#17.
“Hera has never even heard of the name ‘Meriot Laurent.’”
That was the truth.
And since it came from Hera’s own mouth, it had to be true.
“Then why are you treating her so familiarly?”
But Hera didn’t know everything that had happened in her life.
That, too, was the truth.
She had completely forgotten that she had met Meriot ten years ago, and so the gap between their two versions of the truth would remain unbridgeable for a while.
Regardless of the details, what Emilia Tollin had said to Meriot was enough to shake his self-control.
Meriot approached Hera, closing the distance in an instant, emanating a threatening aura.
As Hera looked up at him with startled eyes, a cold glare and voice rained down on her.
“Hera was supposed to be my wife.”
The emotions she had felt just a moment ago vanished like a lie, replaced by new ones.
“Much, much closer than a liar like Emilia Tollin could ever be.”
It was a complex, peculiar emotion, difficult to define — something with a very strange taste.
“Don’t you dare try to use Hera in one of your lies again. I’ll be watching you.”
Meriot, having said what he wanted, turned and left Hera behind.
It wasn’t until he had walked quite far that Hera realized her lips had gone dry from holding her mouth open in shock.
Wife?
What the hell is he talking about?
I’m Hera Wyntaile — who does that man think he is to spout such nonsense so confidently?
“…What?”
At the end of her scrambled thoughts, a short, stunned mutter escaped Hera’s lips.
‘That wine was too strong. I didn’t know the Wyntaile family’s port would be that potent…’
As he walked toward the front gate where the carriage was waiting, Meriot felt a brief pang of regret.
He had overindulged at the banquet, unable to endure Hera’s memorial without alcohol.
It had helped him get through the ceremony, but left his emotions on edge.
He shouldn’t have stopped Emilia Tollin.
No matter what she said to Count Wyntaile, he should have pretended not to hear it.
Instead, he confronted her and even blurted out his past with Hera — if she told her father, they’d surely try to use it against him.
That relationship had ended with Hera’s death, so it wasn’t like there was anything to lose.
But Viscount Tollin was a cunning man.
If he tried to use Hera to shake Meriot’s composure, Meriot knew he might still fall into the trap, even fully aware of it.
Shaking his head roughly, Meriot braced for the worst.
This was his first mistake since returning to Central. There could be no more.
“Your Highness.”
“Shane.”
As Meriot stepped into the carriage, his chief aide Shane Darius greeted him.
Silently, Shane examined him — clearly worried that his master might have caused some incident at the memorial.
Sensing his concern, Meriot grumbled in his usual tone.
“Central hasn’t changed. People still act like verbal sparring is a matter of life and death.”
“Idle entertainment for those with too much time.”
Hearing Meriot’s calm voice, Shane looked relieved and averted his gaze.
As the carriage departed, Meriot recalled what happened at the banquet and asked,
“Does the Marchioness of Orentia have some special reason to dislike the young ladies of the Tollin family?”
“Not sure. Why do you ask?”
“She looked like she was dying to tear them apart.”
“If she’s wary of young ladies, it’s likely because of her daughter’s marriage prospects. The Marchioness has long been aiming for the position of Crown Princess.”
“Oh, trying to get that Olivia married to the Crown Prince?”
Meriot smirked.
It wasn’t a lie that he collected portraits of Central’s noble ladies.
But it wasn’t to admire their beauty — it was to understand the political landscape of Central.
Painters who sold portraits to Duke Laurent believed he was enamored with women, and often gossiped about noble families freely.
Among the stories he heard was about Olivia Orentia, the only daughter of the Marchioness.
He knew well how dearly the Marchioness treasured her daughter.
So it was no accident that he brought up Olivia’s name to provoke the Marchioness.
“It’s well known throughout the Empire that the Tollins are staunch imperial loyalists. Even if they’re a mere viscount family, Cecilia Tollin is called the flower of society. So, it’s not entirely impossible. Especially since the Crown Prince is remarrying.”
The Crown Prince, Ron Arista, had been without a consort for years after his first wife died five years ago.
Plenty of noble families had their eyes on the vacant Crown Princess seat — it was a position of guaranteed power.
But Meriot scoffed at all of them.
If they knew why he was really back in Central — how meticulously he had prepared — no one would dare side with Ron Arista.
“Let’s see who grabs the rotten rope.”
“Right now, it’s a golden rope. You’re the rotten one, Your Grace.”
“…”
“I meant at present, of course.”
Meriot glared at his blunt aide but shifted topics. He had something else on his mind.
“Did you find the thief?”
He was referring to the woman he met at House Antony — an absurdly clumsy thief.
“No. She disappeared without a trace. No leads, no stolen goods turned up.”
“She didn’t seem that meticulous.”
It was precisely that contradiction that caught Meriot’s attention.
She looked more incompetent than a ten-year-old pickpocket, and yet, not a single trace of her remained.
What kind of skill did she have? Meriot wanted to see it with his own eyes.
“The Tollins’ eldest son is currently commander of the city guard. He’s been tasked with catching her. We have a man embedded in the city guard — we’ll report any new information immediately.”
“She stole the black obsidian from the Duke of Antony, right?”
“Yes. The Black Tear of Bagnol, they call it. It’s about palm-sized.”
“It’s not that expensive, though, is it?”
“No, but since Bagnol no longer exists, it has a kind of legendary, rare allure. Still, obsidian itself isn’t a precious gem — it won’t fetch a huge price.”
“A thief with no interest in money, huh.”
That only piqued Meriot’s curiosity more.
Knowing Meriot’s tendency to get absorbed in mysterious and unresolved things, Shane sighed quietly.
To him, she seemed like nothing more than a lucky amateur.
He hoped Meriot would lose interest soon, so he purposely changed the subject.
“How was the memorial?”
“What?”
“Why are you looking at me like that? I’m just asking.”
Shane Darius was never someone who sincerely cared about others’ feelings.
Meriot, momentarily blank-faced, quickly realized Shane was trying to divert his attention.
“I cried. Sobbed like a baby.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“I’m lying.”
“I know.”
Not much of a conversationalist, that one.
Meriot frowned and looked out the window.
The Laurent estate was located far from Central’s heart — they still had a long way to go.
Plenty of time for idle thoughts.
For ten years, Meriot had only two goals:
To bring down Jerome Arista and Ron Arista.
And to repay the kindness Hera Wyntaile had once shown him.
Cruel revenge and noble repayment.
Those two extremes were what kept Meriot going through the years.
But now, with Hera dead and one pillar gone, Meriot often found himself emotionally unmoored.
Like a man running across a collapsing bridge, he was gripped by a desperate anxiety that sometimes overwhelmed him.
To the point he lashed out immaturely at Emilia Tollin at the Count’s residence.
‘She’s Ober Tollin’s daughter, and yet… she looked so innocent. Was she ordered to act that way?’
The way he vented on her left a sour taste in his mouth.
If she weren’t Ober Tollin’s daughter, he might have believed her innocent expression and behavior.
“By the way, Sir Hendrik Foy is on his way to Central.”
“He’s still got that habit of being late.”
Meriot answered as meaningless scenery flew past the window.
His knight escort, Hendrik Foy, was arriving soon. Every piece was finally in place.
He couldn’t afford to wallow in grief any longer.
Not after ten years of people trusting and following him.
Meriot could not stop now.
“It’s my turn to show them how the wolf hunts.”
