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Chapter 33
“Diligent… and practical man.”
So that was the Archduchess’s ideal type?
It seemed she was looking for someone who could manage the estate’s affairs in her stead.
But that wish came to nothing, since she ended up in a political marriage with a dispossessed prince who had no governing experience whatsoever.
Davitte fell into a long silence.
“Haha, if I may speculate carefully, perhaps Her Grace even intends to entrust matters to Your Highness. Having married such an angelically beautiful husband, what wouldn’t she want to give you?”
At Sir Julio’s joking tone, Davitte coldly shook his head.
It had only been ten days since he met the Archduchess.
Such a short time wasn’t nearly enough to build trust.
Above all, to her eyes Davitte was probably nothing more than a green boy.
No experience, no resources—nothing.
Only outwardly handsome, with no substance whatsoever. To entrust such a man with an entire territory…
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
Sir Julio scratched his temple and asked back.
“Do you really not know?”
“Well, one can learn the work, or employ the right people. Ah, come to think of it, I heard that your late mother was also from here in Blansk. Wouldn’t it be nice to put down roots in her homeland?”
“Late mother?”
At the unfamiliar phrase, Davitte faltered.
Was he referring to his own mother, calling her the late lady in such an honorific way?
It was the first time anyone had ever spoken of Nadia so respectfully.
He felt strange. Perhaps it was time to change the subject.
“I’ve seen enough farmland. Let’s head to the marketplace.”
“Yes, indeed!”
Sir Julio quickly mounted his horse and led the way.
Davitte, flanked by his guards, left the agricultural district.
As they entered the city, the scenery shifted.
The thick greenery that had filled his vision gradually gave way.
A wide stone-paved road stretched cleanly all the way to the central square.
On the smooth, polished pavement, carts and wagons bustled back and forth.
The roads were broader and better maintained than even those of the capital, Yorka.
The buildings on both sides were large, solid three-story stone structures, all built in a consistent style: sloping red roofs, soft sand-colored bricks, and arched windows.
It was the traditional Dvorka style, similar to the lord’s castle on Pardon Island.
Davitte approached one building and studied its surface. A smooth sheen like marble ran across it.
They looked newly built.
“Were all the buildings in town built recently?”
“Yes, this entire district was burned to ashes during the war. When I was first posted here as commander of the Blansk garrison, it was like the end of the world.”
“So it was rebuilt from bare ground.”
“Exactly. We were told to build so solidly that not even a storm could shake it, and you wouldn’t believe the effort that went into the design. We had a hard time hauling the toughest stone from the quarries.”
The closer they came to the city center, the more people filled the streets.
Davitte and his companions dismounted to walk.
Sir Julio guided him into the clock tower building in the middle of the square.
Davitte climbed the stairs in silence.
Soon, an observation deck opened up, offering a sweeping view of the central district.
His vision stretched wide.
From above, Blansk revealed itself as a neatly planned city, like a chessboard.
It was hard to believe this had once been a place ravaged by war.
This is nothing like the Blansk Mother told me about. It feels as if all those childhood stories were lies.
Long ago, Nadia had described Blansk as hell itself.
A barren land where even seeds refused to sprout.
People scraping by on one meal a day in collapsing tents. Children with jutting ribs and swollen bellies. Dark alleys overrun with thieves and robbers.
The lord of the time, she said, was addicted to gambling and cared nothing for his people’s lives.
Tired of the hunger and misery, his mother had longed to escape that place.
“Davitte, I don’t think of that place as my home.”
That was why, when the Archduchess suggested going to Blansk together, Davitte had hesitated.
He hadn’t wanted to conjure images of his late mother’s harsh childhood.
Yet here in Blansk, no trace of that past remained.
Usually, postwar rebuilding was left to the nation.
But to restore the city to a level far better than before the war…
The Archduchess must have poured in her own fortune.
That much was clear. She had spared neither time nor money in raising the ruined city anew.
“Your Highness, are you hungry? Please, follow me. There’s a small restaurant I frequent.”
Sir Julio quickened his pace.
He led Davitte into the bustling alleys of the marketplace. The guards followed, watchful.
The place they arrived at was a small eatery tucked inside a lane.
They barely managed to find seats among the noisy patrons.
At the next table, foreigners with a peculiar accent were placing an order with the staff.
“…How did outsiders get in? Isn’t Blansk supposed to be closed off?”
Davitte asked quietly, recalling the tents of refugees he had seen outside the outer wall when coming here after the wedding.
