Chapter 112

Left alone in his study, Kennard tossed his pen onto the desk with a careless flick and rose from his chair. The simple act made the stiff muscles in his body ripple and stir, as though they had finally woken from long confinement. He stretched wide, bones creaking, then wandered slowly toward the window.

Through the glass he caught sight of a carriage approaching. It was unlike the others—far from ostentatious, yet imposing in its own right. Black lacquered wood gleamed in the sun, trimmed only with a narrow band of gold along the door and frame. The crest etched on the door was hardly necessary; anyone in the Empire of Baruccella would already know who sat inside.

Kennard buttoned his loosened shirt to the throat, shrugged on his frock coat, and left the study at a clipped pace, his stride slicing through the air. Down the long corridor he went, raking a hand through his disheveled hair, straightening his attire once more.

Servants he passed stepped quickly aside, bowing their heads as he went by, their faces flushed with a mix of nerves and excitement. Nobles already gathered within the castle were no different—crowding the corridors, stairwells, and the grand lobby in splendid attire, chattering in small groups. Laughter rang out as if nothing could dampen their mood. 

Some exchanged greetings, others whispered about Elena and Hazel. Yet the moment they caught a trace of Kennard’s pheromones, their voices snapped shut, faces blanching with fear.

He ignored them. On another day, he might have lashed out, but not now. He would not allow any untimely disturbance to mar what was ahead. Least of all did he wish Elena to hear of such talk and see her face cloud.

“Your Grace.”

Nobles of every rank bowed deeply as Kennard passed.

“You’ve come a long way,” he said curtly.

“Not at all. We are only grateful to be honored with an invitation to Your Grace’s wedding,” one replied.

“It is our privilege,” said another eagerly. “When else would we ever see Montefiano?”

They vied to speak, eager for a word of acknowledgment. Each time Kennard gave them so much as a glance, their faces lit like blossoms in spring. He smothered a laugh, endured their greetings as he made his way through the throng. Irritation prickled steadily under his skin, but he kept it contained. This sort of thing was never meant for me. He resisted the urge to tear open his collar and descended the stairway overlooking the lobby.

At that moment, the black carriage’s passenger entered with Lassino’s escort. His garb was as dark as the carriage itself, which only drew more attention to the streaked white hair that fell to his waist. Around his neck hung a long silver chain that reached to his navel, ending in a pendant of a star set above a crescent moon. Matching rings adorned both hands.

Though Duke Benzef murmured something at his side, the man merely answered with a gentle smile. Then, sensing Kennard’s pheromones, he lifted his gaze to the stairs.

“Your Grace.”

The still mask of his face brightened at once.

Kennard returned the smile and quickened his descent. “High Prelate, you honor us.”

He and Argon clasped arms and exchanged a kiss on each cheek.

“With Your Grace marrying, how could I not attend?” Argon said warmly. “Even if the ceremony were held on a battlefield, I would be there.”

“You would risk your life?” Kennard asked lightly.

“What is a life, when so little of it remains?” Argon laughed heartily, patting his arm.

“Your Grace, it has been too long,” Duke Benzef greeted with a genial smile.

“You have my thanks for coming as well, Duke.”

“How could I not? What matter could possibly outweigh this occasion?”

The glint in Benzef’s eyes betrayed the weight of his words. Kennard knew what he meant without needing it spoken. Before Duke Blade’s rise through war and favor, it had been Benzef who held the emperor’s ear. His family’s influence had never once faltered since long before the emperor’s coronation.

“I confess,” Benzef went on, placing a hand to his chest in mock relief, “when I first received the invitation, I nearly collapsed. I thought His Majesty had decreed you marry the Blade girl instead.”

Kennard gave only a thin smile.

“That some backwoods upstart could win a dukedom from a single war, and then presume to be tied to Your Grace in marriage—preposterous! Even with Black Wolf blood in his veins. His Majesty must be losing his wits—”

“Duke Benzef.” Argon cut him off sharply, shaking his head. “There are too many ears.”

“They think as I do,” Benzef muttered stubbornly. His voice dropped, but his eyes burned. “If Your Grace had truly been forced to marry that girl, I would have spit blood and ended my own life. A man with no true lineage, no foundation—how dare he presume—”

“How fortunate, then, that I may continue to see you, Duke,” Kennard replied with studied lightness.

The flush in Benzef’s cheeks eased.

“And Your Grace’s fiancée,” Argon interjected smoothly, eager to change the subject. “Who is she? The invitation mentioned only the wedding, not her name or house.”

“She has no house,” Kennard said.

Both men froze.

“Surely not a commoner?” Benzef demanded quickly.

Kennard had expected as much. Among nobles who prized bloodlines and pedigrees, such a question was inevitable—and all the more intense when it concerned him. Sernein had warned him constantly of this. He could already imagine how they would react once they saw Elena, once they learned who she was. Yet there was no turning back. He would not relinquish her.

“She is the one I am Imprinted with,” he said, raising his voice slightly.

The words carried across the lobby and staircase, silencing the crowd. For a breathless moment, not a sound stirred; even swallowing seemed impossible.

“Imprinted?” Argon whispered at last, his voice strained. “Truly?”

Kennard met his eyes steadily. “Yes. She is the one I was bound to. I have taken her as my wife. What could be more important than that?”

He smiled faintly. But the golden fire in his eyes was unmistakable: a warning that he would tolerate no defiance.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” Argon murmured, bowing his head.

“Congratulations,” Benzef echoed quickly.

The others followed suit, voices rising one after another. Soon dozens of nobles stood in the lobby, all bowing low before him.

Across the crowd, Kennard caught Lassino’s eye. For the briefest instant, beneath his whiskers, the old butler’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile.

***

“Cura, I’m trembling.”

Elena looked down at her hands. Encased in white gloves embroidered with fine thread, her fingers quivered helplessly. The dress, which had fitted so perfectly during yesterday’s fitting, now felt ill-suited to her body. It was not too tight, nor rough against her skin, yet she struggled to breathe. Even lifting her arms felt like an effort.

“Take a deep breath, my lady,” Cura urged, fanning her briskly while exaggerating the rise and fall of her chest as a model.

Elena mimicked her several times, but her heart still pounded, her body tingling with nerves.

“It’s natural to be nervous,” Luna said brightly from where she crouched, fussing with the hem of the gown. She glanced up at her mistress with a reassuring smile.

“You think so?” Elena pressed a hand gently to her chest.

Knock, knock.

A soft rapping came at the door, and someone stepped inside.