Chapter 150

Rezette nudged his horse closer, glancing sideways at Ruben, who had ridden up beside him.

“How many were said to be on the ship?”

Ruben responded without hesitation, his tone crisp and deferential. “We confirmed fifteen out of twenty boarded. One died en route, so that leaves fourteen. We’ll carry out your orders faithfully, so there’s no need for concern.”

Fourteen.

Rezette repeated the number silently, and a faint sense of relief settled over him. Those fourteen would serve as his eyes and ears. A modest start, but enough.

He stared ahead, his expression unreadable.

Elise would never be able to part ways with that monster. Whether by fate or punishment, she would be forced to keep him by her side. Perhaps that was the price she would pay for letting him go in the first place.

If she could not rule him as a king, he thought bitterly, then she would remain beside him in some other form, some other way.

But he had long found his answer. He was a knight—bound not by words, but by resolve.

Whether Elise welcomed him or not, Rezette had made his decision: he would gather the most extravagant and glittering things in all of Grandel—second only to her—and lay them at her feet.

The first of those waited in the capital of Van Yela.

Some distance ahead, a knight pulled his horse to a halt and turned, frustration tightening his jaw.

“You must report the details of the current situation to His Majesty, my lord,” he said, his tone edged with tension.

Rezette gave a sharp nod, his expression darkening. “I intend to,” he said coolly. “Though I can’t say whether he’ll be satisfied.”

Because what could satisfy a man ruled entirely by greed?

He spurred his horse, the animal jolting forward with a sharp whinny. For the first time since late winter, Rezette would set foot in the capital once more.

To take back, with his own hands, the golden crown he had once placed on his brother’s head—fifteen long years ago.

***

In the imperial capital of Opel, nestled within Van Yela, a heavy tension descended upon the palace like a storm arriving out of season.

It began with a dispatch rider thundering through the gates, a banner bearing the blue anchor of Norella snapping behind him in the wind. The air grew thick, the unease almost tangible. And when the messenger knelt before the Emperor, the ominous atmosphere crystallized into undeniable reality.

Yet the Emperor betrayed no sign of anger. Reclining with practiced indifference on his gilded throne, he received the news from Norella with a serene, almost disdainful calm.

Not an hour had passed before a second banner surged into the palace grounds—this time, the silver hawk of Lotier. Thirty knights rode in, not under the imperial guard’s command but as the private force of a noble house. The boldness of it—the audacity to enter the imperial courtyard without formal summons—was unprecedented.

Whether it was a blessing or a warning yet to unfold, no blood was spilled within the palace walls. The Grand Duke, astride his infamous black steed, dismounted with a curt signal for his knights to stay behind. Alone, he entered the palace.

“Your Majesty.”

Rezette, long strides unyielding, reached the foot of the throne in moments. He did not bow. Instead, he met the Emperor’s gaze head-on.

Noyer exhaled, a mix of disbelief and resignation.

“Should I be relieved you didn’t barge in here with your sword drawn, Rezette?”

He had always been that way. Even in moments when deference was expected, he refused to lower his head. As if showing the barest courtesy was already more than anyone deserved.

But today—even that small civility was nowhere to be found.

He had always been meticulous about his appearance when stepping into the palace—almost obsessively so. Years of scolding his younger brother for appearing like a mud-soaked urchin had, it seemed, finally borne fruit.

But that unspoken standard lay in ruins today.

Rezette’s once-slicked black hair had come loose, several strands hanging across his brow in wild defiance. Beneath them, his hawk-like eyes glittered with a cold, unreadable intensity. The rust-red cloak that marked him as the Knight Commander was nowhere to be seen. One sleeve of his shirt had been torn clean through, the fabric hanging in ragged strips.

Even in simple clothes, he exuded a force that could dominate a room. But now, marked with the grime of battle and radiating danger, he looked less like a man and more like a beast—an apex predator fresh from the kill.

He’s challenging me, Noyer thought grimly.

