My Chador Will Be My Repayment
The Danier count's mansion was grand and magnificent. Thanks to the count's advance notice, his wife, daughter, and sons all stood ready to greet Pythia.
I worried the wife might display hostility due to the count's attitude, but she adopted the exact demeanor of a superior businesswoman welcoming a client.
The children were worse. On the surface they extended their full strength in welcome, yet every eye was filled with dead-fish stares.
In this busy period leading up to the heir's wedding, their expressions clearly asked what ridiculous errand brought them here.
Of course, only behind their father's back. The moment the count turned, they instantly smiled brightly.
At the evening banquet, the count addressed only Pythia. This rude man showed no interest whatsoever in his own household and had not even bothered to introduce her to them.
One could discern the identity of the count's wife, sons, and daughters at a glance. Yet who was the eldest son, which daughter was the older sister, and which was the younger sibling? I had no idea.
Pythia, however, differed. At an appropriate moment she introduced me.
“Treven, I will introduce you. This is Arian of the Danier family. Her father is Raymond Danier, the royal chamberlain, and her mother is Louise Saint-Clair. You remember her as the beautiful Louise, do you not?”
The count frowned for a moment, then asked in surprise, “The beautiful Louise?” He glanced at me once more and murmured, “Ah, I see which Louise it is.”
“She resembles her.”
A vulgar opinion slipped out.
While I was still processing which part of her resembled Louise, Pythia introduced everyone to Damien and the priests.
The count had no choice but to return the courtesy and introduce his wife and children in turn.
The eldest son was twenty years old and a knight. The moment I saw the way he glared at me, I felt a chill.
You must have been thrashed by David.
Only one man would dare to stare at me with such intensity—the man who had once received a beating from David Danier.
How many people had this poor, pure-hearted younger sister beaten? No wonder she now harbored resentment.
When the count stared at me, I returned the gaze. Then a sharp sound rang out beside me.
I turned. Damien was gripping the back of a chair that had been perfectly fine moments earlier.
Did the backrest come off? Why was he clutching it so tightly?
“Hey, what are you holding?” I whispered. Damien shrugged, yet his gaze remained fixed on someone across the table.
“It was always like that, I suppose. Still, northerners’ tradition is to ignore people, isn’t it?”
Huh? I followed his gaze.
There stood the Serpine heir, glaring coldly at Damien—far more vicious than the look he had given me earlier.
Now that I thought about it, people called Hamilcar the “East,” yet it was unmistakably the “Southeast.” And this was the North. Had the North and South ever been on good terms?
In appearance Damien was the very image of a northern duke's son, yet his blood ran hot with southern fire. The way he flared up at the slightest provocation proved his southern roots.
Wait. If I followed that logic, I was northern too—then why was David...
Damien's low voice crackled with barely contained anger.
“That northern trash seems to have forgotten his place.”
I snapped out of my thoughts. Damien's mood had clearly deteriorated.
I turned to him, about to soothe him and call on the priests for help, when a whisper reached my ears.
“The northern noble seems to have forgotten even basic manners.”
I glanced over and saw the Morihan temple priests' faces growing steadily uglier.
Why was that northern bastard glaring at me with such filthy eyes? If only I could blind him...
The gazes from the southerners and the northerners clashed in the air like striking flint, sending sparks flying.
I had heard the North and South had poor relations, but this...? My blood ran cold.
Count Treven Serpine sat on the sofa in his private reception room, lost in thought about Pythia.
Pythia Morihan. His first love, without a doubt.
Since he had first seen her at nine, he had never forgotten her—not even once. She remained as beautiful and pure as ever.
How was that possible? His own wife, eight years younger, had already become one of the middle-aged women of the world, yet Pythia was still so irresistibly alluring.
To steady his racing heart, the count took a strong sip of liquor. The butler opened the door and led in a young girl.
Silver-blonde hair, ruby-red eyes. The girl who bore a resemblance to her mother Louise was said to be Pythia's disciple.
“I was told you wished to see me.”
To protect the girl's honor before marriage, the butler kept the door open.
If he closed it, no matter how many chamberlains and butlers remained inside, it would be considered a sealed room. A woman who had been in a sealed room with a man would lose her value forever. Arian Danier would enter the marriage market before her worth could be claimed.
