The Young Duke's Entrance
The doors to the banquet hall swung open, and Duke Craitan stepped inside first, radiating an imposing majesty.
An overwhelming pressure rolled off him, so crushing that none dared meet his eyes. Even without consciously asserting his dominance, the sheer presence of an Aura Master could not be hidden.
Behind him followed Pelens. Having notoriously avoided official gatherings, his unexpected appearance drew stunned, curious stares from the crowd.
“The troublemaker second son…”
“The second young master is actually attending with the Duke?”
“Could the succession line be shifting?”
“He hasn’t even graduated from the Academy yet, so it’s too early to say.”
Whispers rippled through the gathered nobles at the sight of House Craitan’s infamous second son. True to form, he wasn’t even dressed in proper formal attire. Underneath, he wore a high-collared black shirt, over which he had merely slung the uniform coat across his shoulders.
He was notorious for refusing to fasten his buttons whenever forced into a uniform, so most onlookers thought this half-dressed compromise might actually be an improvement. He walked with his hands shoved casually into his pockets—a posture bordering on insolent—yet not a single soul dared call him out on it.
“Still, to think the second young master would attend a banquet. What could have brought on such a change of heart?”
“Indeed. He was never one to—ahem—listen obediently to the Duke.”
A few former classmates who had endured the Academy alongside Pelens instinctively ducked their heads, intimidated by the realization that his delinquent ways had not mellowed in the slightest.
And then, trailing behind Pelens… The crowd’s gaze plunged downward.
“Why’s it sho big?”
A soft, syrup-sweet voice mumbled with adorable lisping diction.
The girl had been dressed with such absurd devotion that ribbons, gemstones, and fresh blossoms adorned every available inch from head to toe. It was as if someone had resolved to shower her with every beautiful treasure the world had to offer, burying the child beneath sheer luxury.
She looked completely out of place following behind the two intimidating men. Tucked in the wake of the imposing giants, she seemed even tinier than she was—resembling nothing so much as a fluffy, downy chick.
No one needed to ask who she was. She was the newly adopted young lady herself: Lefonya Craitan.
“She’s much… ahem, smaller than I thought.”
“Oh, heavens. She’s… she’s utterly ador—adorable.”
The rigid tension on the nobles’ faces melted away as they took in the sight of a child infinitely cuter than any rumor had described. Her posture only added to her charm; shoulders squared and spine ramrod-straight, she glided forward with steps so noiseless and elegant they were practically artful.
Her grasp of banquet etiquette was so flawless that it seemed impossible for a five-year-old. Even those who had arrived eager to find fault were struck speechless by her impeccable poise.
Just then, Duke Craitan, who had been striding at the very front, came to an abrupt halt. Pivoting around, he marched back toward Lefonya.
Standing directly before him, the five-year-old looked smaller still. The stark contrast between Duke Craitan’s stern, granite features and the child’s soft, round cheeks made every noble in the room hold their breath in nervous anticipation.
The Duke parted his lips.
“Fonya.”
A nickname far too tender to belong to such a forbidding man fell from his mouth. The onlookers tilted their heads, utterly bewildered.
Paying them no mind, Duke Craitan gently reached out and straightened a slightly crooked ribbon on her dress.
“The floor is marble from here on, so take care not to slip. If you fall, you might scrape your knees. Don’t run, walk slowly… Hmph. Better yet, simply stand on my boots and we’ll walk together.”
The nobles exchanged stunned, uncomprehending glances, wondering if they were suffering a collective hallucination. While Duke Craitan’s love for his family was well documented, it was a brand of tenderness he had never once displayed toward his two sons.
“Come now, Father.”
Yet the shock was far from over.
“This is Fonya’s very first banquet. How would it look if she rode on your boots like a toddler? Fonya, come here. Take both my hands and walk with me.”
This was the very same wild scoundrel who cared for no one—not even his own kin—who smashed whatever annoyed him and lived solely by his fleeting whims. And now, that selfsame hooligan was smiling warmly, practically begging to hold Lefonya’s hand. The aristocrats stared in horrified disbelief, as if they had witnessed something forbidden to mortal eyes.
A stunned hush swallowed the banquet hall.
Breaking the dead silence was a voice as light and fluffy as a soufflé.
“No.”
Her refusal to both men was absolute.
“I can walk all by myshelf. Don’t need feet, don’t need hands.”
What was more, she spoke to them with casual, unfiltered familiarity. Before Duke Craitan and Pelens—men who could make heads of high-ranking noble houses grovel in panic—a five-year-old child was casually turning them down with child-like informal speech.
“Hey, Fluffball. Why won’t you hold my hand? There’s a huge crowd here; it’s dangerous. What if we lose you?”
