MCFLS 25

Chapter 25

The clerk who received the leave request set out for the military office. Since those who handled administrative affairs usually stayed until late evening, it would be processed without delay.

Having finished what needed to be done, Cyril immediately climbed into the carriage.

He had several appointments scheduled for the very next day, but it wasn’t something worth worrying over.

It wasn’t as if he’d be treated like a criminal for skipping a few trivial ceremonies. If anyone had a conscience, they would consider the effort he’d already put into being dragged around all this time.

“Now I get it.”

Samuel—who also had his return home unexpectedly moved forward—had been quietly staring out the window when he finally spoke.

“Why you always left again so quickly whenever you came home when I was little.”

The eight-year age gap meant they had spent more time apart than together. When Cyril was younger, he often traveled between Cassinel and Tezar.

Back then, Samuel—who had been even younger—only got to see his brother for a painfully short time.

Ironically, perhaps because the time was so short, Samuel’s memories of Cyril remained especially vivid.

Once a year, Cyril was required to return to Tezar.

Samuel still remembered the moment he first met his brother as if it were yesterday.

…You said he’d be cute.

Cyril hadn’t been very kind as he looked down at four-year-old Samuel. He had even muttered something like “Not really….”

After staring at Samuel with an overly serious face, Cyril hesitated, then knelt down.

Once their eyes were level, he paused and gently patted Samuel’s head.

They said you’d like it if I did this. Do you really like it?

How had he responded back then?

Unfortunately, Samuel couldn’t remember that part.

But since he had eagerly awaited his brother’s arrival, he doubted he had disliked it.

“What are you talking about out of nowhere?”

“Don’t you remember? Whenever you came home, you always left again after a day or two.”

He had been so excited for his brother to come home, only for him to leave so quickly—it had been disappointing.

“Did I do that?”

“You did. You always did.”

Cyril himself seemed unsure, but Samuel remembered clearly.

Whenever Cyril stayed the night at Tezar, Samuel would beg his nanny to take him to Cyril’s room. He could never forget.

Cyril would look at him with a face that said Again?—but he never kicked him out.

Whenever Samuel pestered him to tell a fun story, Cyril always reluctantly brought up one particular name.

There’s this strange kid named Adrien. If you ever meet him, just beg him to do whatever you want.

Strange?

Yeah. A bit strange… but he’ll be nice to you.

Adrien.

That name had continued to appear all the way until Samuel fell asleep.

He’d heard that Adrien was clumsy but physically skilled, a bit lacking but kind….

The stories weren’t compliments or insults—just confusing.

Hearing so much about him only made Samuel more curious.

What kind of person could make his usually quiet brother talk so much?

“Cyril, being with Adriana is fun, right?”

“If you’re bored, look outside. There’s a bird flying.”

“I thought it was fun.”

That was why Samuel had always wanted to meet Adrien.

After permanently returning to Tezar, Cyril rarely mentioned him, but Samuel remembered the name.

And today—finally—he had met Adrien in person.

If someone asked how it had been, Samuel could answer in one word:

It had been fun.

And surely he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Samuel glanced at his brother, who sat with his arms crossed and eyes closed.

He was smiling just a moment ago.

He had spent the whole time teasing Adrien with shining eyes, but now he was pretending to brood—how ridiculous.

His older brother was someone he always admired, but now he didn’t look so impressive. Samuel almost wanted to tease him.

Suppressing a laugh, Samuel casually asked:

“Do you think I’ll get to see Adriana again?”

“…Hard to say.”

“Why?”

The answer, after a brief hesitation, was not promising.

Samuel frowned slightly and examined Cyril’s face.

“We’re past the age where we can meet for no reason.”

Though Cyril’s voice was calm, his expression was dark.

Samuel, who had been somewhat excited, finally sensed that something was wrong.

…Maybe I should be quiet now.

He concluded quickly and shut his mouth. In the silence, only the sound of carriage wheels echoed clearly.

Even though the visit had come without notice, the dinner prepared was extravagant.

Meals at the Tezar ducal estate were never simple, but they weren’t daily banquets either.

Starting with thinly sliced chilled foie gras and shimmering gray caviar, followed by buttery, tender lamb and various other dishes—the table was lavish.

“Congratulations on your victory. You must be sick of hearing it by now, but I hope my praise is not too late.”

