The Northern Grand Duke's Duty
"A just and faithful ruler of the North."
"Lord of the eternal snow, unshaken by so much as an inch in the blizzards of the snowfield."
"The wolf who guards Winterfeldt from every demon and magical beast."
All of it was praise heaped upon me, the man they called the Grand Duke of the North. But I am not the great figure the people of Winterfeldt believe me to be. Had it not been for the trust my late father spent his life building, I would never have been called Grand Duke at all. I had only inherited the blood of House Bernheim, rulers of Winterfeldt for generations, and with it a measure of inborn strength—and with that strength I had done no more than clear away the hardline demon remnants left in the North after the Demon King vanished.
I do possess an ability others know nothing of. That ability, too, is incomplete. Every time I must decide something for Winterfeldt's sake, I feel as though I am laying myself upon the block. It was no different now.
At the heart of Winterfeldt's snow-heaped square, two figures knelt with their wrists bound and their necks bared. No—one of them was a demon. They wear shapes close to human, and yet they vary so wildly that to gather them all under the single name of demon feels almost dishonest. I had come out in person to execute them both, and a vast crowd watched me as I did.
Their guilt was already certain. Even so, in Winterfeldt a prisoner is given one last interrogation before the execution is carried out. And so, even I—who had seen the crime with my own eyes—had to follow Winterfeldt's tradition. A tradition becomes a tradition for a reason.
The two prisoners had abducted an operative of Winterfeldt's Special Task Force and meant to rape her. What I had to determine, in the end, was whether that abduction had been planned. The operatives who kept the territory's peace and watched its shadows were both formidable and discreet. For one of them to be taken so easily by a pair of bandits, there had to be a reason.
I leveled my axe at the purple-skinned demon and asked. The reason I questioned the demon before the human was simple.
"Morte. Was there someone who ordered this abduction?"
"I—I don't know!"
Hearing the demon Morte's answer, I closed my eyes and put the question to myself once more.
Is what the demon Morte said the truth?
The moment my eyes shut, a pitch-black image unfurled like night coming down. At its center, Morte's shape surfaced, blurred and faint. And then the answer to what I had asked rang out in a voice of perfect clarity.
The demon Morte's word is true.
I opened my eyes. The black vision vanished, and the purple demon came back into view, neck bared in the middle of the snow-covered square. Morte had not lied. His guilt, even so, could not be denied. Without hesitation I raised the axe and brought it down across his neck.
Shhk—!
The demon Morte's head came away in a single clean stroke. The blood, however, sprayed. His red blood fouled the black coat I wore. A demon's blood is the same as a human's.
Next was the human prisoner. I asked him the same thing I had asked Morte. But—
"I don't know..."
The answer was the same. The difference was that I could not sift the truth from his words the way I could from a demon's. Yes. My ability to tell truth from falsehood is limited to demons—and even then only narrowly, no more than once a day against the same demon. In any case, the sentence was the same. I raised the axe and brought it down on the human prisoner's neck.
When both heads struck the ground, the crowd that had watched the execution roared.
"Glory to the axe of His Grace, the just Grand Duke Hardy!"
"The North stands true beneath His Grace the Grand Duke!"
"Judgment upon the criminals who defile Winterfeldt!"
I had done it for Winterfeldt, and yet my spirits always sank once an execution was done. With a heart grown a little heavy, I turned—and a welcome face came toward me.
It was Jeanne Eichen, captain of the Special Task Force.
"Hardy! You did well out there! Want to go tear into some meat?"
I am the Grand Duke of the North, in name at least, and still she spoke to me as if we were children. The reason was simple. Jeanne had been my friend since we were small. The people of Winterfeldt were watching, but I had no wish to stand on rank. If anything, I preferred that she treat me without ceremony.
"Let's."
Even at my agreement she clapped my shoulder in play and kept talking. Thud. Thud. She meant it as a joke, but it hurt rather a lot.
"I hear they caught a snow deer at dawn! Well? It'll be good, right?"
"Sounds good."
"Then let's hurry, before somebody else buys it!"
That Jeanne. She must have noticed that I always sank after an execution. She pressed in close, as if she meant to lift my mood—and she was already generously built. When she clung to my elbow like that...
"Your Grace!"
A bright, clear voice struck my ears. At that familiar sound Jeanne, who had been plastered against me, startled and jerked away. The one running toward me now was Sora, one of the Special Task Force operatives.
I smiled and spoke as she came.
"Sora. Are you feeling all right?"
"Hehe! Just seeing Your Grace makes my strength come rushing back!"
"I'm glad."
I was glad. Sora had been the victim of this attempted rape.
"Your Grace! Are you going to dinner with Captain Jeanne?"
