Chapter 3
Fritz, the capital of Bitenholtz.
The city was gradually shedding the white weight of winter, but even at night, most places remained brightly lit.
Especially now, since it hadn’t been long since the officers returned from the front lines.
Clack—
With a crisp sound, a card was thrown onto the table.
“Hey, Mikhail! What happened? You won three times in a row and then lost everything in one round?”
One officer laughed as he revealed a full red hand and swept all the chips off the table. Beside him, another officer bit down on a cigar and smirked.
“That’s just how Mikhail is. He always loses big when it matters most. His win rate is good, but his profits are terrible.”
“Exactly. That’s why I end up losing money—just like you all.”
Mikhail replied lightly, and laughter spread among the officers. No matter how it happened, beating someone who had been winning all night was always satisfying.
It was a banquet personally hosted by the Crown Prince of Bitenholtz to celebrate the returning officers.
As the atmosphere grew livelier, drinks and cards circulated everywhere, along with gossip.
For officers back in Fritz, leisure rarely strayed far from a few things:
Drinking and gambling.
The setting didn’t matter. It could be hunting with rifles, playing cards at a social club, or, like now, all of it combined.
In the warm haze of alcohol and excitement, Mikhail exchanged a few more words with a faint smile, then stood up and left.
***
The balcony, a little removed from the banquet hall, was cool under the night air.
Mikhail leaned casually against the stone railing.
He put away his cigar and instead took out a cigarette. Removing his right glove, he lit it in a series of habitual movements, as if the actions didn’t even belong to him.
A low, dry chuckle escaped him.
Not quite cynicism—more like fatigue.
Three hours wasted entertaining fools…
When they lost to Adenauer, their faces twisted. But after one win, they were grinning like idiots.
Mikhail let out a quiet scoff, a cigarette between his lips.
Just as ash began to fall from its tip—
A voice came from behind him.
Mikhail Adenauer. There you are.”
“…Xavier.”
Xavier Fradier Bitenholtz, Crown Prince of Bitenholtz.
Mikhail gave a brief nod—less a formal greeting, more something suited for a cousin or friend.
Without asking, Xavier took a cigarette from Mikhail’s pocket and lit it.
“A lot of people are looking for you in the hall. Aren’t you going back?”
“I already let them win once. Why should I do it twice?”
A faint, mocking smile appeared on Mikhail’s lips.
“So, what brings you here, Your Highness? I doubt you came all this way just to play messenger.”
The meaning was clear: get to the point.
Xavier let out a small sigh. There was probably no one else in the empire who would speak to him like this.
He sat down and got straight to it.
“I heard you sent a proposal to the Visvaren family. My mother told me. Seems it’s not public yet.”
“Ah, right. I did.”
Mikhail smiled faintly, as if only just remembering.
His deep-set green eyes shifted toward Xavier.
Dark, arrogant eyes.
“So?”
The tone clearly asked, “Is that a problem?”
Xavier frowned.
“Why Visvaren of all places? With your current standing, you could choose someone far better.”
“You read the will, didn’t you? My grandmother kindly wrote it out for me.”
Thanks to that, I don’t even have to bother searching.
Mikhail’s shameless answer made Xavier scoff in disbelief.
“You’re wasting this opportunity for such a trivial reason? Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately, the drinks weren’t very good tonight. I’m not sure Your Highness can save face if this is how you cut the banquet budget.”
“Mikhail.”
Xavier’s tone hardened.
He knew exactly what Mikhail was doing—dodging the real issue—but getting a straight answer from him was impossible.
After a moment, Xavier spoke again.
“Fine. The Visvarens used to be a prestigious family. But that’s in the past, and you know it. They have neither influence nor wealth now. Why choose them?”
Marriage was an opportunity for a man to rise.
No one in Bitenholtz would deny that.
Unless—
You were born with wings already.
Mikhail wasn’t.
The Adenauer family—
built upon the grave of a discarded princess.
Years ago, a scandal shook the empire:
“The Second Princess Isolin is pregnant with a commoner’s child before her royal marriage!”
Isolin, the empire’s most beautiful princess, beloved by all—
chose one love over countless admirers.
As a result, she was stripped of her royal status.
After giving birth, she died not long after.
Her grandson—
was Mikhail.
A man who resembled her so much that even Princess Karoline, who had frozen her heart after losing her sister, melted at the sight of him.
The noblest blood in his veins was denied.
Only the lowliest name remained attached to him.
Xavier looked at him—this man of contradiction.
“Great-aunt Karoline wanted to erase the name Adenauer from you. Even if she wasn’t fully aware of current affairs.”
She probably thought Visvaren was a suitable match.
After all, the family had once produced many officers. In her youth, Admiral Helma Visvaren had been widely praised across the empire.
But noble families could fall far more easily than a princess could lose her title.
Since Helmut, Visvaren had produced no notable officers.
They had lost influence in Fritz’s high society.
Now, they barely even appeared during the social season.
“That girl probably grew up in the countryside her whole life. She’ll be rigid and boring. That’s not your type. It’s not too late—find someone better. You need a good marriage, Mikhail.”
“A good marriage…”
Mikhail murmured with a quiet laugh, pushing himself off the railing.
“Since when did I start calling you a matchmaker, Your Highness? Seems you’re more interested in playing broker than messenger.”
“Mikhail.”
Xavier stood up as well, but Mikhail didn’t even look at him as he picked up his coat.
“You should stop worrying about my marriage. No matter who I bring, you won’t like her anyway.”
“What? Don’t tell me…”
“Didn’t I mention? I like rigid and boring women.”
“You’re insane.”
At Xavier’s exasperated curse, Mikhail gave a rare smile.
It was brief and light—like water dripping in early summer.
His elegant expression looked just as beautiful as it had in his youth.
And just as unreadable.
Without another word, Mikhail slung his coat over his shoulder and left.
The night had fully settled in.
