Succession 1
Alder Grand Duke wouldn't make it through the night. Upon hearing the news, Millein rushed straight to the Grand Duke's bedchamber. They had agreed to keep things as quiet as possible, but this was no minor matter they could simply overlook.
Crossing the unusually bustling corridors of the manor—unlike the usual calm—he reached his father the Grand Duke's room. The chamber was already packed with direct family members and the house's heavyweights.
They barely glanced at the suddenly arrived Millein, showing no further interest. On the bed lay the Grand Duke, pale and gaunt, breathing raggedly, with his half-brother Jeron seated beside him.
"Millein, you've come."
Jeron spoke without turning. Millein didn't reply. He simply gazed silently at his dying blood father, eyes closed. After a moment, he finally managed a response.
"What... what in the world is this?"
"He'd seemed off since this afternoon, and then his condition suddenly worsened."
"Treatment... what about treatment..."
"I know how you feel."
"Then this isn't the time!"
Millein shouted. It was a far cry from his usual timid, cautious demeanor. Eyes turned to him for a moment, but he ignored them. His father, Alder Grand Duke, was on the brink of death. It was a monumental event—not just the grief of losing his sire, but a political crisis as well.
Jeron, still not taking his eyes off the Grand Duke, muttered softly.
"We've tried everything possible. Renowned physicians from across the continent, high priests from Palenia Holy Kingdom."
"But...!"
"Last month, even Archbishop Sernos came and went. Didn't you hear? It's an incurable disease with no known cause or cure. All we can do now... is pray at his side for a peaceful passing."
It was then, as Jeron's words ended, that the Grand Duke's ragged breathing suddenly calmed.
The attending physician, who had been monitoring closely, gave a small shake of his head.
"It's time to let him go."
Jeron, seated by the bed, grasped the Grand Duke's emaciated hand. He closed his eyes and murmured.
"Alder Grand Duke... no, Father."
The solemn atmosphere led everyone to bow their heads.
"Our duchy boasts two hundred years of history, passed down through generations since our ancestors. You inherited the Grand Dukedom from Grandfather and ruled these lands in peace for nearly thirty years."
His voice deepened gravely.
"Alder Grand Duke, pillar of the house and model to us all. Now we must bid you farewell. Do not worry overmuch. The nearly thirty years you leave behind were far from wasted... Now, I—and all the house members—will carry on forward."
And so.
Jeron added softly, gently stroking the Grand Duke's hand.
"Rest now, in peace. Thank you... for everything."
The Grand Duke's body twitched faintly once, then went limp.
"Father..."
"Grand Duke..."
Sighs escaped here and there. Starting with Jeron, retainers with reddened eyes began observing a moment of silence, one by one. Among them were the first daughter Rene and her mother, the second wife and lady of the house, Lenis.
As everyone bowed their heads in silence.
What are they doing?
Millein felt a surge of emotion rising within. The eldest son Jeron, seemingly grieving his father so sincerely. The first daughter Rene standing behind him with a somber face. The second wife Lenis gazing at her son with troubled eyes, and the throng of retainers surrounding the Grand Duke.
All of it.
It's fake.
A puppet show. Millein felt an eerie sense of disconnect from the scene before him. What on earth were they doing? Was there anyone here truly mourning Alder Grand Duke's death?
No.
There must be a few who were. But Millein was certain that wasn't all. It was all fake. A false spectacle piled upon lies. This place was a meticulously staged theater, and the people mere puppets dancing on strings pulled by the eldest son Jeron.
It filled him with profound sadness. And in a corner of his heart, the suspicions he'd shelved about his half-brother began to creep forth.
Was it really just a sudden incurable illness that felled his father? Or was there some scheme behind it?
"So tragic."
Jeron, eyes now open, murmured lowly. A man standing rigidly beside him addressed the eldest son. He was the captain of the Alder Duchy's First Knight Order.
"Young lord."
"I know. If we let grief cloud our judgment and botch things, we wouldn't have the face to meet Father."
"What of the funeral arrangements?"
"Tomorrow, immediately. As simply as possible. Our own condolences suffice. Father always preferred modesty."
Jeron rose slowly. All eyes converged on him. Meeting their gazes steadily, he spoke.
"Father has passed. I know the house is in turmoil these days. Someone must set it right. I know I'm sorely lacking, but with you all, I believe we can weather this storm. Will you stand with me?"
Jeron scanned the retainers one by one, his voice clear and unwavering.
"I will follow unto death."
The First Knight Order captain bowed crisply. That set it off.
"As will I."
"I pledge my loyalty."
"Who else but you to lead the duchy?"
One by one, two by three—like they'd rehearsed—the retainers swore fealty. All were favorable to the eldest son. Even the few neutrals weren't immune. After glancing around, they yielded to the pressing atmosphere and bowed, pledging loyalty.
A meticulously staged theater. Puppets dancing to the script.
"Millein."
Having circled them once, Jeron turned. By now, everyone in the room was watching him.
"After the funeral, we'll hold the succession ceremony. We must prepare to receive the distinguished guests beforehand."
"......"
"I won't force you. I respect your opinion."
Millein raised his gaze silently.
"Millein."
There stood Jeron, staring with eyes that seemed to pierce right through him.
"What say you?"
***
"I'll kill him."
"Kill him? Who? Surely not Alder’s eldest son?"
"It must be done."
"Is it truly necessary? Aren't there other ways..."
