Chapter 63 : Chapter 63
When Tito entered the office, the Count was sitting at his desk, staring into space.
The room was empty. The many nobles who had flocked to him before Sevha’s arrival were gone. The few who remained after Sevha crushed the invading Tusks were gone, too.
This man is finished.
Deciding it was time to abandon his master, Tito held out a letter.
“A letter has arrived from the Marquis of Blanc.”
Instantly, terror washed over the Count’s face. “A-an execution order?”
“Execution? What are you talking about? The succession is settled, but there’s no reason to kill you.”
“R-right. That’s… that’s true.”
The Count read the letter, his eyes wide with caution. When he finished, he began to laugh like a madman.
“The Marquis… he says he’ll f-forgive me!”
Tito had expected the Count to be spared, but he couldn’t understand the lack of any punishment. He glanced at the letter to see the details for himself.
Join with those who have wronged my heir to purchase a bottle of wine, and bring it to the banquet. Do this, and I shall forgive your sins.
Wine? A strange condition, Tito thought.
Regardless, the Count continued to laugh maniacally.
“It’s fine! I’ll be forgiven! And after the Marquis dies, I can make a comeback! He won’t live much longer, will he? Right? Right!”
Watching the Count, as predictable as ever, Tito solidified his decision. Once this banquet was over, he would flee.
***
The Day of the Banquet
Sevha, dressed in elegant but uncomfortable clothes, looked out the window from his chambers.
The moon was slowly rising as nobles and their knights streamed into the castle.
So many. Far too many.
House Blanc was one of the Four Knight Families, second in authority only to the Royal Family, and a house that had prospered from the Great Underground Road. Befitting such authority and wealth, House Blanc had many vassals.
But after the Great Underground Road was sealed and they lost their heir, the house had lost both its fortune and its influence. Yet the number of vassals had not diminished in the slightest.
We don’t have enough power to control them all.
He had to reduce their numbers before another man like the Count emerged, but that was no simple task.
If I just kill them, it’ll mean immediate rebellion.
As Sevha clicked his tongue in frustration, Legra entered the room.
“Lord Sevha! What do you think of these clothes? They look good, don't they?”
Legra, clearly delighted with his own stiff, formal attire, beamed as he showed it off.
What’s so great about clothes like these? Sevha wondered.
But Legra’s innocent happiness was endearing, and he simply patted him on the head.
“Hehe. Anyway, Lord Sevha. If you're ready, let's go to the banquet hall.”
Sevha left the room with Legra.
The castle staff were rushing about, preparing for the night’s festivities.
The thought of how noisy the castle had been for days resurfaced, and with it, a nagging question.
“Legra, have you seen the magus recently?”
“The witch? I’ve seen her almost every day.”
“Every day?”
Sevha hadn’t seen Teresse once in the past few days, but Legra had seen her constantly.
The implication was simple.
She’s avoiding me? Her?
The realization that Teresse—the very picture of brazen audacity—was actively avoiding him made him curious.
And anxious.
“What is she plotting now…? Legra, where did you see her last?”
“She was in the kitchen a little while ago.”
Sevha immediately headed for the castle kitchen.
Startled by his sudden change of course, Legra cried out, “You can’t be late for the banquet! You’re the guest of honor, Lord Sevha! You have to be there before the bell tolls!”
Sevha gave a dismissive wave and hurried on.
As he entered the kitchen, the staff all stopped to greet him.
Sevha acknowledged them with a nod and scanned the room, but Teresse was not there.
“Where’s the magu—Teresse?”
The castle’s head cook answered, “She just left, my lord, with a dish she prepared herself.”
“She cooked?”
“Yes. She’s quite skilled.”
“...Which way did she go?”
“That way…”
Without waiting for the cook to finish, Sevha strode in the direction indicated.
Then he caught a faint, familiar scent.
Pumpkin soup?
For a moment, Sevha recalled the taste of the last pumpkin soup he’d eaten, and the woman who had made it for him, Marina.
He pushed the memory aside before it could take hold and thought back to the kitchen.
Pumpkin soup wasn't on tonight’s menu. Teresse made it herself.
Sevha followed the lingering scent of the soup.
It led him to the castle tower.
Following the aroma up the winding stairs, he stepped out onto the rooftop. Teresse was there.
The rising steam from the soup in her hands and the pale moonlight obscured her face.
***
Marden's Chambers
Marden stood before a painting, impeccably dressed.
It was a portrait of a younger Marden and his wife, with their young son and daughter.
His eyes fixed on the portrait, he stroked the tiny pouch in his hand.
He spoke to the painting, to the daughter within it.
“Do not blame me, Carna. I will teach the lesson you could not.”
The daughter in the painting, of course, did not answer. Marden did not expect a reply.
A knock sounded, and Eshu entered the room.
“Are you ready, sir?”
“Yes. And the vassals?”
“Almost all have arrived.”
“...The wine? Did the Count bring it as instructed?”
“Yes. He was clutching it when I last saw him.”
Eshu recalled the sight and gave a short, derisive laugh.
Then, his eyes caught the tiny pouch in Marden’s hand.
“What is that?”
Marden clutched the pouch tightly and answered as he walked out of the room.
“Medicine. A medicine… to cure my illness.”
***
The Top of the Castle Spire
“The head cook told me you’re a surprisingly good cook.”
At Sevha’s comment, a mixture of probe and barb, Teresse did not look at him.