By all logic, Rezette’s actions warranted immediate execution. He had failed to protect the imperial princess, colluded with her in secret, killed an imperial noble, and stormed into the capital with his private knights in tow—all without a single word of permission from the crown.

Treason, by every definition.

And yet, Noyer remained seated.

Because he understood where power truly lay. The throne might bear his name, but the sword—the threat, the fury—belonged to Rezette. That was why, every time his brother erupted in rebellion, Noyer responded with the same careful script.

“Come to think of it,” Noyer said lightly, adjusting the heavy rings on his fingers, “this is the final month of the year. The season of madness returns once more.”

His voice carried no edge, only the airy rhythm of casual observation.

“Thankfully,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “you’ve managed to keep your sanity this time. Fewer unnecessary deaths. I’ll give you credit for that.”

First, the warm welcome. Then, a carefully measured note of praise.

The reprimand would come next—brief, essential, and sharpened for effect.

“That said,” Noyer began, his voice casual but edged with steel, “I heard rather unfortunate news just now. Genovia, it seems, lost her life in a tragic accident.” 

He tilted his head slightly, watching his brother’s expression. “What happened to her?”

“I killed her,” Rezette said.

It was the first thing he uttered—blunt and devoid of remorse.

He continued in the same flat tone. “I showed her too much leniency, simply because she was Irrien’s daughter. But deep down, Your Majesty must have known that, eventually, she would die by my hand.”

“And why is that?” Noyer asked quietly, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Because she tried to steal what was mine,” Rezette replied without hesitation, brushing the accusation aside as if it were trivial.

His voice remained cold, detached. “I can overlook insolent words. But I have no tolerance for theft.”

Noyer’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You truly killed her?”

Rezette met his gaze, unflinching. “Does it matter?”

To him, it didn’t. Whether Genovia Irrien had died in Norella or somewhere else was irrelevant. The moment he learned of her role in Elise’s escape, her fate had been sealed. Her death was not a possibility—it was a certainty.

“It absolutely matters, little brother,” Noyer said with a sigh, feigning weariness as he shook his head. “If it were the Argan princess who committed the deed, then we’d have every reason to pursue her. It would be politically justifiable. But if you killed her…” He trailed off, his voice softening, “Then I must punish you.”

Rezette said nothing. The silence between them was sharp.

“You may be stubborn,” Noyer continued smoothly, “but you’re no fool. I trust you understand what I’m saying.” He leaned back, his tone softening into something almost cordial. “Rezette, I’m offering you a pardon. Personally.”

It was a proposal—no, a compromise. A rope tossed across a chasm.

“I won’t hold you responsible for the noblewoman’s death,” Noyer said, his voice velvet-smooth, “if you’ll simply say one thing.”

Rezette’s eyes narrowed. “And what confession would Your Majesty like to hear?”

“That it was the Princess of Argan who killed Genovia,” Noyer replied, a thin smile curving his lips.

Noyer offered a subtle, coaxing smile, his tone as smooth as velvet.

“And you knew nothing of it. That’s not so hard to believe, is it?” he said gently, eyes narrowing with feigned sympathy. “You and the princess were husband and wife in name only—hardly more than strangers. That’s why you came straight to me after she fled. Why you reported her disappearance and asked me to issue a warrant.”

Rezette’s expression remained unreadable. “And?”

Noyer’s smile deepened, his voice lowering into something conspiratorial.

“It was all part of that wretched woman’s scheme. She deceived you. She deceived me. She murdered Genovia and ran.”

Rising from the throne with practiced grace, Noyer descended the velvet-covered steps at an unhurried pace. He stopped just three steps from the bottom, towering above his brother. With mock affection, he leaned in and gently brushed his fingers across Rezette’s cheek and along the line of his jaw—like a parent calming an unruly child.

“Just say the word,” he murmured, “and I’ll take care of everything. I’ll placate the Duke of Irrien, defend you before the nobles, issue a declaration of war against the South, and lead the army myself.”

“A declaration of war, Your Majesty?” Rezette asked, his tone quiet but sharp with suspicion.

