Chapter 12
“So, to summarize the situation—Lady Kafka and Lady Wagner’s accounts differ from one another, do they not?”
Prince Genio’s tone was calm, almost lazy, as he addressed the gaggle of young nobles crowding around him. They had been chattering incessantly, each eager to offer their version of what had happened.
After a brief moment of thought, the young prince stroked his chin and glanced between the two girls—Leticia Kafka and Serpina Wagner. A troubled expression crossed his face, though the glimmer in his eyes was anything but genuine.
“Hmm. This is difficult,” he murmured smoothly. “I didn’t witness it myself, so it’s hard to judge which of the two ladies speaks the truth.”
The tone was mild, but the performance was perfect. Leticia watched him carefully.
“Is he like me?” she wondered. “Has he lived this once before?”
For even among royal heirs, raised since birth to control their expressions, that kind of composed trickery was not something one learned—it was something born of experience.
While she pondered this, Genio’s lips curved again.
“A lie brings dishonor upon one’s house,” he said lightly. “Such a thing must be handled carefully.”
Then—clap. He brought his hands together, as though struck by a sudden idea, and smiled brightly.
“Why not settle this with a duel? Whichever side wins, we will accept their version as the truth.”
A duel.
Leticia froze, her eyes widening as she looked at him.
“Of course,” Genio added quickly, “I don’t mean you ladies should fight. Each of you may appoint a knight to stand in your stead.”
It was an old custom among noblewomen.
When disputes or wagers arose between them, they would each send forth a knight to duel. The victor’s mistress was declared in the right.
In modern times, it had long since lost its original purpose of discerning truth from falsehood. It had become, instead, a spectacle—a show of which house possessed the stronger knight.
And for Leticia, it was a method she could not accept.
“I…” she began softly.
“I agree,” Serpina Wagner said before she could finish.
Her voice was smooth, her fan concealing a faint, satisfied smile. Behind the folds of lace, only her sharp eyes were visible as she looked at Leticia.
“Although… I wonder if Lady Kafka even brought a knight today?”
Genio made a sound of sudden realization.
“Ah, that’s right. The Kafkas are forbidden to bring private soldiers into the palace. I almost forgot.”
Leticia’s lips pressed together.
So that was why he had suggested it—knowing full well she could not comply.
“If anyone has another idea,” Genio continued, sweeping his gaze lazily around the circle, “feel free to speak.”
No one did. The air was heavy with unspoken mockery.
“Of course, Lady Kafka,” he added with mock sympathy, “you may also refuse the duel if you wish.”
It sounded kind—but everyone there knew what it meant.
To refuse was to admit guilt.
“I have never lied, Your Highness,” Leticia said firmly, her hand clenching beneath her skirt.
Genio tilted his head.
“Even though none but you claim to have seen Lady Cyril trip Lady Trevis?”
“I merely spoke of what I saw.”
“Then let’s ask the victim herself.”
He turned toward the trembling girl nearby.
“Lady Trevis—did Lady Cyril trip you?”
The girl, Ferdia Trevis, hesitated.
“I… I…”
So many eyes were on her. Her voice broke, trembling with fear.
“You see?” Genio said, spreading his hands as if to conclude the matter. “Even the victim herself cannot say. Perhaps you were mistaken, Lady Kafka.”
He smiled pleasantly—but his words left no room for refusal.
Say it. Admit it. End it.
“Then, go. Do as you must.”
Her father’s deep voice echoed in her memory.
Leticia did have a knight.
“The Duke of Kafka himself—holder of a knight’s title and the Empire’s greatest blade.”
If she called upon her father, this matter would end in an instant.
No one would dare contest him.
But she could already hear the whispers.
“So the Lady Kafka can do nothing without her father.”
“How pitiful. To bear such a name, yet hide behind it.”
To be recognized as herself, she could not rely on her father’s shadow.
“Perhaps Lady Kafka could borrow a knight from another house?”
Serpina’s voice was lilting, almost playful.
She tilted her head, the fan still covering her smile.
“Though I doubt any knight could stand against one of House Wagner.”
The barb was deliberate.
Only the houses of Kafka and Wagner bore ducal rank among those present. Any lesser family lending a knight would merely offer Serpina an easy victory.
Still—within that mockery, Leticia found a path.
“Any house’s knight will do?” she asked quietly.
Serpina’s eyes glinted.
“If you can find one,” she said sweetly.
Leticia turned to Genio.
“Would Your Highness allow it?”
“Well,” he drawled, “if Lady Wagner has no objection, why should I?”
Leticia nodded once.
“Then both Your Highness and Lady Wagner have agreed. I’ll fetch my knight.”
Genio blinked, uncertain whether she was serious. But Leticia only smiled.
“Please wait for me a moment.”
‘What is your name, sir?’
‘Tess, of the First Imperial Knights, my lady!’
A palace knight—ranked no lower than any ducal retainer.
‘Take care of my daughter,’ her father had said.
‘I will serve her faithfully, my lord!’
Tess… he must still be nearby.
He had been assigned to guide guests through the garden today. Gathering her skirts, Leticia turned and strode out of the terrace.
“Uninvited, yet here you are. It has been some time since you did that.”
The sunlight pouring through the tall windows glinted against the polished marble.
Raoul Kafka stood by the great window of the imperial audience chamber, his silver hair catching the light. Slowly, he turned toward the voice behind him.
“I thought Your Majesty summoned me.”
He smiled faintly as his gaze met that of the man seated upon the gilded chair—a middle-aged sovereign with golden hair and eyes that shifted between blue and violet, depending on how the light struck them.
The Emperor of the Lerois Empire—Valdear.
Though he stood before the ruler of all Lerois, Raoul’s eyes were steady. His lips curved politely, yet his expression remained unreadable.
“Do not concern yourself with the children,” Valdear said. “They’re safer where they are than here, believe me.”
He chuckled softly.
“I must say, I never realized how dearly you dote on your daughter.”
With that, Raoul pulled out a chair opposite him and sat down.
“I wasn’t aware we were close enough to discuss family matters, Your Majesty.”
Valdear’s gaze lingered on him.
Eight years ago, Raoul had suddenly brought home a child—a girl.
Historically, the dukes of Kafka had been cold, even to their own blood.
Whether by nature or by the curse running in their veins, no one knew. Valdear cared little for the reason.
What mattered was this: the so-called White Crow—that child—was untouched by the darkness that devoured every Kafka before her.
“Still,” the emperor said lightly, “perhaps we should talk of family more often.”
With a soft click, he placed a small ornate box upon the table between them.
The strength of the Lerois Empire relied upon the Kafka dukes—their cursed power.
The deeper they sank into the curse, the stronger their abilities grew. And Raoul Kafka, the current duke, was the most powerful of them all.
“If the girl truly carries your blood,” Valdear murmured, opening the box, “then she will need this as well.”
Inside lay several crimson crystals, glowing faintly like frozen blood.
Forged from the blood of the imperial family itself.
They weakened the creeping darkness of the Kafka curse, prolonging the bearers’ lives.
This was the Imperial Collar—
a leash of blood and light, crafted so the royals might command the ravens of Kafka as their own.
