Chapter 61
A man clung desperately to the hem of her skirt, gazing up at her with pleading eyes.
His tear-streaked, pitiful face was ugly to behold, but there was no mistaking that he was the long-awaited lover.
“Victoria, I truly mean it. You have to believe me, I—”
Before Sandor could spew out another excuse, Victoria sharply yanked her hand free from his grasp.
Her voice came down cold and dry, like brittle wood snapping.
“…Throw him in the underground prison. To attempt to kill a servant of the castle is blatant betrayal of his lord. And to live in the West yet dare to call the words of the Witch and of Clyde a lie—he deserves death.”
“Vi… Victoria!!”
Sandor’s despairing wail rang out.
“Drag him away and lock him up.”
“Yes, my lord!”
At Hannibal’s order, the knights moved quickly.
“How dare you treat me like this! You! You think you can—!”
As he was dragged toward the dungeon, Sandor suddenly turned savage, spitting curses until his voice vanished into the distance.
Throughout it all, Victoria said nothing. Only Count Arthur glared fiercely at Hannibal.
“He belongs to a southern landowning family. And you throw him in prison when the Imperial Army is marching this way? Are you insane?”
“He tried to deceive Clyde, and he dared to call the Witch a liar. In the West, Clyde is the law, not the Empire. Do you not know that, Father?”
“If you keep acting so arrogantly, Hannibal, you’ll live to regret it!”
But no one responded to the Count’s outburst.
Anne’s concern wasn’t with the father loudly complaining to his son—it was with Victoria, standing motionless like stone, eyes unfocused.
“Young Lady… are you all right?”
“No… I’m not. Not at all.”
Anne hurried anxiously at her side as they walked back toward her chambers.
But Victoria quietly stopped her.
“Anne, I’m sorry. I want to be alone.”
Bang! The door shut firmly.
* * *
There was no time to shake off her fatigue from travel. Anne quickly changed back into her maid’s uniform and set to work sorting through the ledgers that had piled up in her absence.
She made do with a supper of stale bread. By the time she lifted her head again, the world outside was pitch-black.
“Steward.”
She happened to run into him on her way to the office.
“Come with me, Anne. Sir Oliver should be here soon as well.”
It was the nightly report. With Hannibal back, Anne hadn’t had a moment to rest.
“My lord, the head maid and the steward are here.”
“Enter.”
With his attendant Jack beside him, Hannibal was poring over journals and reports. Perhaps he was waiting for his aide before beginning in earnest.
Anne stood next to the steward, waiting. But Hannibal spoke first.
“Report in full detail what’s happened during my absence, Steward.”
At his command, the steward recounted the events.
The very day after Hannibal’s party left the lord’s castle, a letter of protest arrived from the Emperor of Hyman.
On the day Matilda died, beasts awakened by the Witch’s relics had swarmed across Luto’s borders, harming residents and causing enormous damage.
“They demand compensation, since the beasts came from Hyman’s territory and invaded Luto?”
Hannibal ground his teeth.
“Along with Luto’s regrets, they also urged us to guard the western border more diligently.”
From the Emperor’s standpoint, it was practically an intervention—“Because you failed to manage the West, this happened. Do your job properly.”
Naturally, Hannibal’s reaction was far from favorable.
“What did His Majesty say?” Anne asked.
But both Hannibal and Patrick looked grim.
“He must have thought it the perfect excuse to meddle in the West.”
Hannibal sneered, and Patrick agreed.
“I heard he flew into a rage, declaring he would make an example of Luto. If the Count is right and the Imperial Army is headed south, then Sandor’s treatment makes little sense.”
“All the guests leaving, and Father refusing to return home… They must have planned this from the start.”
“Surely the Count wouldn’t really stay here indefinitely?”
“I’m beginning to suspect that was his intention all along.”
Anne, puzzled, interjected into Patrick and Hannibal’s exchange.
“Is there some reason the Count mustn’t remain at the lord’s castle for long?”
Even if Hannibal despised Count Arthur, he was still the family head. It sounded strange to call his mere presence a scheme.
“Anne. Head maid.”
Hannibal ignored her, so Patrick explained.
“The longer the Count stays, the faster the castle’s finances bleed dry.”
“I know that. He’ll host parties every day. But with war looming, surely he can’t do that?”
