The Return of the Eldest Son
Late at night, inside the ducal estate of House Villemon.
Ruedeum walked alone down the vast, deserted corridor.
"I wonder when she'll send word."
A full week had elapsed since his succession celebration. Still, not a single message had arrived from Lefonya. Waiting for her letter made each passing day drag on until it bordered on excruciating boredom.
"...Mmh."
A low hum vibrated in Ruedeum's throat, and he abruptly pivoted on his heel. Unaccompanied by a single servant or escort knight, he bypassed his bedchambers entirely and made his way toward the reception parlor—the very room where he had lingered so long in Lefonya's company that afternoon.
A faint chuckle escaped him as he settled onto the exact sofa where Lefonya had sat. Leaning his head back against the plush upholstery, he gazed up at the high ceiling, and the memories of that day rushed back with startling clarity.
"She looked at me with such strange pity."
Ruedeum raised his arm and peeled back the cuff of his sleeve. The wound from that day was already thoroughly knitted over, leaving pristine skin behind.
"She was even more horrified when she caught sight of the blood."
She had struck him as an exceptionally soft-hearted girl—someone who, contrary to her guarded posture, simply could not bring herself to walk past a creature in distress. He pictured her darling, earnest expressions, and the subtle, endearing slip of her pronunciation whenever she strung together too many words at once.
Ruedeum pressed the heel of his left hand firmly against his face.
"...Ha."
A muffled laugh slipped through his fingers despite his best efforts to stifle it.
She had no idea who should have been pitying whom.
"She doesn't even realize how close she came to dying."
Murmuring softly under his breath, Ruedeum lowered his interlaced hands onto his lap.
"I told her I needed her because she was the young lady of Craitan, so she shouldn't suspect a thing."
In truth, what Ruedeum needed was never House Craitan's daughter. He needed Lefonya herself. But had he laid that bare, suspicion would have instantly clouded those eyes that gleamed like ripe, sweet cherries. So he had seasoned his words with a convenient lie.
"Is it because she's someone I saved?"
He could not fathom why the thought of wariness in those eyes grated on him so intensely. I went to such lengths to keep her alive, yet she looks at me with doubt?
Someone he had saved. And someone he had to keep alive.
Ruedeum's brow furrowed.
"Well, none of it matters as long as she stays breathing."
He remembered the resolute ring of her voice when she declared she wanted nothing from him, and the genuine worry in her tone when she asked if he had anyone at his side to help him.
"...Bizarre."
Most people Ruedeum encountered fell into one of two categories: those eager to bleed him dry for their own advancement, and those who cared nothing for his injuries so long as they could force their demands upon him. Yet Lefonya was entirely different. Even knowing his identity, she had remained composed, treating him as though he were someone who had nothing to do with her.
"Is it because she's a Craitan?"
Rather than attempting to curry favor or forge ties, she had pushed him away with open wariness. Even when he claimed he needed the young lady of Craitan, she had not offered so much as a pretense of negotiation.
"Acting like I have nothing to do with her only makes me want to get entangled with her all the more."
That reckless impulse was the sole reason he had let that absurd plea slip past his lips—asking her to keep him beside her and tend to him like a houseplant. His original design had merely been to establish a reasonable rapport so he could watch over her and ensure she did not die. He had never intended to grovel on his hands and knees.
"Casting aside all my pride to beg to be raised like a flower... what a pathetic display."
Yet it was the first time in his entire life someone had refused to take anything from Ruedeum Villemon, only to worry over his wounds instead. An indefinable warmth swelled quietly inside his chest.
"Still, what is so difficult about keeping a houseplant that she has to agonize over it for days?"
Ruedeum crossed his arms, his face scowling in earnest contemplation.
"Keeping me at her side would be immensely useful to her in every conceivable way."
He resolved to demand the reason behind her hesitation the very next time they met.
Lost in thoughts of Lefonya, the lingering traces of amusement vanished from Ruedeum's face in a fraction of a second. The chilling, deadened stillness that settled over his features was far too terrifying to belong to a child—an expression he had never once revealed in Lefonya's presence.
"Hah."
A cold sigh drifted from his lips. At the same moment, the highest-tier spirit that shadowed him everywhere—the great silver wolf—manifested in the room. Not as a shimmering phantasm, but in tangible, heavy flesh.
"Kill them."
Ruedeum issued the flat command without lifting so much as a finger.
The silver wolf blurred into a deadly streak, lunging ferociously at the shadows creeping past the window frame into the reception room. Dark crimson instantly splattered across the spotless glass.
There was none of the restraint he had shown before Lefonya, where he had merely subdued and knocked the assassins unconscious. Ruedeum smoothly drew the sword resting at his hip, the motion as natural as breathing. Though bearing arms within a ducal manor was strictly forbidden by custom, Ruedeum never parted from his blade under any circumstance.
"How is this any different from wartime?"
Muttering dryly, Ruedeum stepped into the fray, his blade lashing out toward an assassin concealed in the gloom. He deflected an incoming thrust with effortless precision before severing his opponent's throat in a single fluid stroke. It was a merciless, terrifyingly flawless display. His blade fell with absolute lethality, carving through every intruder intent on his life.
It was swordsmanship so consummate that it defied belief for someone currently sustaining the physical manifestation of a highest-tier spirit. By all laws of martial theory, a spirit contractor could not practice swordsmanship. The sheer strain of summoning a spirit was taxing enough, but spirits were also notoriously temperamental entities—possessive, proud beings that took immense joy in seeing mortals rely on their supernatural might. Had a contractor drawn a steel blade in their presence, a spirit's prickly pride might well have driven it to burst its master's heart in retaliation.
