Chapter 105

A heavy silence descended over the carriage.

No one dared to speak.

“Congratulations. Lady Elena is with child.”

Leto’s voice rang in Elena’s ears like a bell struck from a great distance—muffled, surreal. She stared down at him, kneeling at her feet, her mind blank. Almost without thinking, her hand drifted to her abdomen.

Moments ago, there had been no sign—no stir, no strange sensation. She hadn’t even considered the possibility.
But now, with just those few words from Leto, it felt as though something fragile and new had awakened inside her.
Still, her stomach remained unchanged, and her palm felt the same as always, resting over the bejeweled embroidery of her dress.

“Is it true?” Kennard asked, his gaze fixed on Leto.

His voice was steady, low—betraying none of what he might be feeling.

“It is, Your Grace,” Leto answered, bowing even deeper.

Kennard reached for Elena’s hand, lacing his fingers with hers and gripping tightly.

“Elena.”

At the sound of his voice, she slowly turned to him. Her expression was composed, almost too calm—as if the news hadn’t touched her at all. But in Kennard’s eyes, a quiet light had begun to bloom. A tender joy, held back but unmistakable.

She couldn’t match it.

She didn’t even know if what she felt was happiness… or grief. It was closer to a muted, uncertain stillness—numbness that dulled even her own thoughts.

Kennard’s expression shifted. He’d seen the confusion in her eyes. His joy dimmed, shadowed by concern.

“You’re not happy?”

His brows drew together, his voice quieter now, almost like a child unsure of their welcome.

Still, Elena said nothing.

“…Maybe she’s just… startled,” Serin ventured from the side, his own shock plain on his face.

Kennard didn’t reply. His eyes never left Elena.

“Sir Serin is… right. I was just… surprised. Truly surprised…” she murmured, stumbling over the words.

Only then did Kennard’s shoulders ease. He gathered her into his arms, holding her close—firmly, protectively.

Ordinarily, she would’ve pulled away with others present. But now, she lacked the strength. Or maybe the will.

He held her for a long moment before shifting beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. His other hand came to rest over hers, warm and steady atop her folded fingers.

“Leto.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The physician’s voice was brisk and precise in response to Kennard’s call.

“Her condition,” Kennard said, his gaze narrowing, “the reason she’s been unwell—is it because of the child?”

“Yes,” Leto answered with a solemn nod. “When a new life is conceived within the body, it follows the mysteries of the heavens, beyond our understanding. Such a precious event causes great strain. The body naturally needs time to adjust.”

“Is there any way to make it easier for her?” Kennard asked, his voice calm but firm.

He looked down at Leto with unwavering focus, as though even a slightly displeasing answer might provoke something far less composed.

“It is still early,” Leto explained, his tone measured, “so this will be a difficult period for her. Once the nausea begins, it may become even worse.”

Kennard’s brow twitched, the tension beneath his calm expression surfacing for a moment.

“Worse than this?”

“Yes,” Leto confirmed without hesitation.

Kennard exhaled slowly, a deep sigh escaping his chest.

“There is nothing you can do?” he pressed. “Herbs, treatments—whatever she might need, just say the word.”

“The best thing right now is rest,” Leto replied. “She must avoid any kind of exertion. If the body is overstrained in the early stages, it could result in miscarriage. She must eat regularly and sleep at proper times. And…”

He trailed off.

“And?” Kennard asked.

When Leto hesitated, Kennard leaned in slightly, his tone urging, almost impatient.

Leto drew a slow breath, choosing his words with care.

“Forgive me for saying this, but for the time being, Your Grace must also refrain from sharing Lady Elena’s bed.”

“…What?” Kennard’s voice was quiet, but a pulse jumped sharply above his right brow.

“Until the pregnancy is stable,” Leto added.

“And when will that be?”

“Two to three months, perhaps…”

Kennard did not let him finish. He immediately turned toward Elena.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Is there anything bothering you—aside from the fatigue? Any pain or discomfort?”

Elena stared at him, uncomprehending at first. The conversation had felt distant, like it was happening around her, not to her. It took a moment before his question sank in.

When she finally met his gaze, she understood—he was genuinely worried.

If Leto had spoken even a day earlier, even just last night, she would never have let Kennard hold her at all. But she hadn’t known. There was no point in regretting something that had already passed.

Her body felt heavy. Her limbs ached. But that was always the case after being with Kennard.

“I’m all right,” Elena said, forcing a smile as she looked up at him.

Even so, the worry in Kennard’s eyes did not fade.