The butler stood at the door, ready to slam it shut and end the girl's life in an instant, yet Arian showed no reaction whatsoever.
Even during dinner she had never removed her robes. Now she remained cloaked as she bowed with perfect courtesy.
“A descendant of the Danier family greets the master of Serpine.”
Was she arrogant or merely well-educated? The count clicked his tongue. Normally he would never have extended such courtesy to the pup of the king's dog.
No, he would have enjoyed sealing her in a sealed room and throwing her straight into hell.
Thinking about it, this girl was the one the king had thrown a birthday party for. The timid king must have been quivering with excitement.
Yet this girl was Pythia's disciple, cherished more than the count's own son, and Pythia had introduced her first.
“Welcome to the lands of Serpine. So, why has this young lady come to see me on such a night?”
The count's gaze swept from Arian's crown to her toes.
A lovely face. If she grew a little more she would become quite the beauty, yet the count had no interest in noble daughters.
Only if it were Pythia would he have considered a woman of his own class.
“Saint Pythia received a revelation, yet out of worry for my lord she could not speak it herself and sent this humble disciple to convey it.”
Arian lowered her eyes and answered piously.
“A revelation?”
It was well known that Pythia possessed the gift of prophecy from Gerka. Yet the power had only manifested when she was a princess, and since becoming saintess it had never appeared officially. Then why now?
Suspicion flickered in the count's eyes.
Still, a revelation was a revelation. With Pythia's name as guarantee, it would be accepted as genuine or not.
“What revelation could it be that my princess cannot speak it?”
“Saint Pythia holds the noble in high regard and cherishes her connection with the count so deeply that she cannot bring herself to speak. That is why this disciple has been sent.”
The count's eyebrows twitched.
“So...”
He stared at the young girl as if ready to devour her.
He truly disliked this roundabout style. Had it been his own child or subordinate, he would have corrected their manners with a harsh beating long ago.
“Gerka wishes to bless my son's wedding. The gods have spoken.”
The girl lifted her head and gazed at him calmly. Around her seemed to blow a cool breeze. Sacred air settled into her ruby-red eyes.
“Your gold and silver will be repaid with my chador.”
Arian Danier's eyes looked beyond the count, at something else entirely. The gods were speaking through her body.
Soon Arian withdrew something from her robes. The count's eyes widened. He walked slowly forward and gazed at the perfect chador she had pulled out.
Chador. The god's flower that bloomed only on the southern Mount of Light had appeared here in the North, fresh and alive before his eyes. The petals still held morning dew, as if plucked only this morning.
Trembling, the count reached out and accepted the chador Arian offered. Bowing his head, he inhaled its scent; the mysterious fragrance sank deep into his lungs.
“That... is a chador...”
A sacred flower. Only locals, high nobles, priests, or royalty could see it.
The butler gaped in astonishment. He was staring at a flower he had only heard about in legends.
The count stared blankly at Arian. No longer did he feel like mocking the “young girl.”
Before his overwhelming gaze, Arian's small lips parted.
“Prepare one thousand stalks of chador. This is Gerka's revelation.”
A thousand gold coins? You know exactly what that means, right? I hid my unease and watched the Serpine count.
Of course, a thousand gold was no small sum. In fact, it was an enormous fortune—perhaps around a hundred billion in Korean terms? Or more?
Here it could purchase ten small territories. It was not money meant to be spent freely.
Perhaps it was roughly the annual market tax income of the great Serpine trading house.
In short, an astronomical expenditure. If the count had glared at me in disbelief, he was not thinking that at all.
Instead, he gazed at the chador with rapture and then at me, and burst into laughter.
“One thousand stalks!”
The market tax income was staggering.
But for a man like Count Serpine, there was something more important. For example, something that would be remembered in history.
If the fresh chador were used to decorate the upcoming wedding, he would go down in history.
It would be a scene surpassing even the king's authority, a symbol of Serpine's greatest power.
“How could this servant possibly refuse what the gods bestow? I shall only follow the gods.”
He declared the expenditure of one thousand gold coins with solemn dignity.
Done. Now I must hurry back to find Damien, whose mana was draining rapidly while he kept using wind magic near my body. I turned to leave.