“A highborn lady of the North has been slain by the enemy,” Noyer replied smoothly. “It’s more than enough cause for war. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Rezette’s gaze darkened. “The barbarians of Ugel intend to strike the South again?”

“Exactly,” Noyer said with a nod, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

The tension between Van Yela and Ugel had been mounting for months. That spring, the princess’s execution had been delayed, and in its place, Rezette had publicly beheaded Ugel’s fourth prince, returning his head as a warning. It had shattered what little trust remained between the two nations. Noyer had attempted to mend the breach with a carefully penned letter to Ugel’s crown prince, but goodwill had withered in the aftermath.

Then, just last month, a glimmer of diplomacy had returned.

A letter arrived—this time from the King of Ugel himself. Its message was simple and direct:

“Support the conquest operation in southwestern Grandel. In doing so, the bonds of trust and friendship between the northern alliance and its brother nations shall endure unshaken.”

Southwestern Grandel was home to the Kingdom of Regal, a western ally of the Argant Empire—and one of the few territories Ugel had yet to conquer. It was also the region Rezette had stormed through with his forces from late last year into early this year. Given Van Yela’s familiarity with the terrain, Ugel’s request for reinforcements made strategic sense. They were likely short on troops for a western campaign, being preoccupied with their colonization of the central-eastern continent—former Argant land.

For Van Yela, it was a golden opportunity: a chance to repair its fraying alliance with Ugel, rally the nobles behind an external cause, and secure unrestricted movement across the southern borders. And if the fugitive Argan princess happened to be captured in the process?

Three birds with one stone. There was no reason to refuse.

So long, of course, as Rezette Kyrstan quietly returned to Rotiara.

“A grand duke of the empire, killing a noble lady out of personal spite…” Noyer began, letting out a soft sigh as he adjusted the folds of his sleeve. “I know your temperament well enough to understand this wasn’t your true intent. But Duke Irrien and the rest of the court won’t be so understanding. The capital’s salons are crawling with vultures eager to rip you apart.”

He gave a dry chuckle, attempting levity. “Haven’t you ever woken in the night because your ears were burning?”

Rezette’s response was immediate—and sharp.

“Then tell me, Your Majesty,” he said, voice low and cool, “do you have anyone in your service capable of stopping me?”

Noyer’s attempt to steer the mood fell flat. The faint, mocking smile that curled on Rezette’s lips made it clear—even the Emperor had been forced to appease him. What noble in their right mind would dare speak out?

Noyer’s jaw clenched. “…You insufferable bastard…” he muttered through gritted teeth, shame prickling beneath his skin.

“Fine, then.” His tone turned curt. “Go convince them yourself. Right this moment, the duke and his vassals are probably swarming the palace like hornets. Want to face them?”

Rezette shook his head once, dismissively. “I see no reason to involve myself in such trivial matters. I’ll go to the southwest instead.”

Noyer blinked. “What?”

“I’ll lead the campaign,” Rezette said, calm as ever. “Grant me command. I’ll need at least three times the number of troops we deployed last time.”

“Three times?” Noyer echoed, stunned.

“The more, the better,” Rezette said with a shrug. “If you request reinforcements from the northern league, we could raise five times the force.”

“Five times?” Noyer’s face twisted in disbelief. Is he serious? Just how many men is he asking for?

Rezette only looked amused.

“Whatever happened to your dream of ruling all of Grandel?” he asked dryly. “You’ve grown remarkably timid, Your Majesty.”

He hadn’t come to the capital empty-handed, nor without a plan. From the moment Elise vanished, one thought had consumed him: how to reach her quickly—how to break through enemy lines without sacrificing everything.

And now, the answer lay before him, gleaming like a blade drawn in sunlight.

War.

A satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of Rezette’s mouth.

“This is perfect,” he murmured. “I’d been looking for a way to head south without raising suspicion.”

Noyer’s glare lost its fire. Slowly, his expression cooled, the heat fading from his gaze as he realized exactly what his brother intended.