MCFPM 52

chapter 52

‘Aeonian was probably able to talk his way out with his smooth words and acting, but I can’t pull that off.’

Cherylote smiled as she caught the Pope glancing subtly at the ring. Since Aeonian had already shaken him up quite a bit, she decided to give the Pope a little push of reassurance.

“Your Holiness.”

“…Yes.”

“Please, trust in the Guardian of the North.”

Her voice took on a serious tone, and the Pope’s gaze shifted.

“I will take full responsibility for your nephew and cooperate wholeheartedly with Your Holiness.”

The ring glimmered faintly in blue.

The Pope’s expression turned thoughtful and complicated. Cherylote swallowed down a sneer.

‘He must realize by now that he can’t push any further.’

After receiving the wedding invitation and making the trip here, the Pope must have spent the entire time plotting how to exact revenge on Aeonian and the North.

But what if he now knew that Aeonian never intended to seize control of the House of Bascallia, and that Cherylote sought not its power, but the holy energy Aeonian possessed?

And if the Grand Duke of the North himself pledged to take responsibility for Aeonian and side with the Pope?

‘And not the weakened Grand Duke of the past—but one who now commands a revitalized Lavre City and a full knightly order…’

In that case, the Pope couldn’t recklessly attack her; in fact, he might even see it as an opportunity. The proud but volatile East was far harder to control than the North, which would now be bound to him through the sacred contract of marriage.

It was perfect: the North appeared to crave religious legitimacy, and the Pope needed military support. Their interests fit together neatly.

‘Still, that doesn’t mean he’s in a good mood.’

After all, he’d just been forced to pay a massive indemnity to the East and had his dignity trampled.

‘Flattering him any more will only backfire. He still doesn’t trust me.’

After all, she was the woman who “stole” his nephew. For a man who’d spent his life negotiating and mediating among the lords, she was a headache he didn’t need.

So Cherylote decided to throw the troubled Pope a decisive bait.

‘Aeonian did say that the East and the Pope could never truly ally.’

That meant the Pope must want something other than just gaining the Grand Duchy of Bascallia—something deeper.

She knew what the Eastern nobles had once expected from Prince Freiyu, who stood in the same rank as the Grand Duchess of Bascallia. Her time in that gilded mansion hadn’t been wasted.

Suppressing her tension, Cherylote studied the Pope’s face.

Black hair, violet eyes. Just like Florencia’s. Pointing quietly at the Grand Duchess, who had been silent the whole time, Cherylote said:

“There is a gift here that would perfectly suit Her Grace, the Grand Duchess.”

“The Grand Duchess? So suddenly?”

The Pope lifted one corner of his mouth.

“She’s easily touched by small things, but don’t give her false expectations.”

You’d better not take me too seriously either, old man.

Barely keeping her lips curled into a polite smile, she added,

“Your Holiness, did you perhaps imagine an opal accessory?”

The Bascallia family ruled over most of the continent’s waters—its seas and canals.

Opals, which shone more brilliantly when moistened, were as precious to them as diamonds were elsewhere.

But Cherylote wasn’t talking about jewelry or titles.

“I think that sort of thing is too obvious for Bascallia,” she said.
“…”
“Rather, I believe one must pursue something greater—absolute—and something that has vanished from this continent.”

The Pope froze, his teacup halfway to his lips.

“After all,” she went on smoothly, “Her Grace already enjoys Your Holiness’s protection. She has all the religious legitimacy she could need.”

“…What are you implying?”

The Pope’s previously indifferent eyes turned sharp in a new way. Placing a hand over her heart, Cherylote spoke softly.

“Your Holiness.”

“…Yes.”

“Please wait—until the day comes to bestow that gift upon the Grand Duchess.”

He didn’t reply.

Which meant: he agreed.

Shortly after the tea time between the Pope and Florencia—

Cherylote met Aeonian again and bumped her fist lightly against his. Stretching with a long yawn, she muttered,

“Mission accomplished: managed to pamper that wrinkly old man who still has a baby’s face.”

“—Pffhaha!”

Aeonian burst out laughing, doubling over and clutching his stomach. As he kept chuckling, Cherylote scooped up a spoonful of jam to recharge with some sugar.

