Parrot Seabream
“Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek, lord of the borderlands, greets His Imperial Majesty the Emperor.”
The music drifting in from outside signaled the ball's commencement. Even muffled through the walls, the melody sent a chill down his spine—unpleasant yet thrilling. The imperial orchestra's reputation for rousing the dead to encore cries proved no exaggeration.
“This is the first time I've laid eyes on you in person. Your father's passing is a true tragedy.”
“That Your Majesty shares in our grief brings my late father peace in the afterlife.”
Deep in the second floor of Palatium, in what had once been the archbishop's office, the empire's sovereign and its pillars had gathered.
“Your father often spoke of you. He said you were the man to shape the future of the empire and Manrmursk. Seeing you now, I see he spoke true.”
To be precise, it was the pillars. The Sachsen Duke interjected between the emperor and Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek.
'He talked about me often, huh...'
Like hell he did. The old border lord had forgotten the age of his one and only son, let alone boasted about him. Sure, he might've played the “devoted, loving father” in corners the young lord never saw. But a man of the Sachsen Duke's stature wouldn't toss out empty flattery like that.
The subtext was clear: I knew your father well, but I've never heard of you. Who the hell's skirt did you crawl out from under?
“The Sachsen Duke's fame has long reached even these remote Manrmursk lands. Tales of the hero who saved the nation in the last war still stir my heart.”
To any onlooker, it would've seemed the textbook noble greeting. Yet the duke's expression twisted oddly. The emperor, meanwhile, seemed to stifle a subtle smile.
The “last war” was, in the empire's most charitable terms, an expansionist conflict. In truth, a naked invasion on the flimsiest of pretexts. No one questioned it now, but they'd crushed legs, torched fields, toppled castles. The unwritten golden rule—“nobles don't kill nobles”—had spared only the nobility.
Before the overwhelming firepower of the new secret weapon, the cannon, it was the common soldiers who'd burst apart—mostly peasants, at that. And Manrmursk had been the final battlefield, echoing with the song of blood and iron to the very end.
What kind of “fame” endured in a place like that?
'This green whelp's got a sharp tongue.'
The duke had lived twice as long as Byeon Gyeongbaek, if not more. Here was a pup young enough to float away on the wine droplet the duke had spilled, scratching at him right to his face. Had the emperor not been present, the duke would've dreamed up a thousand verbal eviscerations. Instead, a servant brought wine.
“A vintage brewed to commemorate the armistice. All the more fitting for such a momentous occasion.”
“Oh? Then the rigors of the journey here weren't in vain.”
“To me, it's a drink of even greater significance.”
But flushing red-faced here would be third-rate of the third rate. Even a fresh sub-baron inheriting his title wouldn't botch that badly. Ignore it to show displeasure? In front of the emperor? Better the third-rate response.
No—the true first-rate play was to play along, sip one's wine, and let it slide. And as if to prove his ducal rank wasn't won in a poker game, the Sachsen Duke slithered right past it.
'Creepy old bastard.'
Outside, the music's mood had shifted. If this room's chill seeped through the walls to the hall, the revelry would freeze solid in an instant.
“Ah, yes! Lord Byeon—no, Court Count now suits you better. I never dreamed you'd transform Palatium into such a cozy haven. I'm truly delighted.”
“I merely fulfilled my duties, Your Majesty. Your grace humbles me.”
The emperor and Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek seemed to have formed a united front. The young lord could only guess at the emperor's motives, but who cared? It beat the Sachsen Duke, who'd blindsided him at their first real meeting, by a hundred—no, a thousandfold.
The duke, face more sullen than before, downed his wine in a savage gulp, like a fresh adult showing off his tolerance. Byeon Gyeongbaek could've spun him into a drunken stupor on the art of imbibing, gnawing like a dog from dusk till the next afternoon. But he held back. Same elector rank or not, their pedigrees differed. No room for complacency.
“So you've been here.”
A winter without snow felt warmer than expected.
“Nowhere else to go.”
A puff of white breath escaped Helena's lips. The silence was like a fairy-tale scene carved from ice—snow blanketing every surface in sight. Only the sun dipping beyond the horizon whispered that time marched on.
“Is my voice that easy to spot, Lady Helena?”
“Well, if it isn't the vice warden.”
Seolhwa shrugged lightly in mock surrender. Helena, wrapped in a golden blanket, patted the seat beside her with evident satisfaction.