So war would truly begin now, sparked by Matilda’s death.
During Anne Pero’s three years of hiding in the East, she had often heard tales of the war: refugees fleeing toward the Witch’s Forest, and the harsh, barren lives of those in the West.
Perhaps that was why—even as a poor commoner—she had once considered herself fortunate to live in the capital of the Empire.
The Duke and his heir had died nearly three years into the conflict. If war broke out now, what chaos would consume the West?
It would be the powerless and impoverished who perished first. And this cruelty was sparked not by Clyde, but by Hyman’s Emperor.
“Hanibal.”
A knock, and Oliver and Jack entered.
“You’re here?”
At Hannibal’s glance, Oliver naturally took his place closest to him.
On Hannibal’s right stood Oliver and Jack; on his left, Patrick and Anne.
After Patrick summarized the conversation, Oliver scoffed at the mention of the Emperor.
“Imperial troops in the South? More likely they’ll just make a show of sending reinforcements without lifting a finger.”
“Even so, perhaps we should contact Luto at once,” Patrick suggested.
“Yes, but… this sudden official protest to the Empire is suspicious.”
Until now, it seemed the disputes had been settled directly between Luto and the West, without reaching the Imperial court.
Anne pieced together their meaning.
“If the Empire and Luto go to war, the battlefield will be the West. They’ll use it as an excuse to commandeer the Western Army, impoverish the common folk, and weaken Clyde’s rule. Two birds with one stone.”
At Oliver’s words, Hannibal muttered gravely:
“But for them to suddenly use something they’ve ignored for so long—”
“It means Hyman and Luto must have struck a deal. The question is: what did they trade?”
“Is there no way to stall for time?”
The Emperor was old, yet he clung to power with desperate hands.
His stubbornness prolonged the struggle between his sons for the throne, each backed by private armies strong enough to threaten the capital.
And now, he sought to use the West as a sacrificial pawn.
If it succeeded, Imperial dominance over the West would tighten. If it failed, at least the princes’ military power would be weakened.
But the Emperor would die in four years.
Anne knew that even after she and Gray returned to House Benton, war dragged on sluggishly in the West. That was when she first heard of Hannibal Clyde’s renown.
Yet no matter how dire the West’s plight, in Edith Tara the nobles partied endlessly—especially at the Benton Ducal House.
Elizabeth Benton, though the duchess was still alive, constantly invited young ladies and tried to attach them to Gray’s side—only to push Anne Pero aside.
If she left early or skipped the gatherings, the duchess showered her with insults.
So Anne endured and listened, forcing herself to sit through those suffocating parties.
“The West is still at war? When will it end?”
“They say they’re fighting beasts, not men. That’s why the Second Prince petitioned His Majesty to recall the capital’s troops.”
“His Majesty is still bedridden, isn’t he? And the First Prince won’t stop ranting about subjugating the West…”
From their chatter, Anne picked out only what she needed.
The princes fought for the throne until the Emperor’s death. Which of them pushed hardest for war? And which opposed him?
“Bring in Prince Daniel.”
All eyes turned to Anne.
Daniel Hyman—the next Emperor.
“Prince Daniel is known for his gentle nature and dislike of war. If the Imperial Army comes with him appointed Supreme Commander of the West, it might buy us time.”
If war was inevitable, it was better to delay than let the militant First Prince arrive with sword drawn.
By the third year, the Emperor’s health would decline sharply. The First Prince’s funds—sustaining his warmongering—would dry up with it.
And when his backers fell to scandal, the nobles supporting the Second Prince would rise in his place.
The First Prince’s core supporters were merchants, bourgeois, and lesser nobles who saw the West as land to conquer.
The Second Prince, on the other hand, was backed by long-established aristocrats of Edith Tara, who had no interest in the West. Their only aim was to preserve peace and their own positions.
And indeed, the war ended around that time.
“If His Majesty truly declares war, one prince at least must be named Supreme Commander. Before it comes to that, feign obedience and demand the appointment of the Second Prince instead.”
Normally, Hannibal was Supreme Commander of the West—but only when the Imperial Army wasn’t present.
“Anne Pero. Are all ducal maids this well-versed in politics?” Hannibal asked dryly.
“I kept my eyes and ears open because I wanted to become head maid.”
Anne parried his jab with practiced ease.
