An Apology in Advance
At the Imperial Palace...
Meanwhile, the palace still glittered, its banquet in full, dazzling swing. The people there were sinking deep into intoxication—some drunk on the beautiful, old-world elegance of the hall, some on the deep, heady wine and the food glistening with rich sauces, and still others on the connections being forged in this dreamlike place.
And while each of them drowned in a revelry of their own, there was exactly one soul in that hall who remained sober.
"Hahaha, so as I was saying..."
"Oh ho... is that truly how it happened?"
"Well, of course it—Y-Y-Your Majesty?!"
"Haha, what are you so flustered about?"
The host of this banquet, the man seated upon the Empire's throne—it was Siegfried Frabel.
"Y-Your Majesty, what brings you all the way over here...?"
"Well... I came because I wanted to hear your stories. Nothing more to it."
"R-Really, Your Majesty?"
"I do. You tell a fine story, you know."
"You... you flatter me!"
Lest there be any misunderstanding, let it be said plainly: Siegfried did not dislike banquets. Quite the opposite—he rather enjoyed them. The only reason he wasn't swept up in the festivities was that, at the moment, every ounce of his attention was being poured somewhere else entirely.
'Viscount Juburu... rather more vain than the rumors made him out to be.'
"Haha... Your Majesty, the food is simply exquisite."
"Is it? Glad it suits your palate."
"Haha! A taste I shall surely have to seek out again someday!"
'...Hm. He does lay it on a bit thick, too.'
He was making his rounds through the hall, one viscount and count at a time, and his reason was simple: he wanted to build someone a web of connections. For the boy whose title he had granted with his own hand—the boy who might, one day, stand in Luindel's stead.
'The dukes would do well enough, I suppose, but it's better to lay these bricks one at a time.' Hand him to someone too grand right out of the gate, and the boy would likely be brushed aside. Not that many would have the gall to snub a child the Emperor himself had vouched for—but then, gossip was by nature a thing conducted behind one's back.
"Haha, well then—enjoy your conversations. I have business to attend to..."
"Ah... b-but already...?"
"Hm? What's the matter? Was there something more you wished to say?"
"N-No, Your Majesty!! Please, retire in peace."
"Yes, keep up the good work yourself."
Viscount Juburu kept beaming away in delight, utterly unaware that a red line had already been drawn through his name in the Emperor's mind. One rather wondered how many more audiences with His Majesty the man had left.
'Well. Not my concern.' The Emperor dismissed it without another thought and went looking for his next prospect. Far across the hall, Duchess Renuiel was trading pleasantries with a circle of noble ladies, while on the opposite side stood the sight he could least abide—Duke Reinhardt and his retinue. And near the tables where the dishes were laid out, the head of the Empire's premier merchant coalition, Duke Iris, was inspecting the food with slow, careful scrutiny. No doubt assessing its worth as commodities, if the way he kept adjusting his spectacles was anything to go by.
And over there, among the mustachioed faces, the ever-present Duke Charlotte was...
...not there?
"...Luindel."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Do you know where Duke Charlotte has gone?"
"As for Duke Charlotte, sire... there is a report that he departed the palace a short while ago."
"..."
"...Is something the matter, Your Majesty?"
Left the palace, he said. Just like that? A duke of the realm, failing to see a banquet through to the very end? The man the Emperor knew would never do such a thing. Charlotte despised even the smallest scrap of gossip—he had never once acted in a way that invited it.
...Was something going on?
"Luindel—what did they say he was wearing?"
For an instant, an ominous image flashed through his mind, but he forced himself to wave it off. Surely not. Among the dukes, Charlotte was the one he could actually hold a conversation with. On the surface, at least, he was the gentlest of them.
But how many people truly knew what lay beneath? That those gentle hands were stained with every manner of blood? That that benevolent gaze was nothing but acting of astonishing skill? Did any of them know?
'...Of course they don't.'
"Your Majesty, the Duke's attire has just been confirmed."
"Yes? And what was it?"
"...That is..."
"...I pray my guess is wrong. Out with it, quickly."
"He was... wearing black clothes and a cloak, Your Majesty."
'Oh, wonderful. The worst possible scenario.'
Since the old days, Charlotte had always worn black whenever he went out to kill a man—so that even if blood spattered across him, nothing would give him away. And every single time he did, an uproar followed. Corpses turning up in the streets in heaps, for instance. Or a notoriously wicked noble house vanishing overnight. Or an entire slave trading company wiped out root and stem—incidents even the Imperial Family had struggled to bury.
