A Fight Among Adults
Panem, the imperial capital of the Polska Empire. At its very heart stood Vergara, the imperial palace where the Emperor himself resided. Duke Randert, dressed in full regalia of conquest, had climbed to a roofless balcony in one corner of Vergara and now stood facing the wind.
“Whew.”
When he drew breath, the dry air cut sharply into his lungs. The atmosphere carried not a trace of moisture — utterly foreign to him.
“Are you here, my lord?”
It was not long after that he sensed someone approaching from behind.
“So you came.”
The Duke did not turn around. He had already known the other was drawing near. Though he appeared to be standing idle, it was the Duke's long-standing habit to keep his senses stretched far wider than usual whenever he entered the palace.
“News has arrived from Carrington.”
The Duke's head moved at last. In his gaze he caught sight of three letters held in his younger brother's hand.
“One each from the Academy, the Temple, and Ian, my lord.”
Liam explained, having read the question that surfaced on his elder brother's face.
“Which would you like to read first?”
The Duke silently extended his hand.
Liam hesitated, then handed over the one on top. The Duke's fingers made short work of unfolding it.
To His Grace, Duke Randert,
I hope this letter finds you well.
This is Professor Rothius, the instructor now responsible for young Bayul.
The reason I write to Your Grace directly is that earlier today, during my lesson, Bayul collapsed quite suddenly.
Thankfully, his treatment has been completed without complication, and I am on my way back from seeing him resting comfortably in the dormitory with my own eyes.
The Temple seems to believe excessive stress was the culprit. It appears the strain of adjusting to his new life has taken a toll on his body.
As I was briefed on Bayul's condition beforehand, I intend to keep a closer eye on him for the time being. So I ask that Your Grace not worry too much. Carrington has no shortage of people ready to help him.
Should anything in particular come up, I will write again then.
I entrust him kindly to your thoughts.
— Rothius Jane von Winter
“…Bayul collapsed again?”
The Duke's voice was hollow. Thick tendons stood out across the back of the hand gripping the letter.
“Read this one first, my lord.”
“Hasn't the boy gone months without a single seizure? Priest Juan said himself that as his body matures, he's absorbing the divine power far more easily.”
“Brother, this one should really be——”
“This is my fault. I pushed the boy too hard, sending him there, and it made him ill.”
He had driven him out against his will, even when the boy said he didn't want to go. He had only wanted to toughen him up a little. All he had wanted was to show him a wider world. Now the regret came flooding in, too late.
The thought of his son fighting his illness alone in a place where he knew not a single soul tore the Duke's heart to ribbons.
“He's fine now, isn't he? Calm yourself and take this one. It's from Ian.”
The Duke numbly unfolded the letter his brother passed to him.
This is Ian.
I write today to bring you news you may rejoice over.
The young master has brought friends home to the estate.
They are called Eli, Aidan, and Quinn — all of them seemed healthy, good-hearted boys.
Among them, Quinn is the young master's roommate, and I am told he is a prince of the Mermaid Kingdom. After dinner, they all went together to Quinn's residence as well. They seemed to grow close in no time at all.
Oh, and it seems he earned praise in his Ga Kingdom language class. I overheard him bragging about it to Rita. Academy life appears to suit him better than expected.
There was an incident where he collapsed briefly during class, but it is nothing to be greatly concerned about. He laughs far more than he used to, eats well, and sleeps soundly — I believe it was likely a simple dip in his stamina. He is naturally far more active than he was living at the estate.
Rita has declared she will prepare restorative meals for the young master every weekend. She marches out to the market to shop herself — her enthusiasm is quite something.
So I ask that Your Grace not fret overmuch.
I will be in touch again soon.
— Ian Savage
“Has he finally settled in, then?”
The Duke read the letter over and over.
Bayul had brought friends home?
That — that above all — was what the Duke had longed for.
For the boy to step out of his brother's shadow and make new friends of his own. To never again live alone like a hermit. That was the sight the Duke most wished to see.
And yet he could hardly bring himself to believe it. No one knew his son's nature better than he did. For a boy who had transferred in barely any time ago to make friends — and invite them over, no less — was so unlike his usual self.
“Look, my lord. Even Ian says it's nothing to worry over. He's keeping up with his classes well enough to earn praise, and he's already got close friends. If I'd known this would happen, I'd never have opposed your plan — we should have sent Bayul to the Academy ages ago. The boy is truly remarkable!”
Liam looked so overjoyed that tears seemed ready to spill from his eyes.
“Friends… For that boy, the only friends he ever had were his brother and Logan…”
The Duke knew the two had drifted apart since the incident that day. He knew, too, that Logan never wrote back to Bayul's letters.