Spirit arts, after all, relied entirely on the favor of spirits.
Yet Ruedeum, while commanding a highest-tier spirit, wielded his blade with total, breathtaking mastery.
Shhhk!
At such a tender age, he bore the double burden without a hint of strain. To claim he had never been taught the sword would have been an utter absurdity in the face of such perfection.
"Hmph."
Once every living breath in the room had been extinguished, Ruedeum flicked the fresh blood from his steel.
"If I get injured, will she worry over me like that again?"
Ruedeum murmured, glancing down at his unscathed forearm. He had postponed putting an end to the Dowager Duchess solely because the political aftermath would have been a nuisance to clean up, but the delay had yielded an unexpected boon. If Lefonya looked upon him with pity, he could use the wounds inflicted by his grandmother's assassins as leverage to secure her sympathy.
Casting a detached glance over the carnage, Ruedeum sheathed his blade and dismissed the spirit. He reached out and gave the servant's bell cord a sharp tug. Within moments, the head butler stepped into the reception parlor.
Ruedeum, who had been leaning against the wall near the entrance, pushed himself upright as the butler arrived.
"Clean it up thoroughly."
Vivid red coated the floors and walls of the parlor. Yet the butler did not so much as flinch. The scene was far too routine. Ruedeum Villemon, the master of House Villemon, faced daily assassination attempts orchestrated by his own grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Villemon. Not a single soul residing within this fortress was ignorant of that fact.
"Right away, my lord."
Nor was anyone ignorant of who truly ruled this estate.
Approximately one hundred days ago, following the morning the young master's temperament had radically transformed overnight, the true sovereign of the ducal house had shifted as well. Terrified by her grandson, who resolved every crisis with frightening speed while quietly expanding his power in the shadows, the Dowager Duchess had locked herself away in seclusion, doing nothing more than dispatching desperate assassination squads from behind closed doors.
Naturally, outsiders who knew nothing of the internal reality looked upon young Ruedeum with profound pity, lamenting the cruel plight of a child harassed by his own grandmother.
The butler bowed low before Ruedeum, who had survived yet another night.
The succession banquet of House Villemon had drawn to a peaceful close. Stung by his failure to capture the elusive form of the silver wolf, Felens threw himself relentlessly into aura conditioning and sword training the moment the festivities concluded, dedicating the dawn hours and the dead of night to his drills while Lefonya slept soundly.
In the wake of the gathering, ripples of gossip swept across high society. Most of the talk centered on the realization that Ruedeum Villemon, the youngest duke in imperial history, was far from the naive greenhorn nobles had anticipated, and that House Craitan's young lady was infinitely more charming and adorable than anyone could have imagined. Furthermore, whispers abounded that Duke Craitan and his second son, Felens, treasured the girl with an intensity bordering on reverent devotion.
A fresh wind was blowing through aristocratic circles, driven by the names of Ruedeum and Lefonya.
Inevitably, those circling rumors traveled far enough to reach a certain pair of ears.
"Hah."
The eldest son and official heir of House Craitan.
Habelian Craitan.
"There should be a limit to indulging in foolish games. Father has grown old and disgraceful."
Stepping down from the carriage, Habelian brushed down his dress uniform, smoothing away every microscopic wrinkle with sharp, deliberate pats. Fastened to the very top button at his throat, his attire was immaculate. He turned his gaze toward the grand silhouette of the Craitan estate.
His platinum-blonde hair was parted and slicked back with pomade with geometric precision, as though he refused to tolerate a single stray strand. Sharp crimson eyes, identical to Duke Craitan's, held the chilling intensity of dried blood, and a high, sculpted bridge made his severe features appear all the more frigid. His lips rested in an unbroken, unyielding line, looking as though he had never once smiled in his entire life.
"Not a single thing here has changed."
The manor stood precisely as it had on the day he departed. A faint wave of nausea tightened Habelian's jaw, and he pressed his lips together in distaste.
When the butler's initial letter arrived bearing news that their father had adopted a child, Habelian had dismissed it as nothing more than the frivolous adoption play so fashionable among the nobility—a passing whim that would never endure. Since the trend had spread like a contagion through high society, he had seen no reason to react.
"...Yet dragging her out into public view and allowing rumors to run rampant crosses the line entirely."
Knowing that the volatile, headstrong Felens would storm home to tear the place apart upon reading the letter, Habelian had chosen not to intervene personally. But when word reached him that Felens had not only doted on the child, but had actually escorted her to a luxury boutique to buy her presents, Habelian realized the situation had careened dangerously off course.
The moment the rumors were confirmed, Habelian submitted his formal resignation to the Military Academy without hesitation.
He had detested the idea of returning home so deeply that he enlisted in the imperial knight orders the instant he graduated from the Imperial Academy, stationing himself on the empire's borders. And when the endless confrontations with slaughter became tiresome and he desired quiet, he had taken an instructor's post at the Military Academy. Yet here he was, dragged back to this hateful threshold by such an absurd farce.
"Father is one thing, but I never expected even Felens to be taken in by such cheap tricks."
It seemed an exceptionally skilled con artist had managed to breach the ducal gates. Habelian's brow pinched into a severe crease.
"I have no intention of letting such a foul stain blemish the house that will soon be mine."
Habelian fixed his icy gaze upon the manor.
Following the second son, Felens, the eldest son had finally come home.