The Third Grand Duchess
Lumiang Winterfell.
The third Grand Duchess of the North, Lumiang Winterfell.
She was the youngest daughter of the Winterfell Grand Ducal family that ruled the northern territories—blessed with two older brothers, two older sisters, and a single, widowed father.
She was also the central figure of the 56th Marriage Tournament, that grand northern feast and time-honored tradition of the Grand Ducal house.
And more than that—
She was the woman of mystery, shrouded in veils, known throughout the North as its greatest secret.
“Just what sort of person is the third Grand Duchess, I wonder?”
“Not a soul has ever seen her, so how would anyone know?”
“You never can tell. She might finally reveal herself during this Marriage Tournament.”
“Rumor has it a plague left her face hideously ruined. You remember the epidemic that swept through about a decade back, don’t you?”
“Nonsense. I’ve heard the Grand Duke hides her precisely because her beauty is far too dazzling.”
“I’m telling you, it’s because she’s a one-armed cripple!”
Secrets breed rumors.
And rumors, by nature, tend to swing between the most extreme poles imaginable.
A peerless beauty who could topple kingdoms. A rotting, plague-scarred hag. A one-armed freak.
That the darker versions always gained the upper hand was simply human nature—people craved sensation.
Thus it was only natural that public opinion settled on the third Grand Duchess of the North as the one-armed ugly girl.
Of course, her family, the central aide Gelwood, and her personal maid Marien all knew the truth of those rumors.
Neither “ugly girl” nor “one-armed” came anywhere close to the mark.
And contrary to the claim that she had never once shown her face to the world, she had, in fact, attended the Royal Academy—driven by a thirst for knowledge too fierce to contain.
Not as Lumiang of House Winterfell, but as Lady Erincia of a minor baronial house from some distant borderland.
Not even Logan Winterfell had been able to stand in the way of Lumiang’s blazing scholarly passion.
From childhood she had loved to investigate, loved to learn. The moment she mastered her letters she plunged into books with single-minded devotion.
Soon her interest in academic study became all-consuming, and a true thirst for learning began to torment her.
Logan’s worries deepened in equal measure.
He scoured the continent for every toy and amusement imaginable; she showed not the slightest interest. He brought her rare tomes by the cartload; she finished them in days. He simply could not keep up with his own daughter.
In the end Lumiang resolved to leave home and seek out the great storehouse of knowledge that was the Royal Academy. For months father and daughter clashed and argued.
As a father whose duty was to protect his child, he could not give permission.
All because of the curse laid upon them by the chieftain of the northern Beast Clan—those long-vanished monsters of the old wars who had faded into history’s shadows.
“I already told you no. Until the term of the curse ends, I cannot allow you to be exposed to the outside world.”
Even when Lumiang begged through tears, even when she threw every tantrum she could muster, Logan Winterfell stood firm with a heart of iron.
Yet just as a flower deprived of light withers and dies, Lumiang began to waste away from the thirst for knowledge. At last Logan had no choice but to yield.
What kind of father would let his daughter wither and die for the sake of an uncertain curse?
“You must never reveal your true name. Your identity must never come to light. Do you understand?”
“Father, you worry far too much. I’ve even dyed my hair red—who in the world would look at me and think ‘northern girl’?”
“Very well. Still, be careful. If anyone bothers you, contact me at once.”
“Yes, don’t worry! I’ll write the moment I arrive~!”
And so Lumiang Winterfell enrolled in the Royal Academy. For three years she lost herself utterly in the cradle of knowledge she had so desperately longed for.
Of course three years were nowhere near enough to quench a thirst that old; in her heart of hearts she had wanted nothing more than to apprentice under a renowned professor and pursue a doctorate. Sadly, that path was closed to her.
The time she had promised her father was exactly three years.
Thus, after burying herself in libraries and laboratories for those three years, she returned to the northern territories carrying a new kind of longing in her chest.
“My daughter—congratulations on your graduation.”
Logan was overjoyed.
His daughter had returned safe and sound, and the curse—whose deadline was now so near—seemed ready to pass without incident.
Unable to see the three years of hell etched into his daughter’s body, he could only rejoice.
Lumiang, for her part, made certain he never would see it.
“Heehee, just words? Don’t I get a graduation present?”
“Of course, of course. What would you like?”
“Yay~! I wrote out a whole list on the way here! Here!”
“…What in the world is all this?”
“Basic materials and tools for my experiments!”
Once home, Lumiang converted the upper floors of the second Grand Ducal castle into a vast laboratory and threw herself into experimentation even more fiercely than she had once thrown herself into study.
To a girl like that—
“The Marriage Tournament? I couldn’t care less about something like that…”
—a contest to choose a fiancé held no appeal whatsoever.
Far from interest, it seemed childish, boring, and thoroughly bothersome.
“The curse has ended, and you’ve reached marriageable age. It is time to find a betrothed.”
With no legitimate grounds to refuse the family’s ancient tradition, Lumiang was forced to become the star of the Marriage Tournament. As she listlessly flipped through the main-bracket roster that Gelwood kept thrusting under her nose, four names caught her eye.