“Logan enrolled at Carrington as well, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“Then the two of them may well have crossed paths.”
“If they had, it would have been written in one of these letters, surely.”
“…True enough.”
“The heartless wretch. It seems his heart still hasn't softened.”
There was a distinct note of resentment toward Logan in Liam's voice.
It isn't like that.
The Duke had watched the boy since he was in swaddling clothes. Logan was simply in pain — from having to look upon a face identical to Bayil's. The one who left first was too pitiable, and Logan missed him so fiercely it hurt, so badly he could hardly bear it. Nothing more, nothing less. Just as he himself did.
“Still, this is good news, isn't it, Brother? To think Bayul is doing so well. He is his father's son after all!”
It was enough to make the Duke reflect on whether he had coddled the boy far too much, hiding behind his illness all these years.
“One weight off my shoulders, at least. If he weathered even Jared's vile little prank without breaking, I've no doubt he'll get through the remaining four years without trouble.”
“…Vile prank?”
“Alcohol? Bayul drank real liquor? And Blood of Dragon, of all things?”
The Duke was utterly appalled. His son had never so much as touched a drop of alcohol in his life. And that boy — that boy had downed that vicious spirit not once but again and again. It beggared belief.
“I told you before, didn't I? He's a troublemaker who plays dangerous pranks without a second thought. Word is the disciplinary committee is being convened over this incident, so he's bound to get a thorough dressing-down.”
“You know an awful lot of detail.”
“Pardon? Well…”
At the Duke's remark, Liam trailed off with an awkward smile.
“Did you look into it separately?”
“…I was worried.”
“That's enough of that.”
The Duke could well imagine what was in his brother's heart. Hearing it all laid out, even he felt the affair went far beyond childish mischief.
But it was, first and foremost, a matter to be settled within the Academy. If he stepped in, nothing good would come of it for Bayul. That was not the Duke's way.
“That will do.”
Duke Randert spoke sternly as he regarded his brother.
“…Understood.”
“Might as well finish the last letter.”
“It's from a priest named Wagner.”
Liam handed over the final letter. Unlike the others, this one remained unopened — sealed with a stamp of red wax, a mark signifying that only the Duke himself might break it.
There were no exceptions, not for anyone. Not even Liam, his own flesh and blood — not even Bayul, his one and only son — could ever open it. Anyone who defied that rule, regardless of rank or station, would pay a heavy penalty.
“…!”
As he tore the wax and read on, the Duke's expression shifted into something grave indeed. His blue eyes flickered with an unreadable light, moment by moment.
“What does it say, that you look like that? Is there bad news?”
If it came from the Temple, it would surely concern Bayul's treatment. Rothius's letter and Ian's had both said the treatment had gone smoothly — but seeing his brother's reaction, Liam was suddenly gripped by the fear that some new problem had arisen.
“…No, nothing.”
But as he tucked the letter away, the Duke shook his head.
“Brother?”
“It's nothing worth your attention.”
“…You weren't startled, then?”
“A matter of little importance. More to the point — it seems the professor's post suits him after all, sending me a letter of his own accord. He's beginning to look the part of a teacher.”
Pretending not to notice his brother's burning curiosity, Duke Randert smoothly changed the subject. The disappointment was plain on Liam's face, but he asked no further. It was his principle that the closer two people were, the more carefully the boundaries between them had to be kept.
“I never took him for the type, honestly. It surprises me.”
“He was a brilliant child from the very start. A rather peculiar temperament, granted — but he'll handle anything he sets his hand to splendidly.”
“'Entrust him kindly to your thoughts'… which would mean word has already reached him, no?”
“Most likely.”
“I only wish he'd give it up and come home to be our staunch reinforcement.”
“How would anyone pry that stubbornness loose? Even you couldn't manage it, Brother.”
“I know. That's why I never managed it. I wonder if he's quit the smoking yet.”
“Don't hold your breath. In all my life I've never seen a man so married to the pipe.”
“For his health's sake alone, he really ought to cut back…”
“By the way — what did His Majesty have to say? Is he displeased?”
“That matter is closed. We agreed to speak of it no further.”
The river had already been crossed, and there was no turning back. The Emperor's resolve to take a third wife was far too firm. If the Duke pressed the matter further, even the great Duke Randert might find himself in disfavor. Some battles simply had to be conceded.
“The council convenes shortly. I can see it now — Duke Hector strutting about, all bluster and swagger.”
“Let's be on our way, then. We yielded one thing — time to secure another.”
No man in the world hated dealing with those slithering, viper-tongued nobles more than the Duke — and yet he had never once spent his life running from them.
What must be done, must be done.
That was why Duke Randert had come to the imperial capital.