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Chapter 31
“Puhaha, you think I deliberately missed the boar? You must be joking. Who would take such a dangerous gamble?”
The Grand Duchess laughed, clutching her stomach at the question I threw out just in case.
‘…It wasn’t a joke.’
Her laughter burst out like a freshly popped bottle of champagne, crisp and ringing, still echoing in my ears.
Having finished preparing to go out, Davit stood in the shade of a garden tree, recalling the conversation he had with the Grand Duchess yesterday.
Seeing her face after a week felt slightly unfamiliar.
Maybe it was because it was the first time he saw her bare face in bright light.
Without her heavy bridal makeup and official smile, she looked like a completely different person.
She smiled far more naturally than she had at the wedding.
Whenever she laughed heartily, faint horizontal lines appeared in the middle of both cheeks—a uniquely shaped dimple.
The light freckles across the bridge of her nose gave her a mischievous look.
Her untamed red hair flowed abundantly like wild climbing roses.
She looked simple and unpretentious.
But above all…
“For those who have lost their country and wander aimlessly, someone like you can be the shoulder to lean on.”
She insisted that the ducal title Davit held was deserving of true value.
He didn’t know why she seemed so certain, but each word she spoke carried weight.
‘She’s speaking as if I’m some kind of pillar for the people. I almost got convinced.’
Davit knew his own position better than anyone.
A royal of a fallen kingdom, with a ducal title obtained through a political marriage.
Legally, he was the ruler of the Duchy of Dvorka, and the lords of Levantea who governed the lands were technically his vassals.
His status was high, but the actual power he held was nothing.
Who would respect a puppet ruler installed at the whim of an invading country?
‘I have nothing… What could I possibly do?’
He was certain that the Grand Duchess must be under some illusion.
Lost in thought, he felt a rustling at his ankle.
A cat was rubbing its head against the hem of his pants.
It was a calico, with a white base and patches of black and yellow.
“…Hello.”
Davit crouched down and patted the cat’s head.
The cat, seemingly pleased, rolled onto the grass and purred.
Come to think of it, the Blansk Castle had an unusual number of cats.
Every time he strolled through the garden, cats of all kinds would wander nearby, glancing at him.
There had to be at least twenty of them.
After a few days, some of them, having let their guard down, would even approach him for attention.
‘Too many to raise just for catching mice… Could the Grand Duchess be a cat lover?’
At that moment:
“Your Grace!”
From somewhere, Sir Julio’s voice called.
Davit withdrew his hand from the cat and stood.
Sir Julio approached with two knight guards. Each knight had two horses in tow.
“My apologies for making you wait in this heat, Your Grace. We were delayed trying to pick the best horses for you.”
Davit pulled a pocket watch from his vest. Only a minute past 10 a.m., the appointed time.
“You’re not late.”
“Please, spare the formalities. Huh? That butterfly of a cat dared to leave its fur all over your clothes.”
Sir Julio gave the calico a playful glance before squatting down.
He brushed the cat fur off Davit’s pants.
Taken aback by the casual touch, Davit froze momentarily.
Julio smiled warmly and stood again.
His hair was snow-white, his face round, giving a kind, grandfatherly impression.
“You said you wanted to go unnoticed, so we all came in plain clothes. But you… even in your casual clothes…”
Davit wore a dull gray tunic borrowed from a servant.
For some reason, Sir Julio shook his head while surveying Davit’s appearance.
“This won’t do, Lucas. Give me your hat.”
“Yes, sir!”
One of the guards quickly removed a cap with a brim and handed it to Sir Julio.
He wiped it on his sleeve and extended it to Davit.
“Here, Your Grace. Wear this. Your appearance is unique; someone might recognize you otherwise.”
“…Thank you.”
Davit took the hat and pressed it firmly onto his head.
He led Sir Julio and the guards out of the castle.
As soon as he mounted his horse, he gave an order:
“Let’s start with the western farm.”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
A peaceful summer village, shaded in deep green.
In this quiet and serene setting, they rode their horses.
Upon reaching the farm, Davit and his party dismounted to survey the surroundings.
The vegetable field, which had been overturned by the boar, was halfway restored.
Dozens of workers had clung to the field, sweating as they restored it.
The farmers plowed the land again, stood up fallen crops, and replanted them properly.
Those too damaged to grow were stacked aside.
Workers dispatched to repair the area rebuilt the broken fences with nails and hammers.
Some tied damaged crops into sacks.
Seeing the piled sacks, Davit frowned.
“…There seems to be too much wasted produce.”
“You can use it as fertilizer or feed for livestock, so it’s not a big concern. The atmosphere is definitely good. Judging by the pace, it should be restored in a few days.”
Sir Julio laughed heartily.
The farmers and workers moved diligently, singing as they worked.
Even though roughly thirty percent of the harvest was lost, they seemed cheerful.
What song were they singing?
The melody was familiar. Curious, Davit picked up remnants of crops from the ground and approached them.
Sir Julio and the knights discreetly followed him.
After a few steps, Davit could hear the lyrics the farmers were singing:
“Glory to Dvorka! Glory to the incarnation of Archangel Mihailo, His Majesty King Davit! From Yorka to Pardon Island! From Vedef to Karison! May the land of Dvorka, blessed by the goddess Purana, have rest and peace! The glory of His Majesty King Davit, the incarnation of Archangel Mihailo who serves the goddess, is infinite!”
It was the national anthem of Dvorka, which he had heard so loudly during the wedding parade.
But the lyrics had been modified. Where it originally said “His Majesty King Madilov”…
‘Why is my name in there?’
Hearing his name in the lyrics, Davit gasped.
“His Majesty the King?”
Dvorka had been downgraded from a kingdom to a duchy.
Madilov was the rightful king, while Davit was only a duke.
The farmers, unaware that the person was present, raised their voices higher.
The more the anthem was sung, the more Davit’s name was repeated.
It became increasingly embarrassing.
His face and neck flushed red.
“Hey, tall guy over there! If you’re dawdling, at least pass the water!”
A man replanting crops wiped his sweat with his sleeve and called out.
He was looking at Davit.
Davit pointed to himself, asking,
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes. I’m about to die of thirst; if you have a water bottle in your bag, hand it over.”
The man must have mistaken him for a young worker, dressed in shabby clothes and hiding his face under a hat.
“Ah, how dare that guy…!”
Sir Julio, a few steps behind, stomped forward, fuming.
The knights tensed, fists twitching, making cracking sounds.
Davit raised a hand to stop them, signaling them to step back.
He pulled a water bottle from his bag and handed it to the man.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
The man drank greedily and, handing back the bottle, gestured angrily somewhere.
“Hey, you! Don’t touch that! It’s an offering for His Majesty the King!”
Following the man’s gaze, Davit turned his head.
A young boy was touching perfectly fine tomatoes.
Judging by his flinch and step back, he probably intended to eat one.
“His Majesty the King… Who are you talking about?”
Davit asked cautiously.
The man stuck the handle of a shovel into the ground and scowled.
“What, are you an outsider? The King is staying here in Blansk. He personally caught the boar that messed up the field. You should properly offer gifts to repay his favor.”
“You mean the Duke married to the Duchess here?”
Davit pressed the brim of his hat further down and asked.
The man spat on the ground and laughed.
“Tch, a duke? You’re clueless, young man. Only those from the invading country call him that. Since the prince inherited the throne, he should rightly be called the king.”
“….”
“And as for marrying the hell-witch, that was all the invading country’s scheme. She was forced into it, there was no choice.”
Hell-witch.
The people of Blansk referred to the Grand Duchess that way.
