
“Yes. Before her departure, the duchess had him executed, and ordered us to search his chambers. There, we found this.”
Belmond answered, producing an item.
A round sun, encircled by arcs and lines of flame.
A medal symbolizing one who carried the imperial mandate.
“The Empire, is it.”
Quinlan’s mouth twisted in a cold smile, his aura sharpening with killing intent. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
“The Crown Prince, then.”
“We’ve yet to prove it conclusively. But seeing as the man had followed Her Grace since Roxburgh, I suspect he was already an imperial agent from that time.”
“And Rudice disposed of such a man with her own hands…”
Quinlan fell silent for a moment.
What was she thinking?
Even if he was a spy, why execute him publicly, in front of others?
No matter how he thought on it, no satisfying answer came.
“Where is Rudice now?”
“She retired to her chambers, Your Grace,” Gordon, who had been standing nearby, replied.
A quick glance at the hour confirmed it was earlier than expected.
“She does not usually sleep this early. She must be tired.”
“…I see.”
Quinlan rose casually to his feet.
“Let’s end matters here for tonight.”
And he left the study.
He said nothing of his destination, but those remaining could easily guess.
As expected, Quinlan went to the Duchess’s chambers.
He paused for a moment before the finely carved door, then knocked.
“Rudice? I came to speak with you.”
“…”
“Rudice?”
No answer.
It seemed she had fallen asleep.
Come to think of it, he realized, he had never given thought to when she slept, or how her days were spent.
For that whole year he was away at war, what sort of life had she led?
It was a sudden impulse.
He knew that, as a faithful husband, he ought to leave quietly if she gave no reply. Yet before he realized it, he was already opening the door and stepping inside.
“Rudice?”
Still, just in case she was awake, he called her name as he entered.
The room was silent.
Listening closely, he heard only the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing filling the air.
Rudice lay upon the bed.
There was no one else in the chamber.
“Not even a maid present?”
Frowning faintly, he approached the bed.
She must have been deeply exhausted, for even with him drawing near, she did not stir.
Standing beside her bed, Quinlan gazed down at her.
He knew she was stronger than she looked. Swinging a spear as tall as herself was no easy feat, even for trained knights.
Unaware that his brow was furrowed, he simply kept staring. Curled up and asleep on her side, Rudice looked smaller than ever.
I never knew she was this small.
Quinlan had never shared a bed with her.
On the very day of their wedding, the Emperor had sent him off to war.
There had been no wedding night—only sleep, and then departure.
He had never opened the door that connected their chambers, never seen how she slept, never known her sleeping habits.
Now, gazing at her still form, Quinlan bent and gently lifted her into his arms.
Her body was lighter than he expected, fitting snugly against him.
A strange feeling welled up inside him.
This small woman… was the same one who had carried that massive spear to come to his aid?
Something raw and powerful stirred in his chest.
For a long moment, he simply held her, staring at the woman asleep in his arms.
At last, he laid her down again, carefully drawing the blanket over her, as if reluctant to let go of something infinitely precious.
Only then did he manage to straighten himself.
It wasn’t like him at all.
Yet Quinlan, unaware of that fact, continued to look at her.
And long after, like a statue, he remained standing there.
The dark corridors of the imperial palace echoed with footsteps. Even, deliberate steps—but edged with irritation and anger.
The wavering light of the hallway lamps revealed the man’s face: the Empire’s little sun, Crown Prince Berge de Reniète.
“Your Highness.”
A man approached, bowing deeply. Count David Winhem, the prince’s confidant.
Protocol demanded a stream of titles and honors, but the urgency in his voice made the omission forgivable.
The Crown Prince seemed to recognize this, for he accepted the greeting without his usual fastidiousness.
“I would prefer you not bring me unpleasant news.”
“My apologies, Your Highness. But… it is said that Draphania has returned victorious.”
The prince stopped in his tracks, turning cold eyes upon him.
“Why should the victory of a duke of the Empire be unpleasant news to me?”
A cold smile curved his lips.
The golden-haired prince was beautiful and noble beyond compare.
But when that cold smile appeared, it revealed a cruelty few could rival—and Count Winhem knew it well.
“His Majesty has announced that he will hold a grand banquet upon Duke Draphania’s return. Moreover, as reward for this victory, the duke’s lands are to be restored.”
“…As imperial subjects, it is only proper that we honor a hero of the Empire.”
