Chapter 93

“I’m not saying we’ll immediately break away from the Empire,” Kennard said, his tone firm yet measured. “More than anyone, I don’t want to provoke unnecessary conflict.”

Serin frowned. “But by increasing the mining output, aren’t you preparing for war? His Majesty might think the same.”

“It’s just preparation for the worst-case scenario,” Kennard replied coolly.

He tapped the end of the armrest with his fingers, a subtle rhythm echoing the tension in the room. Though he reassured Serin with talk of precaution, his mind had already played out tens of thousands of possible outcomes.

Regardless of how the situation unfolded—no matter the direction events took—he had come to one unshakable conclusion.

Whatever happened, he had to protect Elena and his people.

Knock, knock.

The sharp sound of knuckles against wood broke the heavy silence that had settled over the office.

“Come in,” Kennard called out.

The door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped inside. It was Irish.

It had been several months since Kennard had sent him to the capital to investigate the secret funder behind House Blade.

“I greet Your Grace,” Irish said, dropping to one knee. He placed his sword gently on the floor and bowed his head, one arm raised diagonally across his chest in salute.

“You just got back?” Kennard asked, eyeing the dust and sweat clinging to the man’s cloak.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Irish confirmed.

It was clear he had come directly to the castle without pause.

“Rise.”

At Kennard’s command, Irish stood swiftly and straightened his posture, shoulders squared with military precision.

“Did Hazel arrive safely at House Blade?” Kennard asked.

On the day Kennard had gone to inspect the area blocked by a landslide, he had found something unsettling—footprints belonging to the White Fox Tribe scattered across the scene.

Carriage wheel tracks were also visible on the path, which looked to have been deliberately cleared. The path’s sudden accessibility and the distinctive traces led him to one troubling possibility: Hazel might have been in that carriage. She might have been taken.

To ease his growing concern, he had sent a letter via Irish—who happened to be in the capital at the time—asking for confirmation of Hazel’s safe return.

“Yes, Your Grace. I confirmed that she arrived safely,” Irish reported, his voice steady.

Kennard nodded slightly, though his expression remained tense. “And there were no signs of the White Fox Tribe?”

“No, Your Grace,” Irish replied. “There were no traces of them at all.”

At that, Kennard leaned back in his chair, his gaze clouded. The confirmation should have brought relief—but instead, his mind grew more entangled.

“Why would the White Fox Tribe deliberately clear the landslide?” he murmured, almost to himself. “They opened a path and left obvious tracks… They had to know they’d be discovered.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, deep in thought.

“Maybe they did it on purpose?” Serin offered cautiously, brows drawn together in concern.

“On purpose…” Kennard echoed, his voice low with consideration. The idea gripped him.

Serin’s tone sharpened slightly. “The villagers of the White Fox Tribe pulled a reckless stunt under the guise of the Sabbath. They even went as far as to invite Your Grace. Judging by that, it seems they no longer intend to simply hide away.”

At Serin’s words, a vivid image rose unbidden in Kennard’s mind: a White Fox woman, her silver hair soaked in blood, lying lifeless on the altar.

His brow furrowed deeply, the cold gleam in his eyes sharpening like a blade.

Irish, who hadn’t been present during the events being discussed, listened quietly to the exchange—until a sudden shift in Kennard’s expression sent a chill through the room.

The coldness in his eyes was unmistakable.

“It’s not just Leto,” Kennard said, his voice low and sharp. “There must be members of the White Fox Tribe secretly working with them. That runaway priest, for example.”

“Leto?” Irish echoed, blinking in confusion. He turned to Serin, silently asking for context.

“Oh, that…” Serin sighed and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

The irritation in his tone made it clear he wasn’t in the mood to explain. Irish, catching the cue, fell quiet again.

Kennard leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze steady. “What about your end? Were you able to uncover who’s backing the Duke of Blade financially?”

“Well…” Irish trailed off, glancing uncertainly at Serin, as if seeking backup.

Serin tilted his head toward him and gave a silent nod, urging him to speak.

“It was Count Remid,” Irish finally said, his voice barely above a murmur. He shrank his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller.

Kennard’s right eyebrow arched, and the long scar running diagonally across his face twitched with the motion.

“You don’t mean Marten, do you?” he asked, his tone flat but edged with disbelief.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Irish confirmed with a small nod.

A long, heavy silence followed.

Kennard stared at him—eyes narrowed, unblinking—like a judge weighing a verdict, or a blade poised just before the strike.

Irish swallowed. But he stood firm.

Kennard knew he wasn’t the type to lie. Among his men, Irish was second only to Serin and Lassino in terms of secrecy and loyalty. A man who wouldn’t speak without certainty.

And if he’d come all this way to deliver the report in person, rather than by letter, there was no doubt—this wasn’t just important.

It was dangerous.

“Did you find out why Marten would fund House Blade?” Kennard asked, his voice low and measured.

Irish nodded slowly. “The duke’s daughter…”

“Hazel?” Kennard’s tone tightened.

“Yes. Apparently… he was imprinted on her.”

“What?” The word escaped Kennard in a sharp, incredulous breath.

A wave of irritation surged through him. Hazel. Even after she had left, her name continued to surface—continued to pull at him. That alone was enough to stir his anger.

He clenched his jaw, the pressure building in his chest.