“Indeed. I agree with Pelens. Besides, an escort is customary when entering a banquet. Since we are family, holding our hands can simply be considered an escort.”
Jaws dropped across the room. The sight unfolding before their eyes was so utterly bizarre that the onlookers struggled to tell whether they were awake or trapped in a surreal dream.
“Haaah.”
The five-year-old let out an exasperated sigh, as if dealing with hopeless children.
“Fine. Jusht once.”
She offered her tiny hands as though doing them a tremendous, reluctant favor—yielding to the very men whose hands countless nobles would have sacrificed fortunes just to touch.
“Good girl, Fluffball. Well done.”
“A wise decision, Fonya. Very clever.”
Receiving lavished praise simply for granting them a handhold, the child looked entirely unfazed. It dawned on the nobles that the scandalous rumor about Pelens squandering his entire fortune on his new sister at the capital’s luxury boutique might not have been an exaggeration after all.
Just then, the head butler of House Villemon, the host of the evening, bellowed at the top of his lungs:
“Presenting His Grace, Duke Ruedeum Villemon!”
It was the grand entrance of the empire’s youngest duke, the guest of honor whose succession they had all gathered to celebrate. Every head in the hall turned back toward the grand stairway.
Dressed in immaculate formal attire, a young boy descended the spiral staircase into the ballroom. Despite his tender age, he radiated an aura as sharp and honed as a tempered blade.
Taller than his peers and bearing remarkably refined features, he carried himself with towering confidence. Even under the piercing scrutiny of the empire’s gathered nobility, he showed not the slightest hint of hesitation. Descending the stairs with effortless grace as though it were his birthright, the boy came to a halt upon the elevated dais.
Every guest waited with bated breath for the young duke to speak.
“I thank you all for attending the banquet celebrating my succession today. Thank you for your congratulations, and thank you for your presence. I trust you will enjoy yourselves before you take your leave.”
That was it. The nobles, who had been anticipating a stirring speech brimming with youthful ambition, stood in stunned silence. Disregarding the bewildered atmosphere entirely, the young duke stepped down from the dais.
Every eye in the hall tracked his purposeful stride. And where the young duke finally stopped…
“Lefonya.”
…was right in front of Lefonya Craitan, the much-gossiped-about daughter of House Craitan.
It was a moment guaranteed to etch Lefonya Craitan’s name indelibly into the mind of every noble present. Taking advantage of the collective paralysis, Ruedeum caught the hand of the blinking, astonished girl and brushed a swift kiss against the back of it.
“Thank you for coming to see me. I’ve been waiting for you.”
What on earth is happening?
Even Lefonya, who had been trained never to let shock register on her face under any circumstances, couldn’t maintain her mask this time. Her eyes went wide with pure astonishment as she froze, staring blankly at the boy standing before her.
Ruedeum Villemon.
That Rudeum… was really this Ruedeum?!
It was the very same boy who had sneaked into her bedroom through the terrace not once, but twice.
A duke? He’s the noble who inherited the ducal title?
Lefonya stood blinking numbly, completely forgetting that he had just kissed the back of her hand.
Whoosh!
In a flash, Duke Craitan scooped Lefonya into his arms, wrenching her away from Ruedeum. Pelens instantly stepped forward, shielding Lefonya behind his back while aggressively rubbing the back of her hand with a handkerchief.
“Duke Villemon. I intended to offer my congratulations first, but since Your Grace skipped protocol, I shall dispense with it as well.”
Cradling Lefonya protectively against his chest, Duke Craitan glared down at Ruedeum with lethal sharpness. His expression was so frigid that even Lefonya flinched in his arms. Ruedeum, on the other hand, appeared utterly unfazed.
“Are you acquainted with my daughter, Duke Villemon?”
Ruedeum’s golden gaze shifted toward Lefonya.
No! Don’t you dare act like you know me!
Lefonya bit her lower lip in sheer panic, flicking her eyes frantically from side to side. Every honed survival instinct screamed in warning: Acknowledge him here, and you’re dead!
“We are not acquainted.”
Mercifully, Ruedeum caught her desperate signal. Lefonya let out a breath of profound relief in her heart. Catching her reaction, Ruedeum fought back a smirk, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Grown adults could barely raise their heads before Duke Craitan, yet the young Ruedeum was entirely different. Not only did he meet the Duke’s glare head-on, but he also answered with unhurried nonchalance and dared to suppress a laugh. His boldness bordered on reckless.
“We are not yet acquainted,” Ruedeum continued smoothly, “though she is someone I wish to know and become close with—enough that I personally sent her the very first invitation to my succession banquet and rushed over to greet her the moment I stepped down.”
Lefonya choked on her own breath.
Every pair of eyes in the ballroom locked onto her.
It would have been a hundred times better if you’d just lied and said we knew each other!