Chapter 96

“Yes,” Kennard said immediately, without a hint of hesitation.

There was no reason to hesitate. He was willing to do anything to keep Elena by his side.

A tense silence gripped the study—so taut it felt like nerves had been sliced clean through.

Everything stilled. Not a single breath stirred the air. The only movement came from motes of dust drifting lazily in the stream of sunlight.

Marten was the one who finally broke the silence. He let out a slow, weary sigh and hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Have you read the official letter sent by His Majesty?” he asked, his voice low, eyes studying Kennard carefully.

Kennard nodded once. “Yes. But I don’t intend to obey.”

“You know you have no choice, don’t you?”

“That’s not something you need to worry about,” Kennard replied, meeting Marten’s gaze without flinching.

Their voices remained calm, their expressions neutral. No shouting. No visible anger.

Yet the air between them was electric—charged with unspoken tension. Each word was a blade, every glance a silent challenge.

Marten tilted his head, lips curving faintly. “All right. But that’s not something you need to worry about either, is it?” he said, his gaze flicking sideways. “Unless it’s Elena, I mean.”

Kennard’s eyes narrowed into a cold glare.

“Serin,” he said, voice clipped, “lead Elena to the room.”

Serin stepped forward and bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Kennard turned then, his expression softening slightly as his eyes landed on Elena.

She had been standing quietly behind him the whole time, but at the sound of her name from Marten’s mouth, her eyes widened in confusion.

She looked flustered—caught off guard by being drawn into the conversation.

“Your Grace,” Elena asked, her voice trembling slightly, “what does he mean? Does this have anything to do with the letter from the Emperor?”

“Return to your room. I’ll explain later,” Kennard replied firmly.

“But—”

Kennard reached out and brushed her cheek, his touch gentle despite the urgency in his eyes. Her skin was cold and pale, and though he wished he could restore its color with warmth and comfort, now wasn’t the time.

He needed her out of the study—away from Marten—before anything else could be said.

“Serin,” he called.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Serin stepped forward without delay, entering the room with a swift, silent grace. Turning his back to Marten, he extended an arm toward the doorway in a respectful gesture.

“Please, this way, my lady,” he said softly.

Kennard watched Elena go with a reluctant gaze, noting how carefully she stepped around the scattered books that littered the floor.

Just before exiting, she paused and looked back at him. Her luminous gray eyes met his across the distance—full of concern, confusion, and unspoken questions.

Then the door closed.

“She does treat him like a treasure, just as the rumors said,” Marten snickered, lounging back in his seat.

“Shut up,” Kennard growled, collapsing into the sofa opposite him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and muttering through clenched teeth.

“Do you really expect me to stay silent?” Marten said, lifting an eyebrow in mock incredulity. “I’ve just witnessed the infamous Black Devil of the realm wrapped around the finger of a woman no one knows a thing about. And look at her—those eyes, that hair. What is she, exactly?”

“What are you planning to do with that information?” Kennard asked coldly, his eyes dark.

“Do you know?” Marten countered, voice softer now, laced with a pointed curiosity.

Kennard let out a low sigh and rubbed his face roughly with both hands before fixing his stare on Marten.

“What does her race matter?” he demanded.

“Of course it matters,” Marten said, spreading his hands as if the answer were obvious. “You, of all people, should understand the burden that comes with status and bloodline. And yet, her identity…”

“Stop,” Kennard interrupted sharply. “If it’s that kind of talk, I’ve already heard enough from Serin to last me a lifetime.”

At that, Marten burst out laughing, the sound rich and mocking.

“What’s so funny?” Kennard asked, lifting an eyebrow and shooting him a glare.

Marten grinned, his annoyingly pretty face—still adorned in an elegant dress—more grating than ever.

“It’s just—I can picture exactly how Serin would’ve reacted,” Marten said with a chuckle, swirling his hand in the air as if conjuring the image. “That guy’s blindly loyal to you. Even if His Majesty gave a direct order, if you said no, Serin would risk his life to oppose it.”

Kennard let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn’t bother arguing—because it was true. 

Serin absolutely would.

A firm knock sounded at the study door before it creaked open. Lassino stepped inside, his posture impeccable as always, a silver tray balanced effortlessly in his hands. On it sat a porcelain teapot and matching cups.

He paused only briefly to glance over the room—a battlefield of fallen books and ruined shelves—before walking in as if nothing were amiss. His expression remained utterly composed.

Without missing a step, Lassino maneuvered around the clutter and placed the tray on the small table between Kennard and Marten with practiced grace.

Kennard frowned. “What did you bring that for?”

“It’s only proper to serve tea to a guest,” Lassino replied smoothly, already reaching for the teapot.

“As expected, you’re the only one who welcomes me here, Lassino,” Marten said with a teasing grin. “Serin, like his master, just wants to bite my head off.”

“Cut the nonsense,” Kennard muttered, rubbing his temples as Lassino poured the dark Ervejo tea into the delicate cups. “Drink your tea and go.”

Marten picked up a cup, swirling the liquid gently as he brought it to his lips. He inhaled the rich scent before turning to Kennard with a thoughtful expression.

“Are you really going to go through with this?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more serious.

Kennard didn’t answer right away.

“If I leave,” Marten added, “Elena has to come with me.”

Kennard’s jaw tensed as he slowly turned to glare at him. His fists clenched in his lap, so tight that the short, blunt edges of his nails bit into his palms.