Her gaze remained on the moon as she replied.
“...I used to cook when my thoughts grew tangled.”
Sevha hesitated.
It wasn't that this was the first time she had spoken of her past.
It was because her voice was unnervingly dark.
“Is something wrong?”
Teresse, seeming to realize her voice had betrayed her, fell silent.
As she retreated into that silence, Sevha sighed and walked toward her.
“Look, I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding me, and I don’t care about your story… I really don’t.”
Sevha leaned his back against the parapet beside her.
“But I’m not so callous I can’t at least listen.”
Still, Teresse remained a silhouette, hidden by the steam and the moonlight.
“Really… I’m not good at this… Has work been difficult lately?”
Sevha offered a clumsy attempt at consolation.
But Teresse remained silent, her face turned away.
Finally, as if throwing caution to the wind, Sevha joked, “Are you going to have that pumpkin soup all by yourself?”
As if she had finally composed herself, Teresse turned her head.
“Why? Do you have a sweet tooth?”
Her voice was as vexing as ever.
And yet…
“Teresse…”
The expression that emerged from the steam and moonlight was one he had never seen before.
A face etched with guilt.
Seeing the shock in his eyes, she touched her own cheek.
“Sevha? What’s wrong with me?”
Then, as if it were too late to hide it, the guilt in her voice spilled out.
“If murder is the right answer, I commit murder. This time is no different. This is the correct path. It will solve everything. We can proceed with the purge and eliminate a weakness the Royal Family could exploit. But why…?”
She poured out her words like a confession.
As he listened, a memory surfaced, and Sevha’s heart began to pound.
“What… did you do?”
“I did it because the Marquis wanted…”
“What did you do to my grandfather, Teresse!”
She answered, “I gave him medicine.”
In that same instant, Sevha recalled Marden’s request.
“Let me die a knight's death.”
And for the second time, Teresse saw it.
She saw his face crumble, just as it had on the day Anse burned—the day he lost everything.
Dong…
The bell announcing the start of the banquet began to toll.
Sevha ran.
***
Marden was watching a corridor lined with the portraits of every head of House Blanc, save for the first. At the far end of the hall was the door to the banquet.
“Let’s go, Eshu.”
Clutching the tiny pouch, Marden started down the corridor.
After a few steps, Eshu, walking beside him, spoke in a worried tone.
“Do you need assistance?”
“So you see me as an old man now.”
“Think of it as me seeing you as my father.”
Marden laughed and continued on.
Just before they reached the corridor of portraits, Duce emerged from a side passage.
“Marquis.”
“...Why don’t you try calling me ‘old man’ like you used to?”
“I-I’m not of an age for that anymore!”
Marden laughed again and walked on, Duce now with them as well.
They walked past the portraits, from his own all the way back to the second head of the house. A walk back through time that ended at the banquet hall doors.
When Eshu moved to open them, Marden stopped him, taking the handle himself.
But he didn't open them. Instead, he spoke to Eshu without turning.
“Eshu. Address me.”
Eshu paused, then answered resolutely, “Sir Marden.”
“Why do you not address me as your Marquis?”
Eshu’s reply came with conviction.
“Because, Father, my sword is pledged to another.”
Next, Marden spoke to Duce.
“Brat.”
Hearing Marden address him as he used to, Duce answered, “What is it, old man?”
“Your father will never let you be anything but his clown. Will you still choose to live as a knight?”
Duce answered without wavering.
“I don’t do it because I can. I do it because I want to.”
Hearing their words, Marden lifted his head.
“Ah… two knights have been born.”
And with his own hands, he threw the doors wide open.
“Therefore, even if one knight dies, the world remains just.”
Long tables were arranged in rows inside the banquet hall, filled with all the vassals of Blanc. Directly opposite the doors, at the head of the hall, was the lord’s seat. Behind it hung a massive painting of the First Knight of the Shield.
Marden walked to the lord’s seat and sat.
Then he called out, “Count.”
The Count immediately rushed forward and presented the wine.
“I-I’ve brought it!”
“Then pour.”
The Count poured the wine into the cup Marden held out.
When it was full, Marden gestured for him to stand in front. Then he spoke.
“Now, recite.”
The Count stood before Marden, blocking him from the vassals’ view, and read aloud the names of those who had purchased the wine with him. A list that included nearly half of all the vassals present.
When the long recitation was finished, the Count left the list on the table and returned to his seat.
As if the moment had arrived, Marden let the now-empty pouch fall from his hand to the floor.
Then he rose from his seat, cup in hand.
The final bell tolled.
***
Dong…
Sevha ran.
Through halls bustling with staff.
Dong…
He ran like a man possessed.
Past knights who lived by the sword.
Dong…
He ran, his face on the verge of tears.
Down the corridor lined with the portraits of the lords of House Blanc.
Dong…!
He barreled through the doors to the banquet hall.
Marden stood before the massive painting of the First Knight of the Shield, his cup raised high.
Seeing him, seeing the cup, Sevha opened his mouth to scream.
But Marden’s voice came first.
“Listen! Hear what a Knight of the Shield is! Hear the mission carried by the Knight of the Shield!”
His voice was resounding. A roar that silenced every vassal, every knight, and even Sevha himself.
A hush fell over the hall, everyone holding their breath.
Marden met Sevha’s gaze and said, “Listen. To the Song of Knight Blanc.”