Back then, soldiers had kept strict watch at the gates to keep those people out.
“Pardon? Outsiders may enter freely. The economy only works if people come and go.”
“But the refugees weren’t allowed near.”
“Ah, you need an identity plaque issued by your regional lord to enter. Refugees, having no place of residence, don’t have such documents.”
Their food soon arrived: dark bread, black beans stewed, and roasted chicken.
Davitte tore off a piece of bread made from black grain and tasted it. Nutty, chewy.
The cost for four servings came to 30 rebels. Prices were reasonable.
Leaving the restaurant, they headed back to the square.
Blansk’s residents bustled about with baskets in hand.
Most were women—perhaps due to the war. Yet their expressions were bright, their skin healthily sun-kissed. Their clothes were simple but neat, without patches.
Under the shimmering summer sunlight, girls with braided hair and daisy crowns laughed as they passed by.
Not a trace of poverty remained in this small but thriving new city.
“…Sir Julio.”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Are the residential districts this well kept too?”
“Of course. We’ll visit them this afternoon.”
Walking toward the outskirts, the sound of clear bells rang out.
It came from a red-brick building with a wide yard.
The doors swung open and children poured out.
Boys and girls of around ten years old, all oddly quiet.
Instead, they communicated energetically with their hands.
Davitte recognized their signs without much difficulty.
[I want something sweet.]
[Me too. Let’s go buy candy.]
The children were speaking in sign language.
“What building is that?”
Davitte asked, pointing.
“Ah, that’s the school for the deaf.”
“School for the deaf?”
“Yes, an educational facility for those who cannot hear. In Blansk there are many born deaf, as well as those who lost their hearing from the war. It was built for them.”
Davitte stopped walking and stared at the school.
A school just for the deaf? He had never heard of such a thing.
“What do they teach there?”
“Sign language, literacy, vocational training. The students range from little children to the elderly.”
“Building such a school… was that the Archduchess’s idea?”
“Yes. Her mother, Princess Emma, is deaf, as you know. So naturally the Archduchess also supports and provides for the deaf.”
“….”
Davitte stared at Sir Julio in shock.
He had never known this.
He recalled the first time he had met his mother-in-law at the wedding.
A middle-aged woman with fiery red hair, strikingly similar to the Archduchess but with an even colder impression.
He had bowed deeply in greeting. She only inclined her head silently, without a word.
Even at the farewell banquet, she had remained silent.
I thought it was because she disapproved of my political marriage to her daughter… Was it simply because she couldn’t speak?
Meanwhile, the deaf children grouped together and trotted toward the central district.
Heading off to buy candy, their steps were light.
In this, Davitte found a point of commonality with the Archduchess:
Both had deaf family members.
Of course, it was a secret he could never share with her.
…Melania.
Davitte thought of his younger sister, left behind on Pardon Island.
For a moment, he imagined—
If Melania had lived here in Blansk, could she have attended school, made friends, and lived happily like those children?
With her bright and sociable nature, surely she would have.
As he mused, a shop opposite the school caught his eye.
A small store selling dainty women’s accessories.
A young female owner, wearing a headscarf, had spread colorful ribbons and hairpins across her stall.
Drawn as if by a spell, Davitte approached.
Sir Julio and the guards followed.
“Welcome! Please, browse as you like!”
Davitte picked up a ribbon.
It was a soft pink one, stitched along the edges with white lace. It would have suited Melania’s golden hair perfectly.
As he reached into his vest to pay—
“Oh, are you buying a gift for Her Grace?”
Sir Julio leaned close and whispered in his ear.
“….”
The forwardness startled Davitte.
“Her Grace isn’t really fond of girlish things like this. But since it’s a gift from Your Highness, she’ll surely wear it gladly.”
Sir Julio whispered again.
Davitte ignored him and looked carefully through the stall.
What ribbon might suit the Archduchess?
At last he found one: a silvery-gray ribbon with a subtle sheen.
It would harmonize well with the intelligent hue of her eyes.
Compared to the wedding jewels she had given him, this was a pitifully cheap gift.
But he could pass it off casually, as something he bought on a whim.
“How much for these two?”
“10 rebels! Thank you very much!”
Davitte paid and turned around.
Sir Julio and the guards were watching him with knowing, mischievous smiles.
Their grins felt uncomfortably heavy.
“Newlyweds, indeed.” Sir Julio added.
Why were they like this? It was embarrassing.
Davitte pretended not to hear and mounted his horse.
