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Chapter 32
“About that man earlier. He insulted our lady, didn’t he? I may not be fluent in Dvorka, but if there’s one phrase I can recognize, it’s ‘Hell Witch.’”
Sir Julio snorted angrily, fuming.
Davite urged his horse forward slowly without answering, only thinking that Julio was an exceedingly loyal retainer.
“That insolent bastard. He should be grateful for the comfort he has. Anywhere else, he’d be worked like a slave and have his harvests stolen. Doesn’t know whose grace he lives on, ungrateful wretch.”
Sir Julio muttered under his breath, probably thinking Davite couldn’t hear him.
Suddenly, Davite grew curious.
Could it be that she knows? That people call her ‘Hell Witch’?
It likely referred to how she had supposedly turned Blansk into a hellfire wasteland. The infamous bomb “Rasantium” had, after all, been named after her family.
“…Does the Archduchess know?”
“Pardon? Know what?”
“That the people call her that.”
“Hah! They’ve been cursing her to dust for five years now—how could she not? Since Your Highness has been staying here, it’s calmed down a bit, but until then, townsfolk would fling filth at the castle walls nearly every day. The graffiti and curses they scrawled—well, ‘Witch from Hell’ is almost refined in comparison.”
“Is… the Archduchess alright with it?”
She seemed to care deeply for Blansk—or so Davite judged.
If she didn’t, why would she run about day and night without rest, not even pausing for proper meals?
Granted, she was a hard ruler for the defeated to serve… but he hadn’t realized she endured such treatment. Even when you work hard, if you’re still cursed, it would wound anyone human.
“Well, our lady doesn’t have much temper in her. She’s been pelted with eggs, rotten tomatoes, even stabbed once—and she never once lost her composure.”
Stabbed?
Had he heard wrong?
Davite halted his horse, doubting his ears.
“…Stabbed? The Archduchess?”
“Oh, didn’t you notice the scar on her left side?”
A heavy silence stretched between them.
The escort knights, sensing the tension, slowed and drifted further back.
“…I didn’t.”
Davite truly hadn’t known. He had never once seen her bare body.
For a moment, he was at a loss for words. His grip loosened, reins slipping slack in his hands.
“Haha, perhaps you missed it in the dark. Fortunately, she reacted quickly, so it wasn’t too deep. Hard to believe, but that was already two years ago.”
“…Who would do such a thing?”
“A peasant woman in her forties. We investigated her family history—when the battle of Blansk broke out, her parents, husband, and children were all killed by the blasts.”
“The Rasantium bomb… detonated in a civilian district?”
“Yes. Entirely our Levanteian army’s fault. But since our lady was heir to the family that created the bomb, the woman likely bore her a grudge.”
“She must have been punished.”
“Ah… not punished. To be precise, she couldn’t be.”
“The Archduchess pardoned her?”
“Well… more than pardon. In my eyes, she did something beyond that.”
“…What do you mean?”
When Davite asked, Sir Julio glanced back to ensure distance from the other knights, then drew closer.
“Only Lady Katarina and I, who were there, know this. But since you’re her husband, I’ll share it.”
He lowered his voice.
What had she done that required such secrecy?
Davite tightened his reins, leaning toward Julio.
And Julio, his face shadowed, recounted the scene.
“She went down to the dungeon, knelt before the woman. Prostrated fully, forehead to the ground. And she begged forgiveness, all night long.”
“The Archduchess… did that.”
Davite could hardly imagine it.
She was one of the highest-born women in all Levanteia.
Granddaughter of King Salessio.
Only daughter of Princess Emma.
Sole heir of Duke Rasantia.
At their wedding, she had embodied majesty and dignity itself. She had never bowed her head to anyone but the king.
Yet she lowered herself before her would-be assassin. A peasant.
“The woman, during the entire apology, sat with her back turned. And the next day, she took her own life. That made punishment impossible.”
“…”
“Your Highness… forgive an old man’s boldness, but may I say one thing?”
Sir Julio bent in his saddle, bowing his head.
Davite nodded silently.
“Please, don’t hate our lady too much. She bears her sins more heavily than anyone.”
Davite answered after a long silence, his words short and sincere.
“…I never did.”
It was the truth.
He bore the Archduchess no ill will.
In this colony where he had been sold as a hostage, she was the only one he could rely on.
He couldn’t trust her entirely, of course.
But they were in the same boat.
She promised to protect him, to be his support.