“Whew, I’m sweating. How’d you pull it off without using any magic?”

“There are ways.”

“…Right.”

Cherylote gave him a sideways look.

‘Now I’m dying to know what he said to avoid being caught. Maybe I should’ve just snuck in and listened.’

He even lied about liking me—how did the relic not expose him?

‘…Unless he actually does—’

She cut herself off with an internal scream: Aaagh! Shuddering, she rubbed the goosebumps off her arms and slumped into her chair, tail twitching faintly.

In truth, they had achieved their goal.

They didn’t need the Pope to be fully on their side—only to make sure he wouldn’t ally with the East to destroy the North completely. Whatever came after—betrayal or manipulation—would be her decision.

“Anyway, I left him thoroughly unsettled, so don’t worry. I even planted some expectations.”

“Good. Got it.”

“…You’re not gonna ask how I did it?”

“Hm? You’d have handled it just fine, I’m sure.”

Cherylote pursed her lips. She’d planned to turn the question back on him if he’d asked—but he didn’t.

Then Aeonian murmured, half to himself, “You really never give up on me, do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course not.”

“…”

When Cherylote tilted her head, Aeonian’s brows drooped slightly. He ran a finger along his teacup’s saucer.

“So… even if I’d stayed the same rude brat from our school days, you wouldn’t have given up on me?”

Her eyebrows furrowed.

‘You mean, would I still have helped you even if you’d been that arrogant jerk again?’

She looked at the man who couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

A faint hum slipped from her lips—but her answer was already decided.

“If you’d asked me for help, I would’ve come. Anytime.”

“…Why?”

Why?

‘Because that’s just who I was.’

She narrowed her eyes slightly, recalling the past.

“Did you really think we’d stay friends forever? We weren’t kids.”

She remembered the time they were alone in the academy elevator, and Aeonian had said something cold. What had she answered back then?

She’d apologized. Apologized! When she should’ve been furious.

When the elevator reached the first floor, Cherylote had stepped out before him.

She didn’t want him to see her tearful face. But she also didn’t want him to know that the reason she’d distanced herself wasn’t anger or pride—but because she realized he didn’t want to be tangled up with her, and she respected that.

Back then, she’d thought protecting her dignity meant walking away before he could push her out.

‘Honestly, what an idiot I was.’

Even so, the Cherylote of that time had still been someone who backed off not out of resentment, but because he didn’t want her there. Meaning—if he’d ever reached out, she would’ve run straight to him, no hesitation.

She shot a sharp look at Aeonian, whose face was tense.

“Hey, what are you so worried about? I was an angel back then, an angel.”

“Huh?”

“I stopped talking to you because you hated me! Then you had the nerve to make my application disappear later—that’s when I really got mad!”

When she shouted, Aeonian flinched and averted his eyes. Curling her fingers like a cat, she muttered darkly,

“If it were now, I’d rip your hair out and scratch your face bloody.”

But whatever he was imagining made him awkwardly pat his head like a monkey.

“…I can’t let you scratch my face. I’m a groom now.”

Her fiery resolve fizzled out like a popped balloon.

“I mean, you could pull some hair—I have plenty to spare…”

“You insane idiot. Who said I’d actually pull it?”

Cherylote stomped on his foot under the table and folded her arms.

“I protect what’s mine.”

She never showed it, but Cherylote still sometimes dreamed of that day—of Aeonian losing his arm.

She’d never lose anything again. She would never go back to that helpless past.

So to reach her goal, there was something she had to do.

“Which means it’s time to plan our next move, got it?”

A few days later, guests began arriving one after another at the Northern Grand Duke’s castle.

As Grand Duchess and bride-to-be, Cherylote welcomed them gracefully while whispering to Aeonian beside her.

“There are already too many people. Did some come uninvited?”

“Hmm, maybe they came early, thinking the northern roads would freeze up fast. Once they got the invitations, they must’ve left right away.”

Aeonian waved politely to Archbishop Feliceri, who was sipping wine at the guest table, and continued,

“But since it’s warmer than expected and the roads are clear, they arrived ahead of schedule.”

“Hm. I think it’s because you’re here.”

“Haha… really?”

Aeonian chuckled softly and bowed his head toward her—

—and in that moment, the entire room fell silent.