“Truly,” she added, her voice softer now. “I’m just… very tired and a little sleepy, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his tone laced with concern.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Elena offered him the gentlest smile she could manage, her expression carefully composed despite the weight behind her words.

At last, Kennard gave a slow nod. He still looked unconvinced, but something in him seemed to accept her answer, if only for the moment.

“Serin,” he called.

“Yes, Your Grace,” came the immediate reply.

Serin, who had been standing silent as a shadow, blinked several times as though snapping out of a daze at Kennard’s voice.

“Have a cot prepared in the carriage so Elena can lie down,” Kennard ordered.

“A cot?” Serin’s eyes widened. He glanced around the interior of the carriage, visibly unsure.

“The ride will be quite bumpy,” he said cautiously. “Lying down might be harder on her. Wouldn’t it be better to increase the number of breaks instead?”

“Obviously we’ll take more breaks,” Kennard said, his tone sharpening. “And the coachman can drive slower to minimize the jolts.”

“But we’re already moving slowly,” Serin replied, choosing his words with care. “If we slow down any further, Count Remid—no, His Majesty—will grow even more furious.”

“I’ll deal with that,” Kennard said flatly. “We’re changing destinations.”

“You mean… not the capital?” Serin asked, his brows knitting together.

“That’s right,” Kennard replied.

“Where will we go, then?”

“Montefiano.”

“Your Grace!” Serin’s voice rose in pitch, breaking with disbelief.

His face flushed red with alarm as he took an urgent step forward.

Even more startled than Serin, Elena turned to Kennard, her eyes searching his.

Montefiano.

The name alone stirred a flood of memories. It was the land Kennard had ruled long before he claimed Terra Demorte through war. A province within the Baruchella Empire, yet one that stood apart—so fiercely independent it might as well have been a country of its own beneath his absolute command.

A place where the people, regardless of age or station—noble or common, soldier or servant—were ready to lay down their lives for him without hesitation.

Though Kennard had not set foot in Montefiano in years, their loyalty had never wavered. They had continued to honor him, to adore him, with an unwavering devotion that defied time and distance.

Elena had heard all about it from Kyura.

Montefiano was a place she had always wanted to visit—one day.

But not like this. Not now.

This wasn’t the time.

“Your Grace, what are you saying? What about His Majesty’s summons if we go to Montefiano?” she asked urgently, her voice trembling.

She hadn’t even realized her face had gone pale again, drained by fear. All she could think about was stopping him. She couldn’t let him put himself at risk—not for her.

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

A voice cut in sharply, interrupting the moment. All heads in the carriage turned toward the door.

Marten stood there, hands planted firmly on his hips, his glare fixed squarely on Kennard.

The flurry of pheromones from the knights and attendants surrounding the carriage must have masked his scent—no one had sensed him approach.

“If you detour to Montefiano before heading to the capital, the journey will take twice as long,” Marten said, his tone biting. “His Majesty’s temper is short. He’ll be furious. Are you trying to save Elena or get her killed?”

“You think I would let Elena die?” Kennard shot back, his eyes narrowed. “Even His Majesty cannot touch her as long as I’m alive.”

“Oh, really?” Marten scoffed. “Just because you’re the strongest pureblood among the Black Wolves? You’re still just a Grand Duke. If you feel that strongly, you should’ve taken the throne when you had the chance, instead of running away.”

“Shut up,” Kennard said.

“If you hadn’t defied the late emperor’s orders and run off to the battlefield—”

“I said shut up.”

Kennard’s voice was quiet, almost mist-like in its restraint, but it carried a weight that froze the air. Beneath the calm was a lethal edge, unmistakable in its threat.

“That time?” Serin murmured under his breath, frowning in confusion. His brows knit together as he tried to recall what Marten meant. From his troubled expression, it was clear even he didn’t know what event was being referenced.

Kennard didn’t respond to him. His focus remained locked on Marten.

“When we arrive in Montefiano, we’re getting married,” he declared.

“…What?” Elena breathed.

“…Excuse me?” Serin asked.

“Your Grace?” Leto added in disbelief.

The words had barely left Kennard’s mouth when a chorus of stunned voices echoed through the carriage, each reaction layered in shock and confusion.

“If you hadn’t interfered, the wedding would’ve already taken place in Terra Demorte,” Kennard growled, directing his fury at Marten.

As he spoke, his grip on Elena’s hand tightened.

Her already pale skin turned bluish-white, as if the blood had stopped flowing entirely from the pressure of his hold.