“Thank you. I was worried that I had returned too late.”

The Duke and Duchess of Tezar showed no surprise at their son’s sudden return. It was as if they had expected it. The dinner, their expressions—everything.

Cyril played along politely.

It hadn’t been his intention, but the fact remained: he had failed to return home even once after the war ended. It was only right to bow his head a little.

As always, dinner was eaten in silence. Even Samuel—usually the only one who brought liveliness—was watching the mood, so aside from the occasional clatter of cutlery, the atmosphere was deathly quiet.

“It seems the news reached you, judging by how quickly you returned.”

When the empty plates were taken away and dessert was served, the Duke finally broached the topic.

Cyril glanced at Samuel, but Samuel stayed seated. His expression said he had every right to hear family matters.

“…You should have informed me first.”

“How strange you speak. Even as you stood at the threshold of marriage last time, you said yourself you would gladly follow my will.”

The Duke was referring to the marriage discussions from years ago between Cyril and the Marquess of Dalbre’s family.

More precisely, it had been an engagement, but an engagement implied marriage, so it wasn’t wrong.

That time as well, everything had been decided before Cyril was even notified.

And back then, Cyril had complied easily, as his father said. He had no choice.

After years of frailty that had brought shame upon the family, Cyril carried immense guilt.

It was Tezar that had protected him from malicious rumors, and Tezar that had saved the weak heir who had been deemed hopeless.

Even if it wasn’t a life he chose, he could not forget that debt.

So he obeyed. It was his duty as heir.

“The situation is different now.”

“And what exactly is different?”

“Just because I have no choice does not mean Adrien should be stripped of hers.”

This time, the matter didn’t concern only him. Adrien must have felt like she’d been struck by lightning.

She had always been cautious—even hesitant about accepting a single invitation for fear of rumors—yet she had rushed over in a panic today. That said enough.

“You should have discussed it.”

“I’ve already spoken with the Count of Cassinel. He said he would entrust every decision to his daughter.”

That sounded like Cassinel. He was deeply devoted to his daughter.

But even so, forging handwriting to send a marriage proposal could not be excused. That was another issue entirely.

“You said you had no choice.”

“I assume you already know what I meant.”

“Tezar has no choice either.”

The Duke let out a bitter laugh and raised his glass. The swirling red wine disappeared quickly.

“His Majesty intends to bestow upon your father the title of Grand Marshal.”

It was the Duchess—who had been quietly observing—who spoke next. Her tone was calm, yet carried a bite of bitterness.

“Grand Marshal…?”

“A highly honorable title, indeed.”

No one had been appointed Grand Marshal in over three hundred years.

In the Army, the highest honor was Field Marshal. In the Navy, Grand Admiral. The Grand Marshal outranked both.

Grand Marshal, not General Staff Commander?

Though impressive in name, the Grand Marshal had almost no real authority.

The actual Army commander was the General Staff Commander, and the Navy was under the Grand Admiral.

Marshals were more symbolic figures—war heroes without command power.

Only in extreme emergencies, when both the Commander and the Admiral were dead, would a Marshal hold any real authority.

Cyril’s father, his grandfather, even his great-grandfather had all desperately wished for the General Staff Commander position but had been left with the empty honor of Marshal.

Thus, becoming Grand Marshal was no generous gift to a loyal subject.

At least not to Tezar. It was merely another hollow, shiny burden placed upon them.

“Choice… yes. Once, we had that. It seems His Majesty does not appreciate that fact.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was His Majesty who broke the promise with the Dalbre family. And the talk of marriage with the Princess—discussed until recently—was dismissed in an instant.”

The Duke emptied another glass.

Marriage with the Princess?

Cyril had dismissed such rumors as idle gossip spread by people like Marcel. To hear it confirmed by his father shocked him.

“Do you see that?”

The Duke pointed to the large banner on the wall. It bore Tezar’s symbol: a wing.

A single large wing, half white and half black.

It was the emblem personally bestowed by the Emperor of long ago, signifying the granting of a new life to the first Duke of Tezar—once a slave of foreign blood.

“Tezar blood has always been spilled for the Empire, and yet now—now they claim our humble origins are too impure to taint the noble Imperial line—”

The Duke’s voice, usually cold and measured, trembled with fury.

“—so what choice remains? Replace the sullied bloodline with a cleaner one.”