Chapter 38
The Duchess had vanished!!
A few days later, the scandal that the Crown Prince had attempted to murder Prince Harmon on his wedding day sent shockwaves through the Imperial Court and the capital.
The newspapers did not only report the Crown Prince’s treachery—they also carried, side by side, the astonishing revelation that Duke Ruan, thought to have been buried and mourned, had returned alive.
The citizens of the capital, though scandalized by the Crown Prince’s crime, were even more stunned by Ruan’s resurrection.
Yet, rather than condemn him, they rejoiced, blessing the fact that he had survived.
“I’ve been wronged! I was deceived by the Duke! He pretended to be dead when he wasn’t—what a cowardly wretch! I will never let him go unpunished!!”
Imprisoned by Ruan, Daemond howled his indignation, claiming he had been tricked by both Ruan and Harmon.
But his cries fell on deaf ears.
No one cared to listen.
As Viseluc had warned, Cassel and Tablo began a thorough investigation into the attempt on Prince Harmond’s life.
That incident became the very spark that began to topple the once unshakable fortress of the House of Kymon Craft.
Kymon himself, already disgraced after a corpse had been discovered within his domain, was further exposed when it was revealed he had lent his knights to Daimond’s plot.
Though he swore he had no knowledge of Daimond’s schemes, every revelation only turned the tide further against him.
Once a man who wielded more power and influence than even the Emperor himself, Kymon now watched helplessly as everything he had built crumbled, all because of the very man he had tried so desperately to protect.
The investigation also uncovered damning proof against Daemond: a button and torn fabric from the body found on Kymon’s lands linked him directly to the crime.
His attempt to frame Harmond for treason unraveled in full daylight.
Daimond continued to protest his innocence, but the Emperor’s faction of nobles—already stripped of their trust in him—turned their backs.
“This matter cannot be ignored.”
“Indeed. To attempt murder at a prince’s wedding is outrageous enough—but to abduct innocent women, beating them to death simply because they displeased him? How can the Empire’s people remain loyal to a Crown Prince like that? This is no longer a scandal; it is a matter of the Imperial family’s survival.”
Day after day, the nobles demanded Daimond’s removal.
And at last, before even a formal trial could be held, the Crown Prince was stripped of his title.
***
Only a few days later, the Imperial newspapers plastered Daimond’s crimes across their front pages, leaving the people horrified.
The evidence was undeniable.
By decree of Viseluc, Daimond was exiled—not even granted the dignity of trial—to the desolate wastes of Wolfmoa, the harshest land within the Empire.
Nor could Antwat escape punishment. Though spared deposition as Empress thanks to the intervention of pro-Imperial nobles, it was revealed that she had long known of Daimond’s crimes against women and chosen to conceal them.
She was stripped of all power, her title reduced to an empty name, and confined to the Empress’s Palace—never again to set foot outside its walls.
Kymon, too, was stripped of his ducal title and demoted to a mere count.
On the very night when Emperor Biseluk announced the punishments for all those involved, Ruan appeared before Daimond under the guise of imperial command.
That night, until the first light of dawn broke, bloodcurdling screams echoed from the prison, enough to chill the bones of any who heard them.
When knights arrived the following morning to escort Daimond to his place of exile, they recoiled at the sight before them.
The once-arrogant crown prince was now a ruin of a man.
Summoned in haste, the imperial physician declared that nearly every bone in Daimond’s body had been shattered.
He sat mumbling incoherently, as if possessed, repeating over and over that he had been wrong, that he was sorry.
And yet, though his state was wretched, not a single knight showed him pity.
Many among them had suffered under Daimond’s cruelty for years, and a few even felt gratitude toward Ruan for being the hand of retribution.
Despite his grievous injuries, Daimond’s life was not in danger.
His broken body was bound tightly in bandages, and he was loaded into a carriage to begin the long, humiliating journey into exile.
With the scandal thus concluded, only days later, Harmon was officially elevated to crown prince.
