Chapter 24
That morning, I finally sent off the Last_Final_ReallyFinal_AbsolutelyFinal_Manuscript to the newspaper—along with a cheerful letter about the good news of our recent donations.
“If they read that, Director Edward and Zeck will probably be over the moon,” I thought.
With that weight off my shoulders, I strolled to work feeling lighter than I had in days. Along the path, I noticed a group of gardeners hurrying somewhere in a tight cluster.
“Big renovations going on?” I wondered aloud.
I didn’t have time to dwell on it. The tower bell was already chiming nine o’clock. I passed them by and slipped into the main palace, bounding up the spiral staircase toward the office.
The guard at the door greeted me with a polite bow and even opened the door for me himself.
Thankfully, the only one inside was Secretary Berrin, who lifted a hand in greeting.
“Good morning, Secretary Shanael.”
“Haa… Good morning, Secretary Berrin. His Highness isn’t here yet?”
“Not yet.”
I smiled back and took my seat. To hide my lateness, I made my desk look as though I’d been here for a good thirty minutes already—papers spread haphazardly, books left open.
I was just opening my reference book and picking up my pen when the office door burst open. Rising to greet the Crown Prince, I stopped mid-motion when I saw it was only his aide, Hassel.
“Good morning.”
“Morning. Where’s His Highness?”
“He has business to attend to. He’ll be in after lunch.”
“I see.”
I couldn’t help the little bounce in my step. When the boss is out, the employees can breathe.
Hassel picked up a few files from the Crown Prince’s desk and settled at his own. The office felt almost unnaturally peaceful without His Highness.
Feeling indulgent, I decided to make tea. From the kettle by the fireplace, I brewed three cups of black tea—one for myself, one for Hassel, and one for Berrin.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
I took my own cup to the window, savoring the view. From here, the central gardens of the Imperial Palace spread out like a living painting. No wonder the Crown Prince’s office was in the spot with the best view in the whole palace.
Usually I was too busy with my nose to the desk to appreciate it, but this morning, bathed in sunlight, I finally could.
Hassel wandered over to stand beside me.
“The garden here is truly beautiful,” I said. “The flowers must change with the seasons, right?”
“Yes. Right now it’s tulip season, but when the roses bloom, the palace holds a grand ball.”
“A ball… sounds lovely.”
I’d written about balls in my novel, but I’d never actually seen one. Commoners like me had no place in a noble’s celebration.
An idea for my upcoming special interview popped into my head. I pulled a small notebook from my pocket.
“Oh, by the way, I have a question for you.”
“What is it?”
“At last year’s ball, who did His Highness dance with?”
“Hmm… No one.”
“Alright… What about the year before that?”
“No one.”
“…And the year before that?”
“No one.”
I stopped mid-scribble and glanced at him. So he’s never danced at a ball? Hassel gave a quiet nod and added:
“His Highness doesn’t know how to dance.”
I jotted it down: Crown Prince—cannot dance.
“But isn’t dancing considered a basic skill for nobles?”
“He says it’s better to learn one more sword technique than waste time dancing.”
Ah. So that’s why His Highness had never dated. He’d never even planted the seeds for romance.
“Still, at a ball hosted by the palace, isn’t it odd if the Crown Prince doesn’t dance?”
“He attends. He just sits beside the Emperor the whole time.”
“Then why do the nobles still show up? For the debutantes?”
“Exactly. Everyone invited is upper-class, so they mingle with each other. They don’t expect His Highness to ask them to dance.”
So basically, the Crown Prince was just there to set the stage for others. The real purpose was to build political alliances through marriage.
“Besides, His Highness dislikes people touching him. Women don’t dare approach him. Once, a princess from Astelgia visited, and while escorting her, he wiped his hand with a handkerchief afterward. Nearly caused a diplomatic incident.”
“So… he’s a germaphobe?”
“No. On the battlefield, he never cared about dust or blood on his face.”
I recalled seeing him after a campaign—dried blood spattered on his cheek, utterly unconcerned.
“Strange. The first time I greeted him with a cheek kiss, he wiped it off with a handkerchief. Or maybe he just doesn’t like touching women. Does he perhaps li—”
Hassel shook his head so hard his beard swayed.
“Absolutely not. You’ve never seen how he tears into soldiers when they mess up… I think he just has no love for humanity in general.”
The Crown Prince remained a mystery. I was still wondering how I’d manage that interview when another subject popped up.
“By the way, it’s a shame,” Hassel said.
“What is?”
“The Western Garden by the Grand Ballroom is getting a full renovation.”
“The one I visited before?”
“Yes. His Highness ordered the tall hedges cut down to waist height, moved all secluded benches into plain view, added lampposts, and stationed guards to patrol it.”
“But that’s a secret lovers’ spot. Without the privacy, it loses all its charm. No more clandestine rendezvous.”
“Exactly. I used to… occasionally use it myself. Now I’ll have to find somewhere outside the palace. Every year during the ball, that garden produced quite a few surprise couples. Not this time.”
Hassel took a sip of tea, expression sour, muttering as he returned to his desk—something like ‘Destroying it just because he doesn’t use it.’
From my window, I couldn’t see the Western Garden itself, but I could see gardeners bustling like ants in that direction.
‘Why do I feel guilty about this?’
It wasn’t like I caused it… though, considering recent events, it was likely the Crown Prince had marked it as a nuisance.
‘Better think of my interview questions later. For now, next chapter.’
I flipped through the anecdotes Jereon had given me—diary-style accounts of his “heroic” experiences. Most were blatant bragging.
Still, better than making up noble life from scratch. My eyes landed on one titled Wolf Hunt.
Wolf Hunt — Hunters lured the wolves with torches while hounds gave chase. I followed on horseback. Hitting a running wolf from a galloping horse with a crossbow was difficult, but I had never missed.
“Of course you haven’t.”
That day, the hounds’ barking came from all directions. Instinct told me the wolves had surrounded us. As the hunters wavered, a massive male burst from the shadows, fangs bared. I loaded and fired in one motion. The bolt struck its right eye dead-on.
While I reached for another, it charged me. Others shot, but it was too fast. I drew my dagger, hurled it—
“Let me guess. Left eye.”
—and struck true. Blinded, the beast collapsed sideways.
“Knew it.”
Another just as large lunged at me. I leapt from my horse, drew my sword.
“And you killed this one too, right?”
Its weight bore me down, but I swung in a diagonal slash that split its torso. Blood sprayed. The hounds went wild.
Six wolves in total, all slain by my hand—save one with a diamond mark on its brow. That one escaped.
It will surely return one day to hunt me, its pack’s killer. The leader must always be slain, or the threat remains.
“Ah, so you missed one. What’s this, setting up a sequel?”
I set the pages down with a sigh. He might be the better novelist between us.
“What were the others doing while you took down an entire pack alone? Even fantasy readers would call this overkill.”
I remembered another writer who once got slammed with complaint letters for such implausible fight scenes.
‘Better tone this down… maybe turn it into a vague rescue story instead of a one-man slaughter. That would win more public favor.’
But flipping through the rest, I found only more self-praise.
“It takes real talent to love yourself this much,” I muttered.