“You read the Emperor’s letter, didn’t you?” Marten continued, unbothered. “That’s probably why you came storming in like a mad dog.”

He lifted his cup and took a slow sip, savoring it with the kind of ease that made Kennard’s blood boil.

“Ah,” Marten sighed contentedly. “I like the strong aroma.”

Then, with a smirk, he glanced at Lassino and added, “As always, impeccable taste.”

“Lassino, you may go now,” Kennard said quietly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lassino replied with a bow. With dignified steps, he retreated from the study, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Marten didn’t miss a beat.

“His Majesty specifically summoned Elena. Not you,” he said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back against the sofa cushions. He cradled his teacup delicately in one hand, the saucer resting in the other.

“It’s not like His Majesty is merely displeased with you, Kennard,” he added, taking a measured sip of tea. “You’re his brother. A Grand Duke. But Elena—whose status and race are unknown—if she ignores a direct summons, it could be considered a grave offense.”

“Elena is not one of His Majesty’s subjects,” Kennard said flatly, meeting Marten’s gaze with unflinching calm.

“Hah!” Marten let out a short, incredulous laugh—half amusement, half frustration. “Then what would you call someone who resides within the Baruchella Empire, if not His Majesty’s subject?”

Kennard leaned forward, voice low and sharp. “I’m starting to wonder when you became such a loyal dog to His Majesty.”

Marten raised an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose a day like this comes for all of us eventually,” he said with a dramatic shrug. “I’m just a powerless little count, after all.”

Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it because of Hazel?”

The name sliced cleanly through the room.

Marten’s teacup halted midway to his lips. “Why are you dragging Lady Blade into this?” he asked, the pleasant lilt of his tone beginning to waver.

“You recognized her immediately,” Kennard said evenly, “without me ever needing to say her family name.”

At that, the faint smile that had stubbornly lingered on Marten’s lips disappeared. His posture stiffened slightly, his expression hardening.

Kennard watched him coolly, then let the edge of his mouth curve into a humorless smile. It held no amusement—only knowledge, and quiet challenge.

“I heard you were imprinted by Hazel,” he continued. “You’re the one who provided Duke Blade with massive funds. You helped him raise private troops. Backed him until he earned his glory in the war. And yet—when you finally proposed—she rejected you.”

Marten’s eyes turned cold as ice. Slowly, he set his teacup and saucer down on the table, the faint clink of porcelain loud in the tense silence.

“How the hell did you find that out?” he asked, voice low and tight.

“You’ve been holed up in a place like this for years,” Marten added, leaning back with a bitter laugh as he clasped his hands over his thigh. “Never once stepping into the capital. Never setting foot in Montefiano. I thought you’d turned your back on the world.”

Kennard said nothing, simply watching.

Marten’s jaw clenched. He glanced toward the fire, the shadows dancing across his angular face.

“Imprinting is a damn curse,” he muttered, voice hoarse now, stripped of his usual charm. “Whether you want it or not, you feel compelled to do something for them. And then… you start wanting everything they are, too.”

“So,” Kennard said slowly, his voice low and heavy, “what Hazel wanted… was for you to become His Majesty’s dog?”

Marten’s lips tightened. “No,” he replied quietly.

Kennard said nothing, watching the way his old friend’s eyes clouded—not with anger, but sorrow.

“Hazel was clear from the beginning,” Marten went on, his voice quieter now, more hollow. “Even after imprinting with me… the one she wanted wasn’t me. It was you. She said she wanted to be the mate of the strongest pureblood.”

Kennard’s brow furrowed. “So what?” he asked, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice. “You just… cleared the path for her to get what she wanted? Even though she was the woman you were imprinted with?”

“Why not?” Marten said bitterly, a sardonic smile flickering across his face. “We nobles marry whoever the Emperor points to anyway. Doesn’t matter if you’re imprinted or not. Makes no damn difference.”

“It does to me,” Kennard said firmly.

Marten blinked. The smile disappeared.

“…Wait.” He straightened slightly, eyes narrowing. “Are you saying… you’re imprinted with that woman? With Elena?”

Kennard didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away either.

He held Marten’s gaze—steady, unwavering.

“…It’s true?” Marten whispered after a moment, staring into Kennard’s face.

Kennard remained silent.

Marten let out a long, slow breath. His shoulders sagged.

“Just give it up,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Kennard’s chest tightened. He knew what was coming next. He could feel it coming like a blade to the gut.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said flatly. “I’ve already announced my marriage to Elena. The ceremony’s being prepared.”

Marten’s eyes darkened. “Being prepared,” he echoed. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

There was no rage in his voice—only a painful weight pressing down on every word. A dull, suffocating ache lodged in Kennard’s chest.

He never imagined he’d come to blows with Marten over something like this.

They had never agreed on anything—women, wine, books, politics. Not once. And yet… Marten was the one person Kennard had trusted. The one he could speak freely with, even when he had to wear a mask for the world.

Marten, with his casual arrogance and flamboyant style, could read people like books. His careless remarks always hit with unnerving precision. He kept secrets, held confidences like stone.

Kennard had accepted the absurdity of his clothes, his lifestyle, his appetite for women—because Marten understood him. Because they understood each other.

And now they were standing on opposite sides—because of the one person Kennard considered most important and precious in the world.