The incident in the underground cathedral was buried. The sole survivor was Archbishop Sernos. The other priests, including high priests, and the knights under the eldest son—all perished without a trace.
The fact that the Seventh Executor had died might have reached the Papal Court, but it didn't matter. That was a surface issue. The Executors' missions were top-secret, known only to the Pope and a handful of insiders. On the surface, Sernos Decart, district head of the Alder Archdiocese, lived.
Even if Millein ascended to Grand Duke, Palenia couldn't wage war recklessly. The duchy could even demand reparations from the Holy Kingdom. Jeron Alder was involved, but if he was to die anyway, it was irrelevant.
Licht asked for little. He sought only amicable ties with the duchy. As long as they didn't stab him in the back, that sufficed. And for that, Sernos was essential.
"I-I've done everything you asked. What more do you want...?"
"I'm going to kill Jeron Alder, the eldest son."
"The... Grand Duke-to-be..."
Sernos's face drained of color. His arms and fingers—stitched from shattered bones and flesh—were grotesquely twisted. He wore long priestly robes and gloves even normally. With nerves nearly destroyed, movement was impossible. They'd merely reattached what could be salvaged.
The hand clamping his shoulder made Sernos tremble finely. The terror was etched into his instincts. The agony of ruptured veins and twisted brain—he never wanted to feel it again. Rebellion was unthinkable.
In his quavering voice, he said,
"Alder Grand Duke has little time left. The moment he dies, all factions in the house will flock to the eldest son. Neighboring nations and prestigious houses will line up behind him too. Why kill him now..."
"You already know, don't you?"
Sernos's eyes darted about.
"Wh-what do you mean..."
"The eldest son killed Alder Grand Duke."
"As I said before, the Grand Duke wouldn't commit such filial impiety..."
"I don't care for word games."
Crunch.
Licht released his shoulder, then pressed down firmly on Sernos's head.
"He killed his own father, the Grand Duke, and even ordered the assassination of his half-brother, the second son."
"I-I know nothing of that..."
"That's justification enough to kill him. With your nature, you must have evidence. To hold the eldest son's leash."
Struck at the core, Sernos squeezed his eyes shut. He drew a deep breath, then cried out defiantly.
"What do you want exactly? What's your goal?!"
"My goal?"
"What do you gain from killing the Grand Duke-to-be? What madness drives you to...!"
"None of your concern."
Sernos's outburst halted abruptly.
"And."
Licht brought his mouth to the man's ear.
"Before the succession ceremony, in front of everyone—he'll bleed."
***
Alder Grand Duke's funeral was held simply. No outsiders were received. Condolences from direct kin and retainers sufficed.
Afterward, the eldest son Jeron sent party invitations far and wide—to close allied houses and prestigious families alike. Letters bearing the Alder Duchy seal arrived at countless houses.
The message was straightforward: A matter of grave importance requires your attendance.
Carriages emblazoned with myriad house crests rolled into Bailen. The lord's castle, subdued so soon after the funeral, buzzed once more.
"Party invitations out of nowhere."
"It mentioned a grave matter, so there must be good reason."
"Perhaps something's amiss with Alder Grand Duke?"
"Surely not..."
It was infamous that the Grand Duke suffered an unknown chronic illness. Nobles threw parties endlessly for networking, but there were limits.
"Makes sense. An incurable disease with no known cause, right?"
"If the Grand Duke dies..."
"No need to guess. The next in line is none other than Jeron Alder."
"Scattering these invitations—all to pave the way for his ascension?"
"The party's a smokescreen; the real announcement's the succession."
Speculation swirled.
In the vast banquet hall of the castle, over a hundred nobles clustered by factions, chattering. The hot topics: the Grand Duke's condition and his successor.
Many had attended the recent Cervito memorial gala in El Sion.
"Obvious, isn't it?"
"Should we align with the eldest son now?"
"Poor second son. Legitimate heir, yet cast aside."
"Cast aside? His life's in danger."
"Nah, they wouldn't kill him."
"No support base. Maternal kin's a nobody. Not impossible, but slim odds."
The nobles' eyes turned to one spot. The first daughter Rene was receiving greetings alongside her mother, the Grand Duke's final wife, Lenis.
Alder Duchy differed from houses under other nations. A recognized autonomous territory—practically a small kingdom. There was reason the house head claimed the title of Grand Duke, not mere Duke.
Rumors swirled of covert support from Palenia Holy Kingdom, situated directly north.
The second son Millein sat quietly in a corner of the hall, guarded by knights and mages who seemed his own. His expression was poor, as if deep in thought. No nobles approached. With the eldest son's ascension all but certain, whom to back was plain as day.
The murmurs continued for some time.
"Presenting Jeron Alder, legitimate heir to the two-century legacy of Alder Duchy!"
At last, the star arrived. The chattering nobles fell instantly silent.
The eldest son strode from the hall's entrance to the platform at its end without hesitation. Surveying the room, he spoke.
"I sincerely thank you all for coming amid your busy schedules."
All eyes fixed on his mouth. Unfazed by the hundred-plus gazes, Jeron continued.
"I imagine the sudden invitation at such a sensitive time caught you off guard."
Curiosity flickered in the nobles' eyes. The Grand Duke felled by a mysterious illness. Invitations arriving at such a delicate juncture.
"To the point, then."
Jeron wasted no words.
"A few days ago, my father, Alder Grand Duke, passed away."