How could he despise such a person outright?
‘What I feel for her… perhaps it’s best described as distance.’
To him, she was simply too different.
And that was all.
That morning, Davite toured the farmlands.
Wheat and barley stretching endless as the horizon.
Corn stalks towering high as the sky.
The poor harvest was confined only to the vegetable fields in the west; the other crops thrived abundantly.
The irrigation impressed him.
From the northern mountains, streams branched into ditches, watering the fields. Most channels ran straight, clearly dug by human hands.
“The irrigation was my project. I served in military construction. After discharge, our lady entrusted me with city planning and a generous budget. Thanks to that, drought is barely a concern.”
Sir Julio puffed his chest proudly, like a child.
Davite couldn’t help but smile.
“You’ve done well.”
As they rode, Davite noticed something peculiar.
Wheat, barley, corn—every crop was… black.
“Your Highness, let’s check that soybean field last, then head to the market.”
“Alright.”
They rode to the soy field. Between the low plants, pods lay scattered. Davite picked one, split it open—inside was, as expected, a black bean.
“Why are all the crops black? Is it disease?”
He asked Julio.
“No, Your Highness. They were planted deliberately.”
“Why?”
“Well… it’s a bit of a long explanation. But simply put, it was our lady’s idea.”
“I’d like to hear it, long or not.”
Davite was curious. Why insist on black crops?
“As you know, by colonial law, lords of Dvorka must give thirty percent of their harvest to the governor’s office. Officially thirty, but few abide by it.”
“They take more, don’t they.”
“Yes. The cruelest lords seize over half, leaving their people to starve. Our lady, however, chose black crops for one reason…”
“And that is?”
“Levanteia’s state religion forbids black grains as ‘evil’ foods, listed in scripture. But Dvorka’s Furan faith has no such taboo. To them, color doesn’t matter.”
“…So the black crops escape confiscation.”
“Exactly. We still plant white wheat and yellow corn separately—just enough for the quota. The rest, all black.”
Davite nodded. Clever indeed.
Levanteia would refuse the black grain entirely—thus safe from seizure.
Though he had one concern.
“Wouldn’t the governor’s office get suspicious at the smaller delivery?”
“Not really. Even at thirty percent, Blansk’s output matches what other regions give at half. Simply because we harvest so much more.”
“Meaning the land is that fertile.”
“Yes—thanks to her hand in everything. The black barley and corn were imported seeds. Delicious, too.”
“…But you’re Levanteian. You’ve eaten them?”
“Hah. Every day. They’re delicious. Frankly, I’ve no idea why our faith forbids them.”
Julio stuffed a pod into his pocket.
“You’re not much of a devout believer then.”
“I haven’t gone to church in years. These black soybeans, ground fine and mixed in milk—fantastic. Supposedly even good for hair loss.”
Rustle, rustle.
A sound behind them. Davite turned.
The escort knights had crouched to eagerly gather soy pods from the ground.
They, too, were Levanteians of her household.
Davite smiled faintly, then looked around.
Farmers in straw hats sat under chestnut trees, eating their simple meals. Two goldfinches chirped on leafy branches. A scarecrow’s white rags fluttered in the breeze.
It was a peaceful, humble scene.
From what he saw, Davite reached a conclusion.
‘The Archduchess is truly earnest about farming.’
The fields were neatly partitioned, drains dug to divert floodwaters, weeds kept at bay. Not a single plant seemed carelessly sown.
Even a novice could see it—everything was orderly.
“Sir Julio.”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Is there a reason she works the land so hard?”
“She always says—she must set the system in place before leaving, so her successor can sustain productivity without trouble.”
“…Leaving?”
“She’s also heir to Rasantia, is she not? Someday she’ll inherit the dukedom and return home.”
Julio shrugged.
Davite thought it a foolish question. Of course she’d return to Levanteia.
Blansk was never her true priority.
‘Even if this marriage continues… we’ll someday live far apart.’
The Grand Duke of Dvorka, the Duke of Rasantia—each bound to their own realm.
“Her succession may be delayed, but she won’t remain forever in this countryside. Though Blansk, for a countryside, has flourished.”
“And the successor here… is that decided?”
Davite asked. Who would lead when she left? Surely a retainer of her house.
Clap.
Julio suddenly smacked his hands together.
“Ah, she once joked—said if a capable, reliable man ever appeared, she’d marry him and entrust Blansk to him.”