'His black clothes... were something we could never welcome.'
"...And what is it this time, I wonder."
"..."
"Did no one hear where he was headed? His destination?"
"No, Your Majesty... my apologies."
"Then at the very least—did he leave alone, or with someone? Was there a companion?"
"..."
"Speak, Luindel!"
At last, after a long hesitation, Sir Luindel's mouth opened—as though this, of all things, was the report he had prayed never to deliver.
"He... took the Hounds with him, Your Majesty."
"Wh-what?!"
The Hounds. Blades forged and honed by House Charlotte. Raised for nothing but slaughter, their combat prowess brooked no rival—a single Hound stood a cut above even an ordinary Knight Commander.
Duke Charlotte. Was he alone not enough? Just who in the world was his target?
"Hah... did he leave any message of his own?"
"No, Your Majesty."
'...Tch. I haven't the faintest idea what this is about, but still.' Today was shaping up to be a busy one indeed. There would be a great deal that needed handling.
Meanwhile, at that very moment—the nobles were still tipping back their glasses, trading cheerful banter between laughs. And in the very middle of them stood Duke Reinhardt in lofty silence, radiating an irritation that was somehow impossible to miss.
"No matter how I look at him... His Grace does not appear to be in a good mood."
"Doesn't seem so. Strike up a conversation now, and he'll pound you to paste."
"...Why did that brat have to go and open his mouth, making a mess of everything?!"
His followers' guess was dead-on. Duke Reinhardt's mood was, in truth, foul beyond measure. The face that, in the old days, would have held its blank mask without end was now crushed into something unmistakable—twisted enough that anyone could read it at a glance.
'...Insolent whelp. How dare he spew such nonsense at me...!'
The Duke was replaying the earlier scene in his head, all while struggling to leash a rage that felt ready to burst. His own son had not even the grace to be honored by the offer—worse, the boy had known nothing of his place and cut the proposal down with a blade-sharp refusal, and Reinhardt could not understand it in the slightest. The fury had come boiling up alongside the bafflement. The natural order of things was for the deficient to be culled—so when he had deigned to acknowledge how far the boy had grown and moved to take him back in, what he received in return was a pair of narrowed eyes glaring back at him. From a whelp inferior to him by every measure, innate and earned alike.
'...Even so, he is useful. For now. Yes... for now.'
"E-Excuse me... Duke Reinhardt."
He was smoothing over his expression by force, deliberately dwelling on the profits the boy's return to the family would one day bring, when someone called his name. Someone who surely knew perfectly well how foul his mood was.
"...If you have something to say, then say it quickly."
The man grated on his nerves, but he could not simply be swept aside. Whatever else he was, this nameless nobody was still a noble—and even a duke could not unleash violence upon one without just cause, not without staining his family's honor.
"I... forgive me if this is presumptuous, but..."
"Your preamble is long. The point. Now."
"Duke Charlotte entrusted me with a message for you."
"...Him? To me?"
His brow creased yet again, involuntarily. Of all people, this was the last name he had expected. Had it been the Emperor, with whom he'd just clashed, he might have made some sense of it.
"Him? Are you certain?"
"Y-yes... yes, Your Grace..."
"...How curious. Let's hear it, then."
He raised the glass in his hand to his lips and took a single slow mouthful of wine. In his current state, he doubted he could hold himself together without it.
"W-w-well, you see..."
"...Speaking quickly would be good for your health."
The man had picked the worst possible moment to approach him, and now he stood there stammering on and on without ever reaching the end of his sentence. Slowly, genuinely, the irritation began to curdle into anger—
"...Hm?"
In an instant, it vanished—the irritation that had filled him mere moments before. The trouble was that suspicion came rushing in to fill the void, swelling every bit as large.
"What. Exactly. Is that supposed to mean?"
"E-eep..."
"Say it again. Properly, this time."
"I-I truly know nothing more... He only said to pass that along..."
Duke Charlotte. There was likely not a single duke alive who didn't know what manner of man he was—and with good reason, for Reinhardt had seen it once, just once: the way Charlotte carried an order through to its end. He had never forgotten that scene. There had been truly no mercy at the tips of those fingers, and from that day forward, Reinhardt himself had kept none in his own handiwork.
'...And that man is sending me an apology in advance?'
In an instant, his hair stood on end—as though some part of him had grasped the truth without meaning to. His heart clamored like an alarm, gooseflesh prickled across his skin, and something cold came slithering up through his whole body. This feeling. He knew it. He had felt it before.