But ever since Mercián’s disappearance and Ruan’s return, the atmosphere within the Canoluf ducal household had changed beyond recognition.
Once, while she was there, the mansion brimmed with warmth and laughter.
Now, not a trace of joy remained.
Ruan wandered endlessly, day after day, like a madman, searching for Mercián.
Bit by bit, he shed the gentleness she had drawn out of him and reverted to the cold, merciless duke of old.
“Still no word?” Ruan demanded, his voice strained.
Cassel lowered his head, his expression grave.
“I am sorry, my lord. I fear the duchess may have left the Empire altogether. With word of your survival spread across the realm, two months have passed without even the smallest sign from her. That can only mean… she has left us, or perhaps…”
“Perhaps?” Ruan’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
Cassel faltered, unable to voice the darker possibility—that something terrible had befallen her.
He averted his gaze.
“Search for her publicly.”
“What?”
“Make her disappearance public. Let everyone know we are searching.”
“My lord, that would be reckless. If ill-intentioned men hear of it, they may seize her—demand ransom, or worse, bring her harm.”
Ruan exhaled heavily, frustration weighing down his shoulders.
“Fine. Then issue a bounty.”
“A bounty? But, my lord, the duchess has committed no crime. To put her under bounty would be…”
“Not like that. Issue a bounty under one condition: she must be returned alive and unharmed. Announce that anyone who brings even the smallest word of her whereabouts shall receive ten thousand gold coins!”
“What? Ten… ten thousand gold?” Cassel’s eyes widened.
“Yes. Ten thousand.” Ruan’s voice cracked with desperation. “Damn it… and to think, we don’t even have a portrait of her yet. In five whole months, I never thought to commission one…”
“To think I never even once considered having her portrait painted. Utterly foolish… no wonder she left me, no wonder she had no choice but to run away…”
No, milord.
She didn’t run away—she left because she believed you were dead.
Cassel bit back the words, muttering them only in the silence of his own thoughts.
“Then I’ll summon a painter at once, and have a portrait of the Duchess made.”
“Yes… yes, that must be done.”
At Cassel’s suggestion, an artist was brought to the manor.
Soon, portraits of Mercian were copied and scattered to every corner of the Empire.
And yet, despite the search, despite the flood of women who paraded through the duchy claiming resemblance, the real Mercian never appeared.
No.
She wouldn’t… she couldn’t have fallen into wicked hands.
No—she must be alive.
Somewhere, somehow, she’s alive.
But contrary to his hopes, Mercian left no trace.
As the months dragged on, Ruan grew more restless, more desperate—yet his resolve hardened: no matter what it cost him, he would find her.
Four months passed in this torment.
In that time, while endlessly searching, Ruan forced his body back into shape, training in secret so that when he finally stood before Mercian again, she would see him not as the frail, hollowed man he had become—but as the hero of the Empire she once knew.
His body recovered, strong once more.
But his heart, his nature, slipped back into the cold, sardonic edge of the man he had once been.
“Hah… you’re up there again, are you?”
Cassel muttered one afternoon.
“When the lady was here, I thought that spot suited her well. But seeing you in her place… it’s like a lion cramming itself into a squirrel’s nest. Frankly, it’s terrifying.”
From his perch in the branches, where he sat blankly gnawing at a pie, Ruan glanced down at him and murmured,
“It tastes better up here.”
…Is it really the taste? Or is it just you.
Cassel frowned at the sight.
That ragged figure… Gods.
He might have regained the body of a hero, but look at him.
Unkempt, bearded, wild—more vagrant than duke.
Nothing has changed at all, save the size of his frame.
With a small, weary sigh, Cassel gazed up at the tree, wondering if his master’s grief would ever end.
Ruan’s hair, too, had gone untended, spilling down to his shoulders in an unkempt mane.
And the way he ate his pie—grimacing as though chewing poison—was hardly any better.
Since Mercian’s departure, he had taken to climbing the tree she once favored, spending whole days there devouring cookies, biscuits, and pies.
