The Franche Shadow
Victor hadn't told Ibel, but he was currently turning Bayern into a fortress.
Colonel Konrad von Eberstein was secretly recruiting soldiers, while his aide Matthias was stockpiling food in a way that wouldn't draw attention.
They were also accumulating all sorts of seeds and salt, and increasing imports of wool and cloth.
Under the guise of a land reclamation project, they were digging traps and laying mines in the open fields bordering Franche.
The king of Franche wants war.
The mocking incident itself was probably a meticulously planned affair.
Then it would be wise to assume war is coming.
When that moment arrived, Bayern would take a different path than before.
"Ibel. Among today's guests, keep a close eye out for anyone with a Franche accent."
"...Do you think a spy has come?"
"Likely. Not certain, but it never hurts to be cautious, so we'll keep Damian inside."
"Mm... No helping it. Not yet...."
Damian's condition was a closely guarded secret within the ducal household.
Even if rumors had quietly spread to nearby families, no one would believe it without seeing it for themselves.
No need to show Damian off and let word of the boy's state reach the king of Franche.
He didn't need to spell out his reasoning to Ibel. A single word, and she understood ten.
It wasn't exactly a pleasant situation, but as he stepped out into the bright sunlight, he wore a faint smile utterly unlike him.
How shocked the nobles were at the sight... well, describing it would only tire his mouth.
'Ah, damn. So I've been made.
When Duke Bayern and his prospective duchess appeared in the garden, a man swiftly slipped away from the gathering.
Curling black hair and deep, hollow black eyes—hallmarks of a Franche man.
His sharp features and slender jaw gave an air of refinement.
Young, sleek, brimming with confidence.
A touch cocky, perhaps, but that very freedom made him alluring.
Such a man had attended today's event posing as a rookie artist.
He'd bought up some junk sculptures from a pawnshop and claimed them as his own work, fooling everyone.
'They're tailing me. One of the duke's direct intelligence agents, no doubt.'
The man moved at a leisurely but never slow pace, vanishing into the woods.
He'd climbed a tree, then launched himself far away in a flash.
To catch someone specialized in movement and stealth like him, it would take the duke himself, not some underling.
'Shall I dig deeper? Risky, but...'
Perhaps he could pose as that old woman's new lover. Or, with her wedding coming up and hands short-staffed, a servant role might work.
Either way, he'd gathered intel worth offering the king. He'd even confirmed the prospective duchess's face.
For today, that was enough—escaping alive was now his top priority.
"Ah."
But—
His mind knew it, yet his heart felt a pang of regret.
Perched high on a branch, the man gazed toward the mansion where lively music echoed.
A woman emerged through the doors.
Golden hair hailed as Franche's most beautiful, with rare golden eyes. Skin white and clear, shimmering in the sunlight.
A butterfly born from the sun itself.
'To think such a lady was hidden in this dull place.'
His ears flushed red, mismatched to his thoughts—though he hadn't noticed.
"Sorry. He got away."
"It's fine. If even you lost him, that's confirmation enough of where he's from."
After he and Ibel appeared, countless eyes turned to her.
Victor stepped back a pace to let her bask in the attention fully, receiving a report from the subordinate who approached in the meantime.
Those who stayed by his side in the household were rank-one agents even among the intelligence bureau.
Few could slip past such a man's watchful eyes unscathed.
Franche intelligence bureau. He must have blended in with the artists.
If it was skill beyond a rank-one agent... there was only one man.
Gaspar Lorang.
Head of Franche's intelligence bureau, the Bureau.
A man of a thousand faces—no one knew his true appearance or voice.
He appeared and vanished like a ghost; you'd pinpoint his location, only for him to disappear.
Brilliant mind, sharp instincts, uncanny intuition. Any agent planted in Franche vanished without fail.
In short, an irritating foe whose abilities demanded respect.
And for the Bureau's chief to come here...
Probably because of my wedding.
He'd send an agent if Franche's king remarried too.
Knowing war would keep them busy for years, Victor had half-withdrawn his plants in Franche.
They'd noticed, piquing their curiosity enough to send him sniffing.
"After today, expel Aunt Genevieve's lovers from Bayern on their way out."
"Consider it done."
Clear the house to draw them in.
He wasn't one to avoid a fight.
If they wanted to show their faces, he'd prepare the stage.
A fine chance to learn what the Bureau's chief is really like.
Raising his aunt's utility in his mind by half a notch, he revised his plan to ship her off to a convent the moment this drab exhibition ended.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Hermine Rosenthal."
"Ah, of the Rosenthal count family. Pleased to meet you. I'm Ibel Eberstein."
Among the currently prestigious houses, Ibel's position was a bit ambiguous.
Not yet married, so treating her as Bayern was awkward, yet viewing her as Eberstein felt off too.
But everyone would tread that line carefully.
Given how he acted like he cherished and adored her so.
Not wrong, either.
Victor wet his throat with champagne, scanning the scene before turning away.
From here, it was Ibel's domain.
He had his own tasks.
The kindly faced lady was named Hermine Rosenthal.
Current lady of the Rosenthal count family, titled some 110 years ago, originally from the Inggris Kingdom.
Beside her stood a rather stern elderly woman: Konstantin Hardins, Hermine's mother.
Raised as the prized daughter of an old Inggris count house, she'd married Marquis Hardins and borne three sons and two daughters.
Hermine, the youngest, had married into Richter's count family while pregnant with her second, prompting the long journey here.
The key point: neither cared much for Cecily.
They were the sort who found "too noble" types distasteful.
Some proud old families still saw conversing with commoners as an insult.
Whatever their views, they were useful to her now.
"It's awfully humid, isn't it? The Richter north was bearable, but the south... I just can't get used to it."
Hermine opened with talk of the weather. Ibel responded gently, her eyes on the lady's belly.
"Pregnant with your second, it must be even harder to endure."
"Exactly. Grateful as I am that God granted another child... I wish it'd been in autumn."
The chuckling lady had a rather cute air.
Though different when scolding her firstborn.
"Johannes! I told you too much candy rots your teeth!"
"Only five pieces."
"No more. You'll spoil your dinner."
The plump boy grumbled but dawdled instead of obeying.
Hermine sighed deeply.
"Boys are hard to raise. He listens less every day."
"Oh? Yet your face shines despite your words."
"He's the heir, after all... Hoping the second's a girl, though. Secret."
Hermine pressed a finger to her lips and grinned mischievously.
Truth be told, Ibel couldn't empathize or comprehend such feelings.
What was it like to bear and raise one's own child?
What made it possible?
That was when it happened.
"Kuh...! Hack...! Gah...!"