🔊 TTS Settings
Chapter : 20. Chapter 2. What Is Called Trust (6)
“What’s the problem?”
Whether to acknowledge a guest or not is my decision. The duke replied casually, tapping his foot.
“Lady Ronel is a guest of the Duke of Rihard’s household. And the only duty of the ducal house is to ensure her safety, isn’t it?”
“Your Highness!”
“Quiet. Even the sound of a pig being slaughtered would be more pleasant.”
“No, Your Highness! Your Highness—!”
“Anyway. Lady Aisila Duncan said that Lady Ronel would be in danger if she returned to the Count Artes family?”
As he turned as if asking “didn’t you say that?”, Aisila answered calmly.
“That’s correct. How could we send a child who has been abused back to the very household that abused her?”
“Then the House of Rihard must, by any means necessary, prevent Lady Ronel from returning to Count Artes’s household?”
“That is absolutely correct, Your Grace.”
It was a light exchange, almost like casual banter.
Bertrand neatly summarized the situation with a satisfied smile, while the count screamed in desperation, as if he had lost his mind.
“Do you trust Duncan but not Artes?!”
“Then if it were you, would you trust someone you know well or not?”
The duke began counting off reasons on his fingers.
“When you think about it, Lady Aisila Duncan is practically a prospective aunt-in-law. And Duncan and Rihard have been close for a long time. Naturally, I’d trust Duncan more.”
Aisila only slightly frowned at the term “aunt-in-law” but said nothing.
Only the count broke the silence, erupting like a man possessed. His voice, both desperate and almost blood-spitting, thundered through the room.
“Your Highness! Be reasonable! How can you show such hospitality to someone you’ve never even met—!”
“So abuse and neglect are reasonable, are they?”
“I-I promise you! I will do everything to ensure that child Ronel is never mistreated again—”
“I don’t trust you, Count. It’s not even that you’re less trustworthy than Lady Aisila—it’s that you yourself are the problem.”
Bertrand muttered as if suddenly realizing a universal truth.
“That’s why one’s behavior matters so much.”
Beside him, Aisila let out a quiet laugh, almost mocking.
“Well then. What are you going to do, Count?”
At her provoking tone, the count gripped the armrest of his chair as if it might shatter. He could no longer think clearly and simply blurted out whatever came to mind.
“Even if the Duke insists otherwise, I will take her. This is unlawful! Ronel Artes is registered under the Artes family, so this is clearly abduction—”
“Could you provide some funding, Lady Aisila?”
Bertrand cut him off, resting his chin on his hand.
“The count is working so hard to damage the honor of the ducal house. What else can we do?”
“……Your Highness.”
“I regret to say this, but we will have to engage in a territorial war.”
A war between noble houses.
Among the Artes nobility, wars fought under the rules of hospitality were the only kind universally acknowledged as legitimate.
Thus, the House of Rihard had more than enough justification.
And now, that damn justification belonged to Rihard, not Artes.
Anyone could tell who would win if the Duke of Rihard fought the Count of Artes.
And if Duncan—the richest man in the Empire—backed them financially?
“Step back, Count. You’ve already become disgraceful enough.”
the duke ordered indifferently.
“I cannot stand by while my house’s honor is tarnished, and I will prioritize the safety of my guest above all else.”
It was time to stop disgracing yourself further, wasn’t it?
The count, like a broken puppet with severed strings, was dragged out of the room by Aisila.
By the time they reached nearly the first floor, the count finally regained his senses. He shook off her grip roughly, grinding his teeth.
“Rihard? What in the world—!”
“You came here invoking justification. I am simply defending mine. Is there a problem?”
The count slammed his fist against the wall.
Aisila made no effort to hide the contempt on her face.
This kind of man—who resorted to violence because he couldn’t properly resolve matters—was the type she despised most.
“She’s my daughter! My daughter! I raised her all these years, how dare you—”
“My daughter?”
Aisila’s voice dropped lower.
“My daughter!!”
“Really?”
Like a dirge sung by ghosts in the dead of night, her voice turned eerily cold.
The count, still pounding the wall in agitation, flinched at the repeated question.
No—he hasn’t found out yet, right? His eyes trembled violently, scattering in panic.
Aisila’s cold gaze recorded his pitiful, vile reaction in full detail.
She stepped closer to him.
One step. Then another.
Like death itself coming to claim a doomed soul.
When she was right in front of him, the count tried to escape—but her iron grip seized his collar and yanked him back.
