Rather than sit idle and drown in worry, it was better to do her duty.
Marin was the adjutant's assistant. Her job was to read aloud to the Duke—to read *well.*
*So I should write a proper fairy tale for him to hear.*
She must have lingered in the library longer than she realized. A pink sunset now spilled across the edge of the castle, painting the stone in soft rose and amber. Bright yellow leaves—harbingers of autumn's end—carpeted the ground in an even, rustling layer.
*Shurkh-shurkh.*
Stepping over the sun-dried leaves, she didn't even notice where her feet were carrying her until she arrived at the stables.
Regret gnawed at her. *If only I could ride better, I could have followed him.*
"Oh? Butler Sebas?"
"Miss Marin."
The groom was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Sebas stood in the stables, methodically brushing a horse.
"What are you doing here?"
"An old habit." His voice was calm, almost wistful. "When I'm feeling anxious, I often find myself here."
*A habit from his knightly days, perhaps.* It seemed the groom had deliberately stepped aside for the butler.
"I see."
"Beautiful horse, isn't she?"
Sebas gestured toward the mare he was brushing. Her head was black, her body white—a striking contrast.
"Yes, she's lovely. The different colors make her immediately eye-catching."
The mare was smaller than the others and looked older, but her coat gleamed with care, and her eyes were bright and alert.
"The young lady..." Sebas paused, correcting himself. "...or rather, the Countess—she loved this horse very much."
"Ah..."
"The Countess was an excellent rider. More than once, she begged me to teach her a little fencing as well."
A smile softened the deep lines around Sebas's mouth. He was clearly lost in memory.
"That must have been quite something."
The daughter of the famous Western Ducal House, interested in both horses *and* swords? Surprising indeed.
"Yes. Quite the tomboy, she was."
Marin decided to leave him with his memories. She began to step away.
"I'll be going, then."
"Ha-ha—I seem to have gotten carried away." Sebas turned to her, his expression gentle. "What brings you to the stables?"
"I just wanted to see the horses. I was thinking... I'd like to learn to ride better."
"You rode well last time," he said encouragingly.
"It was just for fun." She hesitated. "If I'd been better at it, I could have followed His Grace this time..."
"So that's what you were thinking?"
His eyes widened slightly, surprised.
"Yes," Marin admitted, her voice barely audible with embarrassment.
"News arrived today—His Grace has already reached the Count's estate."
"Already? That quickly?" Relief washed through her. "Then it's good I didn't go. I would only have slowed the journey."
The decision she had agonized over—and ultimately abandoned—had been the right one after all.
Sebas studied her for a moment. His gaze dropped briefly to her wrist.
"Miss Marin... do you by any chance know how to use a sword?"
"No."
The question caught her completely off guard.
In the empire, noblewomen were rarely taught to read, write, or ride—such things were considered unladylike. The mere fact that Marin knew her letters and could handle a horse already made her an oddity among young ladies.
But a *sword?*
"Would you like to learn? For self-defense."
"Could I? Isn't it rather late to start?"
"It's never too late to learn." Sebas's voice grew quieter, heavy with something unspoken. "I'll help you improve your riding as well. I regret... that I taught the Countess too little when she asked. I don't want to carry that regret any longer."
He stared past the stable, at something only he could see.
A yellow leaf, barely clinging to its branch, finally surrendered and drifted silently to the ground.
"Yes!" Marin spoke more brightly than she felt, hoping to console him. "I want to learn! Teach me everything—I'll work hard so you won't regret it!"
Any knowledge would serve her well. Learn to ride better, master the sword—and more paths would open ahead.
Sebas nodded, and warmth returned to his weathered face.
---
## — At the Count's Estate —
Silence hung heavy over the dining table.
The spread was extravagant: sumptuous dishes arranged with artful precision, elegant flowers decorating every surface. Servants stood pressed against the walls, faces tense, ready to serve at the slightest gesture.
The three sisters sat pale and rigid in their chairs, like porcelain dolls. Their eyes moved over the magnificent feast with undisguised disgust.
"Well? How is it?"
Killon sat at the head of the table, fingers laced together, his expression smug with satisfaction.
"How is... what?"
Daya bit the tender skin inside her lip. She didn't want to answer him—but silence might provoke something worse.
"The food, of course." He gestured grandly at the table. "I told the chef to prepare something special. He even decorated it with gold powder—do you see?"
Daya's gaze slid unwillingly to the enormous roast duck at the center of the table. Its skin glittered obscenely, dusted with flecks of gold.
"We are still in mourning."
These dishes—lavish beyond reason—belonged at a celebration. A ball. Not *this.*
"*What?*"
Killon's eyes flashed dangerously.
"You asked my opinion," Daya replied, meeting his glare with hollow indifference. "Did you not?"
"Shut your mouth." His lip curled. "Just like your mother—cold as ice."
"That's not true!"
Rubiena—little Rubiena, who usually cowered and hid at Killon's every word—clenched her small fists and raised her voice.
"Our mother was the kindest and most loving person in the world! You're *bad,* Uncle!"
The servants lining the walls gave the faintest nods, as though in silent agreement.
Garnet didn't even bother looking at Killon. Her voice dripped with contempt.
"Ruby, devils are masters of lying."
"*How dare you—*"
Killon's face flushed crimson. He shot to his feet—
And the dining room doors swung wide.
"His Grace, the Duke!"
Olive strode in first, announcing the arrival with crisp formality.
Killon's rage vanished as though wiped away. In an instant, a pleasant smile stretched across his face. He spread his arms in welcome.
"Your Grace! Welcome!" He snapped his fingers at the sisters. "Girls—stand."
The three sisters rose from their chairs.
Their gazes fixed on a single point.
A man approached.
Slowly. Deliberately.
*Is this... the Duke of Vines?*
Black hair. Skin so pale it seemed to glow. He stood apart from everything around him, as though light itself followed in his wake.
For the first time in her life, Daya beheld a man more beautiful than her father. More beautiful than Killon.
The Duke's features overlaid themselves upon the beloved image of her mother. The resemblance was unmistakable.
Daya clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, fighting back the sudden wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm her.
"Wow..." Rubiena breathed from behind Garnet, her voice hushed with awe. "He's *enormous.*"
The closer the Duke drew—tall, clad in a black ceremonial uniform—the more suffocating his presence became. This was not mere authority.
This was *power.*
*Knock. Knock.*
His footsteps were silent. But the heavy, deliberate strikes of his cane echoed through the hall like a heartbeat.
Each blow drew the eye to that polished ebony shaft.
And then—sudden understanding bloomed in Daya's mind. Her lips parted.
She looked up and realized, only now, that the Duke walked with his eyes closed.
*They said he couldn't see.*
His confident stride, his overwhelming aura—she had momentarily forgotten his blindness entirely.
And yet he walked directly toward the seat of honor where Killon stood, as though he could see the path perfectly.
Killon stared, frozen in confusion. The Duke stopped directly before him.
For a long, tense moment, neither moved.
Killon's handsome face twisted—just for an instant—before he smoothed his expression and stepped aside with exaggerated grace.
"Please—sit here, Your Grace."