Deron Kellid.
Blund Rosphel.
Kyle Bellaon.
Elden Raphelion.
Names that should never have appeared were written right there on the main-bracket list.
“…How?”
Lumiang Winterfell.
The bookish girl who knew nothing but scholarship, the academic fanatic who preferred research and experiments to men—her sudden interest in the childish Marriage Tournament began at that very moment.
“…Pardon? Someone has withdrawn?”
At the words of central aide Gelwood, wonder filled the mysterious blue eyes of Lumiang.
She could not help but be astonished.
A man who had cast aside every scrap of pride to endure both preliminaries and main bracket, all for the chance to join the Grand Ducal house—only to surrender at the final stretch.
And knowing full well that never once in the long history of the Marriage Tournament had a final candidate cast a forfeit, Lumiang’s gaze wavered.
Tomorrow the final evaluation—the cohabitation phase—would begin.
Which meant the time had come at last to erase, one by one, the records of pain carved into her over three long years.
“Who… declared the forfeit?”
After confirming the main-bracket roster she had drawn up a careful plan to wipe those painful records clean.
Now that plan threatened to unravel.
It was only natural that wonder and dismay should mingle in her eyes.
And then—
“Young Master Elden Raphelion.”
When Gelwood spoke the name of the man who had withdrawn, doubt settled into Lumiang’s gaze.
Elden Raphelion.
Had that shameless scoundrel somehow caught on?
Impossible.
Among the four he was the only one who never wore a mask, who regarded such things as pure encumbrance. He was a vicious, violent brute who would gladly dirty his hands for any profit and never hesitated to take up a blade.
Above all, he had entered the Marriage Tournament specifically to rebuild his declining house. His sudden forfeit made no sense whatsoever.
Or had he heard something?
But… only Father, Gelwood, and Marien know that I was Erincia.
Moreover, the painful wounds recorded during those three years as Erincia Bellock were known only to her maid, Marien.
She had never shown them, never revealed them, to her father or his aide.
Family, aide, maid.
None of those three would ever have spoken a word.
Even though their time together had not been long, Marien was a child more trustworthy than anyone.
There was simply no way she could have been involved in Elden Raphelion’s declaration of forfeit.
“And Father… what did he say?”
“Given the exceptional circumstances, His Grace has granted permission for a private audience with the candidate—should My Lady desire it. Even before the final evaluation begins.”
“…Is that so.”
“Yes. He said every decision rests with My Lady’s judgment.”
“…….”
Lumiang sank into thought.
She knew perfectly well that no final candidate could ever meet her before the cohabitation phase began.
It was one of the Marriage Tournament’s strictest rules, a forbidden sanctuary.
A final candidate’s forfeit was an unprecedented event—so unprecedented that it could break even that ancient taboo.
“And what of you, Aide?”
“Regarding Young Master Elden Raphelion, you mean?”
“Did you see anything?”
Lumiang asked, fully aware of the gift Gelwood possessed.
Even from their brief encounter during the main-bracket judging, he had seen straight through Elden Raphelion and voiced his concern.
If anyone could find a clue to this absurd forfeit, it would be him.
And—
“I reported as much to His Grace, but………”
When Gelwood offered the impression that the young man seemed to have changed—like the northern territories in May—Lumiang rose from her chair.
She set down the experimental flask filled with crimson liquid as she stood.
She had always been a child whose nature drove her to dig into every unanswered question.
A girl whose hunger for discovery burned like molten rock; if it was not cooled, it would consume her.
It was that same hunger that had once driven her, curse or no curse, all the way to the Royal Academy.
To such a girl, a final candidate’s sudden forfeit became a fierce new doubt. And the remark about becoming “like the northern territories in May” was lava that would scorch her if left unquenched.
More than anything—
He couldn’t have changed.
To Lumiang, who knew better than anyone what kind of man Young Master Elden Raphelion truly was, “like the northern territories in May” was a claim she could not believe even as a joke.
She half-wondered whether something had gone wrong with the aide’s eyes.
And he must not change.
She had not waited until tomorrow simply to listen to some hollow nonsense about repentance.
Even if the price he owed was the lightest among the four, a crime was still a crime.
And atonement was something one offered to the person one had wronged.
Therefore Elden Raphelion must not change.
I have to see him myself.
There was definitely something here.
A researcher’s keen instinct told her so.
“Let’s go.”
In the end Lumiang put on early the mask she was supposed to wear starting tomorrow and set out.
And then—
“…I did not expect you to come in person. A pleasure to meet you, Grand Duchess.”
Facing Elden Raphelion through the mask, Lumiang could not restrain a researcher’s burning hunger. She asked him outright—in the sharp voice of an academic fanatic whose carefully planned experiment was already threatening to go awry at the very first step.
“Just what is this?”
A question driven more by emotion than by calm assessment.
A question that treated him like some difficult problem she had to solve.
At that, Elden scratched the philtrum beneath his nose and thought:
Hmm.
What is this?