Her crimson lips parted, like spider lilies blooming in the world of the dead.
Aisila spoke calmly.
“Bark again, you bastard.”
“……”
“My daughter?”
In that blood-stirred gaze, the count was completely immobilized.
The hand gripping his neck was terrifyingly strong.
What kind of strength is this—he was horrified, realizing she was tightening her grip further.
She’s going to strangle me. This woman would absolutely do it.
“Bark. Whose daughter is Ronel?”
“……”
“Thank you for answering so clearly.”
So she really isn’t your daughter. How could Ronel be an Artes? That child is not Artes—she is—
‘Duncan.’
The count’s mouth fell open in despair.
Even if he tried to argue, the pressure on his neck was too strong. A killing intent, as if she wanted to tear him apart alive, poured over his entire body.
A raw, visceral rage so intense it made him tremble.
Aisila, savoring his convulsions like prey impaled, curved her lips faintly.
“From your family.”
“……”
“From a family… you stole another family member and still dare to bark at me, Count? You think Duncan doesn’t know? You think you can deceive Duncan?”
“……”
“You separated a child from her family for a lifetime… and now you dare try to take her away again?”
KWAJIK.
Aisila grabbed him by the collar and lifted him, dragging him down the stairs and out the front door, then threw him to the ground without hesitation.
Dust rose, covering his fine clothing.
As the count sat there dazed, Aisila dusted her hands off as if she had just thrown away trash.
“Don’t expect the mercy you might get from Bertrand from me, Count.”
“I’m really looking forward to tomorrow.”
She turned away sharply.
BANG—!
The door slammed shut.
* * *
“I’m really looking forward to tomorrow.”
That sentence had only one meaning.
Aisila Duncan had begun her retaliation, and the downfall of Artes would begin in earnest from the next day.
Whether it fell by the hand of the Church or by Duncan—its fate was already sealed.
The count boarded his carriage in a hollow daze.
As he ordered, barely conscious, to return to the count’s estate, the coachman obeyed without question.
The carriage lurched forward.
As the wheels rolled steadily, the count finally began to leave that cursed Duncan mansion.
With nothing accomplished. Only a miserable ending awaiting him.
But the greater problem than Duncan’s retaliation… was something else entirely.
“I quite enjoyed that, Count.”
It had been about thirty minutes since they left for the count’s estate when a woman suddenly appeared in the seat opposite him.
The golden light visible beneath her hood made the count collapse in despair.
“And you have failed in the end.”
Her soft voice spoke of failure as if it were a blessing from God.
The count hurried to speak, but the woman sitting with her legs crossed was faster.
“I don’t want excuses, Artes.”
“But—”
“You were the one who decided to take Ronel and hide her. Did we force you? No.”
…That moment of his greatest regret.
He should never have taken her.
The count bit his lip in self-reproach.
He should never have brought that child.
Blinded by a momentary gain, he had chosen the worst possible path.
“There were many families who volunteered besides you.”
“……”
“One was more noble than you. One was richer than you. And one was more devout than you. And yet, we chose you.”
The count lowered his head without realizing it. Each word pierced him like a dagger.
“You were only supposed to raise that child as your ‘illegitimate daughter.’”
Right.
Why did he take Ronel?
That damned seed of tragedy.
All he had to do was raise her until she turned ten, and the Church would grant his family lifelong support.
And indeed, once he brought Ronel in, everything had gone smoothly at first.
The once-broken finances of the noble household stabilized, the southern grain fields flourished year after year, and the family gained recognition among other noble houses.
Even his son Lloyd grew up without a single illness.
Once Ronel turned ten, he would send her back to the Church. Then explain everything to his wife and son afterward.
It would cause temporary distress, yes—but once everything was resolved, surely they would understand it was for the sake of the family.
He had believed that.
A gentle voice washed over him.
“Didn’t the Church trust Artes and grant many blessings to prove that trust?”
“……”
“Count.”
The voice calling him was sweetly poisonous, filling him with fear.
The power structure of the Ederka Empire could be divided into three.
Nobles who symbolized honor.
Bourgeois who ruled through wealth.
And priests who determined the course of life itself.
Priests aided daily life through blessings, and the Church wielded immense influence through faith.
And at the very pinnacle of that Church—
“I told you just days ago, didn’t I? Your task was simply to hide that child, Ronel, until she turned ten.”
“……”
“You failed. And were given another chance. And you failed again.”
—Saint Wiraea.
The woman sitting directly across from him.