The garden, once brimming with the dainty blossoms she had so carefully tended, was now overrun with weeds, wild and unchecked, resembling a meadow more than the duchess’s cherished retreat.
“Your Grace, please! You must come to your senses!”
Cassel clenched his jaw.
At this rate, if the Duchess were to walk through the gates, she’d turn and flee before stepping foot inside.
Just as he was about to scold Ruan into ending this pitiful spectacle, the cook, Jang, shuffled nervously into the garden.
“Master… I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?”
Ruan’s voice carried down from the branches, and the glare he fixed on Jang was so fierce that the man faltered, stammering in fear.
“I… that is, I…”
Ruan dropped from the tree in one smooth motion, closing the distance with long strides until he loomed over the hesitant cook.
“Jang. What is it you want to say?”
“I… I mean—”
“If it’s about quitting, take it up with Ed. Otherwise, if you’ve nothing else, be gone.”
With an impatient wave, Ruan turned to leave the garden.
But Jang, eyes squeezed shut in desperation, blurted out:
“Master—I… I think we may have found the Mistress!”
“…What? Who did you say you found?”
Ruan strode back toward him, step after step, until Jang stumbled backward and collapsed onto the grass.
“Say it again. Who did you find?”
Ruan’s face was now only inches from his, and Jang, trembling, shouted in fear,
“I said—I think we’ve found the Mistress!!”
.
.
.
“Here now, drink some tea first.
Calm yourself, Jang, and speak plainly.
You’re saying you’ve found the lady?”
Cassel, ever the mediator, pushed a cup toward him with a gentler tone.
With shaking hands, Jang lifted the teacup and took a trembling sip.
“Jang,” Ruan pressed, his eyes sharp, “say it again. Have you truly found her?”
Jang swallowed hard, then nodded slowly.
“There’s a man I know—a tea merchant. We’ve been acquainted for some time, and now and then I’d send him sandwiches I made myself.”
“And?” Ruan’s voice was taut, like a bowstring.
“And not long ago… he told me he’d eaten a sandwich exactly like mine.”
Cassel frowned.
“What does that have to do with the Duchess?”
Jang downed another gulp of tea, his throat dry, before answering.
“My sandwiches have a sauce—a special one. And there is only one person in the entire Empire who ever taught me that recipe: the Mistress herself.”
“…So you mean to say—if the taste was the same, the one who made it must have been her?”
“Yes,” Jang said, his voice trembling but firm. “I truly believe so.”
“Bring that man to me at once!”
Ruan shot to his feet, his face taut with urgency.
But Jang quickly held up his hands, stammering in alarm.
“W-wait, my lord! I already pressed him for details. He said the woman who gave him that sandwich lives in a village quite far from the capital. She only comes by his shop once or twice a month to buy tea.”
“Then find out the name of that village this instant!”
“He… he couldn’t remember the name. But—he did say she’ll return in about two weeks. You might learn more then.”
Ruan narrowed his eyes.
“You’re certain that sandwich was the same as yours?”
“Yes, my lord. That man is particular about his food, with a sharp memory for flavors. If he said so, then it’s true.”
“Very well. The moment you hear from him again, you come straight to me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
**
Two weeks later.
“This—it really is the Mistress’s handiwork! I taught her this very sauce myself!”
Jang exclaimed with joy as he stared at the sandwich the tea merchant had obtained from the mysterious woman.
“Where did he say she lives?”
Ruan’s eyes gleamed for the first time in what felt like ages as he stepped closer to Jang.
A few days later, Ruan and Cassel arrived in the village of Phenomenon.
“My word… it truly is the Duchess,” Cassel whispered, astonished. “But she’s grown so thin, and she’s cut her hair—the air about her feels so different. And even her name has changed.”
From their hiding place, the two men watched Mercian at work in her modest shop.
Cassel’s words hung in the air, but Ruan said nothing.
He only gazed at her in silence, his voice trembling when at last he spoke.
“At last… I’ve found you.”