"Mm. Something like that..."
"Aw—! Count me in too!"
Sora was less oblivious than simply the sort who charged straight in. She was nothing like Jeanne, who seemed easygoing and yet secretly flustered. Jeanne watched her cling with a look of open distrust, almost burdened by it. Her lips worked, hesitating, and at last she spoke.
"Sora. There are times when your superiors need a quiet word among themselves."
"Chee—! Captain, you're always like this, aren't you?"
"And you never change."
"But Captain! His Grace saved me, and I still haven't properly thanked him!"
What Sora said was true. I stepped in to settle the strange little contest between them. I knew better than anyone that a half-hearted mediation only makes things worse.
"Jeanne. Just this once, why don't we let Sora join us?"
"A-all right. Hardy..."
"Yahoo—! I love you, Your Grace!"
I had taken Sora's side, but at least the matter was settled. Jeanne accepted the decision and fell at once into the next worry.
"Venison calls for a drink, doesn't it? How about Frost Wine, for the first time in a while?"
"Captain! Frost Wine tastes a little fishy, doesn't it? What about something fiery—Wolf's Breath?"
"Sora... harping on wolves again?"
"Hehe! Of course! The descendant of the Wolf House carried out that heavy duty with his own hands again today. We have to honor His Grace!"
Jeanne folded her arms and shook her head.
Wedged between Jeanne Eichen and Sora, the venison was rather dry. The two of them chattered over their drinks and put the meat away with ease, but I do not drink, and the seat drained me all the more for it. Jeanne, with that bust and those wide hips, could be expected to eat well. Sora's appetite astonished me every time I saw it. That such a slender girl could swallow so much—and stranger still, that even then her stomach never showed.
I am a man, after all. I suppose I cannot help where my eyes go, on Jeanne or on Sora. Jeanne needed no explanation, and though Sora looked youthful she was a grown woman, and she had a habit of going about with her midriff bare. Even so, having the two of them there seemed to lighten my steps a little. I could only hope today's execution would not become some obstacle in Winterfeldt's future.
"Your Grace. You have returned?"
The moment I stepped into the manor, Oswald, the old butler, greeted me. His hair had gone grey with age, yet he was as impeccably neat as ever. I handed him the cloak I wore.
"Has all been well?"
"Yes, Your Grace. This evening, as you instructed, we purchased fresh venison, and the household ate together."
"Thank you for seeing to it, Oswald."
"It is we who are grateful."
"Then have a pleasant evening."
"And you as well, Your Grace."
I took my leave of Oswald and made for the bedchamber.
Telling truth from falsehood demands a great deal of mental power. Some might call that power mana. I can feel that mana exists within me, but I am no mage who knows how to wield it. I only train, day by day, to build my strength, and make use of the ability I was given. Perhaps it is worse because I am a stranger to mana. Whenever I use that ability on a demon, the day leaves me peculiarly hollow, as if some part of me has been emptied out.
Is that why my body grows so unusually hot? Heat rises from the nape of my neck, runs down my spine, and settles in my groin. With that heat, a certain memory surfaces of its own accord. Sora of the Special Task Force—the memory of her about to be violated by men.
The repulsive purple-skinned demon Morte has his tongue out, drool spilling, above Sora's head. The other, a human man, cups one of her breasts and toys with her. Not as large as Jeanne's, but unmistakably full. And there between those two men she is, flustered, cold sweat slicking her from head to toe.
In truth, this memory was a vision of the future I had seen—Future Sight. Sora had been given a particular mission and was making her rounds near the Pleasure District outside Winterfeldt, and what appeared in my mind was the calamity that would befall her. At the time I did not even realize it was Future Sight. I set out in a rush to find her. Fortunately she had left a trace at the site of her mission, and when I followed it and burst into a certain manor, two men were about to rape her.
I do not know how I was able to glimpse an event that had not yet happened. Is this, too, something like the ability that lets me judge whether a demon's words are true? I withhold judgment. It is not something I can know yet.
Only this: the heat in me now is so fierce my head is beginning to throb. From experience, if I leave my body in this state, the aftereffects drag on into the next day. So I would deal with it. I lowered my trousers and began to stroke myself—an act meant only to clear my head.
And yet, now and then, the stimuli of the day rose up. Jeanne's breast against my elbow. Sora, her breast groped by the men who meant to rape her. Touching my cock while picturing the two women dearest to me brought guilt with it. Cold sweat dripped from my brow. I bit my lip hard, forcing it out, and a bead of blood welled there. At the thought that this was somehow painful, a groan escaped me.
"Nngh—"
And then, as if she had heard my voice, someone opened the bedroom door and came in. My personal maid. Rion Primrose. I had shown her a sight she should never have seen.