“Finding water in a sea of booze? Impressive.”
Her glass held clear water, gently rippling. Her doll-like face remained impassive, yet she seemed faintly pleased.
“Not much for liquor.”
“You handled it well enough back there.”
“The occasion drinks me.”
“You sound just like Father.”
The cool, refreshing sip tickled his throat. Unfreezable wells were rare in Manrmursk, spurring advances in purification tech. Desperate survival—guzzling any flowing water—had forged the continent's finest methods. No wonder Manrmursk water earned the “holy water” moniker.
“Tastes better than the stuff from Utopia, even.”
“All that tenure... er, all that water tenure makes it tasty? You get what I mean?”
Even amid the corny joke, her lips barely twitched. So Seolhwa smiled for her—a smile too much for a grin, too little for a laugh. Just that much.
The glass was nearing empty. Should've grabbed the whole bottle.
“How is it?”
“What?”
She stared at him like tangled puppet strings finally unknotting.
“Life in Utopia. You've shed the newbie vibe...”
“Good times are gone. Just endless responsibility and choices now.”
He'd opposed it till yesterday, but post-emperor, Jepeto would hand him the warden post. Seolhwa would discard it without regret eventually, but for now, it might prove useful. Still, shop talk at a ball? She wasn't the workaholic type.
“Responsibility and choices... heavy.”
“Yeah.”
A sting crept across his nose bridge. One glance in a mirror, and it'd be deliciously flushed. Tilting his gaze skyward, he spotted a tiny flake rebelliously ascending against the heavens.
“If—and I mean if—you could stop now, would you?”
A sharp gust sliced between the manicured garden trees. The defiant flake tumbled limply earthward. Awkward silence hung in its wake.
“I'm too greedy for warden. Not enough.”
“I see.”
She didn't mean the warden post. But that was projection. Helena couldn't know his true aims. Not even Cynthia did. No one could.
The strings untangled fully. With graceful poise that seized his eyes, she rose. As he stared blankly, she extended a pale salvation.
Shaking off rash doubts and raw awkwardness, Seolhwa took her hand. It felt like grasping a serpent's—cold yet supple.
“...so with the lord's cooperation, we could resolve it more smoothly.”
The master chef's parrot seabream gleamed with lifelike grain, as if ready to swim off. They say good food is eaten first with the eyes—and these guests had done just that, feasting visually alone. The chef, who'd poured his soul into it for the emperor, might rejoice or sigh.
“Of course, we impose no demands on Lord Byeon.”
“Duke Sachsen. This is all news to the lord, practically.”
The emperor's signal to ease off—but no recipient in sight.
“Change and progress don't wait for perfect preparation—that's one lesson from my humble life, Your Majesty.”
“We grasp your point, Duke. Postwar, wizards and mercenaries in limbo are a headache no single domain or noble can handle alone.”
Byeon Gyeongbaek's wineglass sat empty, unnoticed till he lifted it to his lips and gestured a servant.
“Not asking Manrmursk to shoulder it all. But your experience running that special facility, Utopia, could help—that's my thought.”
Sophistry. Prisoners manageable in Utopia's cage versus postwar national headaches like rogue wizards and mercenaries. Which ached more? As obvious as “snow tomorrow in Manrmursk.”
“Your Majesty's endorsement reassures me. Yet deciding here exceeds my meager talents. Grant me some leeway, and...”
“You take after your father after all.”
A flicker of undisguisable grimace crossed Byeon Gyeongbaek's face, then vanished. The emperor looked taken aback—the duke had gone further than expected.
“Your late father was cautious in decisions too. Pity the outcomes weren't always ideal.”
“Duke, that's too far.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty. I merely offered heartfelt advice to a friend's son on the brink of repeating mistakes.”
The parrot seabream's eye seemed to roll in the hall's center. Servants pondered withdrawing as silence stretched—then shattered.
“No, Your Majesty. The duke has awakened me. My thanks for the lesson.”
A boldness bordering on insolence emanated from Byeon Gyeongbaek. Yet no one here could call it out.
“I accept Your Majesty's request. The empire's burdens are Manrmursk's. Details? Forgive me, but send officials to the castle. I'll take my leave.”
As Byeon Gyeongbaek exited, the seabream finally seemed to exhale in relief.