Chapter 9
“…But I want more.”
At that very moment, Viscount Borbon, who had also finished clearing his plate, gave an order to the maid standing by.
“Bring me more meat.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Ah, Nancy. Please bring mine as well.” Dalia added lightly.
But when the maid returned, she carried only one platter.
On it were several thick steaks stacked high, and it was placed directly in front of the Viscount. Without hesitation, as if it were only natural, he lifted the plate and picked up the meat with the tongs.
For a moment, everyone at the table expected him to divide it, to place some onto Dalia’s plate.
Instead—
Thud!
The meat fell heavily to the floor.
“…”
It hadn’t been Dalia’s portion, nor even his own meal, that he had ordered. Yet he shook the last scraps loose until every piece of meat was scattered on the ground.
The hunting dogs crouched at his feet leapt forward, slavering, devouring the bloodied meat with a frenzy.
“…Ha.”
Latris gave a short, incredulous laugh.
The invited guests fell silent, the air frozen, and only the sound of the dogs tearing at raw flesh filled the room.
To deny his daughter’s request, only to feed the steaks to dogs—
Dalia watched the grotesque display with an expressionless face.
“Pft.”
It was soft, but audible enough for all to hear.
The laugh came from Nancy, the maid who had brought the plate.
Yet no one rebuked her for mocking the young lady of the house.
Viscount Borbon’s conduct was so far beyond reason that the gathered guests now watched the scene as if it were theatre, their eyes glinting with morbid curiosity. They expected Dalia to cry, or perhaps flee the table in humiliation.
“…”
But she did neither. Instead, she fixed her father with open disdain. Her gaze dripped with contempt.
The Viscount’s lips twitched in displeasure.
“What is it?”
“Father. I am your daughter.”
“Do you think I don’t know that, to be lectured in my own house? And what exactly are you implying?”
“Then am I worth less to you than those dogs?”
“What? Ha! Are you throwing a tantrum because you weren’t given more meat? For heaven’s sake, Dalia, how old are you?”
Dalia tilted her head thoughtfully, offering no reply.
The Viscount’s hand, hidden beneath the table, trembled with restrained rage. He forced himself to wear the mask of a benevolent father before so many witnesses.
Simos, the family knight, hurriedly intervened.
“Ha ha, the young lady must be sentimental on the eve of leaving her family to begin her own household. A little girlish mischief, nothing more.”
“Is that so?”
“…”
“Hahaha… Still, Dalia, a bride should not overindulge the night before her wedding. To indulge in gluttony at the moment you should appear most radiant—it is hardly becoming.”
“Well said! Ha ha ha!”
The guests joined in with awkward laughter. Only Algernon, the lawyer seated at the far end of the table, kept silent.
Despite all attempts to smooth the matter, Dalia did not bow her head or apologize. She continued to meet her father’s gaze with quiet defiance, and the Viscount’s face flushed darker with each passing second.
‘What has changed?’ he thought bitterly.
This girl, who only yesterday cowered like an empty shell, now dared to look him in the eye.
‘Dared! As if she does not know her place…’
For a moment he recalled another face, long ago—a woman with that same defiant light in her eyes. Dalia’s mother. No matter how he had tried to break her, she too had never truly bent.
“This will not do.”
Even before so many guests, such insolence could not be ignored. Dalia would need further discipline.
“Dalia.”
Masking his fury with a look of paternal warmth, he rose to his feet. He would pause the banquet, escort his daughter to the Chamber of Correction, and remind her of her place.
But before he could speak further, the sharp sound of bootsteps echoed against the stone floor.
The guests turned, irritated that their spectacle had been interrupted—then brightened instantly.
“Ah! At last, the groom has arrived!”
“Indeed. Forgive my lateness. It seems I have missed something of importance.”
Dalia blinked slowly. So it begins. The man destined to be her husband—Shiray, the moneylender.
He entered without the slightest trace of apology, his smooth voice exactly as it had been before time turned back. Once, she had looked to him as a savior from her father’s cruelty. Now, his silken tones struck her like the hiss of a serpent.
“At last, the true guest of honor has joined us.”
“They say even His Highness the Crown Prince has sought your counsel in state affairs?”
“The Viscount is most fortunate, to secure such a capable son-in-law.”
The local dignitaries rushed to flatter him. Nearly all of them were already indebted to Shiray, or soon would be.
“Ah, my boy! You have come at last.”
“Yes. Forgive me. His Highness detained me.”
“What? The Crown Prince himself? Ha ha! Of course. A man of your stature cannot be bothered with trifles.”
Viscount Borbon welcomed him with unrestrained delight, his earlier anger vanishing as though it had never been. The guests too, once critical of Shiray’s low birth and lack of refinement, now only sang his praises.
The Viscount’s joy was unfeigned. This marriage meant salvation from the mountain of debt threatening to crush him, and with it, renewed prestige. Dalia’s happiness meant nothing compared to that.
Even now, he squandered fortunes chasing some divine relic said to have fallen in the northeastern mountains. In her past life, Dalia had learned that what he sought was not entirely a fantasy: a black dragon was said to guard those lands—guardian of the God of Time, Tempus.
And had not she herself received a gift from that very god? A clock, imbued with divine power. Perhaps her father’s mad obsession was not so far from truth.
As these thoughts turned within her, she realized Shiray now stood directly before her.
Everyone else had risen to greet him; she alone remained seated. With reluctance, she pushed herself to her feet.
How foolish I once was, to tremble with excitement at his arrival. What did I ever see in him?
What had once seemed a noble visage now struck her as sly, calculating—an opportunist’s face.
Shiray’s cold eyes swept over her as she bowed her head slightly. He was about to speak, but Dalia’s voice cut in first:
“Even dressed like this, the portrait flatters me more, doesn’t it? The painter our house employs is rather skilled at embellishment.”
Her tone was weary, almost dismissive. For the first time, Shiray’s eyes widened.
“…My bride is remarkably bold.”
And Viscount Borbon was even more shocked than he.
His daughter—his carefully groomed ‘merchandise’—was not performing as expected.
“Dalia! What nonsense is this? You are far more beautiful than any painting. Where in all the South is there a young lady to match you?”
The Viscount hastened to recover, his voice dripping with false warmth.