He knew this was just part of the investigation, but still—Marten? Of all people?

“You’re telling me Count Remid—that man—was imprinted?” Kennard snapped, his voice rising. “And with Lady Hazel, of all people?”

Serin let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “It’s true?” he asked, turning to Irish with wide eyes.

Irish gave a helpless shrug, his expression awkward. “I know how it sounds. But yes, it’s true.”

“I mean, if you say so, Irish, then I’ll believe it,” Serin muttered, waving a hand. “I trust you. But still—Count Remid? Really? Your Grace, you’ve known him for years. He’s your friend. You’re telling me he got imprinted? That’s just… absurd.”

He let out a huff and pressed a hand to his forehead, exasperated.

Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “Imprinting doesn’t happen based on who the other person is,” he said sharply.

The irritation in his voice was palpable, but then he fell silent, his gaze drifting toward the floor in thought.

He had just scolded Serin, but the truth was, he’d been thinking the same thing.

Marten—calm, rational, unshakably composed Marten—imprinted? That alone was difficult to believe.

But that he would go so far as to fund House Blade because of it?

That was something else entirely.

“So?” Kennard leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. “Are you saying Blade used the money Marten gave him to expand his private forces? Then used those same soldiers to earn merit in the war—and later offered them to His Majesty?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Irish confirmed with a short nod.

Kennard narrowed his eyes. “And Marten’s reaction?”

“Pardon?” Irish blinked, caught off guard. “I’m not sure I follow…”

“I’m asking if you think Marten expected all of that to happen,” Kennard clarified, his tone clipped. “Blade was just a baron. Then, out of nowhere, he’s made a duke. And His Majesty even goes so far as to declare Hazel my fiancée.”

“Ah.” Irish straightened slightly, understanding dawning on his face. “From what I gathered, Count Remid hasn’t changed a bit. He’s been living as usual—same routines, same habits.”

Kennard clenched his jaw, eyes dropping to the desk in front of him—not because there was anything there, but because he needed to think. Irish’s words echoed in his mind, and he turned them over, again and again, trying to trace the thread that tied Marten to House Blade.

“Your Grace.”

Serin’s voice cut through the silence. He stepped closer, both hands braced on the desk as he looked at Kennard intently.

“What now?” Kennard asked, not bothering to mask his irritation.

“Do you think His Majesty knew that Count Remid was imprinted on Lady Hazel?” Serin asked, his brows drawn together. “I was just wondering—what if he declared her your fiancée while knowing that?”

Kennard stilled.

A fresh wave of irritation surged through him.

Serin’s words made the already tangled knot in his mind tighten even further. The implications were messy—too messy.

“His Majesty disliked Count Remid almost as much as he dislikes you, didn’t he?” Serin said, his tone matter-of-fact. “If you think about it that way, it seems entirely possible.”

His eyes held a quiet certainty—this wasn’t speculation. He was stating it as truth.

Kennard shot him a cold glare, but didn’t argue. As much as he wanted to dismiss the idea, the logic was hard to refute.

He’d always been a threat to his brother. Though only the second prince, his bloodline was purer, stronger—something the Emperor had never forgotten. And Marten, his closest friend, had shared in that disfavor. The Emperor’s dislike for both of them wasn’t a secret.

Given that, Serin’s theory didn’t sound so far-fetched.

Kennard exhaled sharply, frustration simmering beneath his voice. “Even if he was imprinted… what the hell was Marten thinking, funding House Blade? If he was going to go that far, he should’ve just married her.”

“Well…” Irish hesitated again, eyes flicking cautiously to Kennard’s face as if gauging his mood.

Kennard frowned. “What is it?”

“Count Remid did propose to her,” Irish replied carefully. “But… Lady Hazel turned him down.”

Kennard’s brows drew together. “Why?”

Irish scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a strained smile. “Well… Your Grace knows what Count Remid’s usual behavior is like.”

He had answered as best he could—carefully balancing honesty with diplomacy. After all, criticizing Kennard’s close friend too openly was dangerous ground.

Kennard let out a bitter huff, running a hand through his hair.

“That damn guy…” he muttered, trailing off, too exasperated to say anything more.

Knock, knock.

The sharp sound broke through the heavy atmosphere in the office.

“Come in,” Kennard called without looking up.

In response, the door opened smoothly, and Lassino stepped inside—neatly dressed, his posture immaculate. He carried a silver tray with both hands and gave a polite nod before crossing the room in silence.

“What is it?” Kennard asked, his eyes narrowing as Lassino set the tray on his desk.

Resting atop it was a single envelope, sealed with the imperial crest.

“It is a personal letter from His Majesty,” Lassino announced evenly.

At those words, Serin and Irish immediately exchanged uneasy glances.

“A personal letter?” Serin repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Such letters—handwritten and sent directly by the Emperor without passing through his aides—were practically unheard of. For one to be delivered now could only mean something unusual… or dangerous.

Kennard felt a sharp throb rise behind his temple. A chill crept down his spine.

He stared at the wax seal in silence for several long seconds, a growing sense of dread coiling in his chest.

Reaching for the paper knife beside him, he slid it under the envelope’s flap and broke the seal.

The letter inside was brief—just a few lines, handwritten in the unmistakable scrawl of his brother.

But that wasn’t what made his breath catch.

As Kennard’s eyes scanned the words, he felt the blood drain from his face.