After adding these conventional words, Amaryllis made a light gesture. At that gesture, a man walked out from behind her.

The man was tall. In contrast, his lines were delicate and his lips were thin. Though he had quite handsome features, there was somewhat of a feeling that he seemed more like a free gypsy than a noble.

The nobles who saw that man swallowed their groans and whispered.

“So I’ve prepared a small gift for Mademoiselle Laure.”

“A gift?”

“To sincerely apologize to Mademoiselle Laure… I wanted to introduce a good person who might help you become accustomed to the country quickly, someone you could feel close to.”

Amaryllis, speaking words she didn’t mean, curved her eyes gently.

“Say hello, Mademoiselle Laure. This is Young Count Glastia. I’m not sure if Mademoiselle Sehera has mentioned it, but the Young Count is a close relative of the imperial family.”

“I am Gwenael de la Glastia. It is an honor to meet Mademoiselle Sehera’s treasure.”

Gwenael spoke quite properly, unlike his appearance. His posture of elegantly bowing like a noble was perfect.

Valentine barely held back a laugh.

Valentine was well aware of the rumors about Gwenael de la Glastia. At least the Gwenael that Valentine knew was a scoundrel on par with Astaire.

Whenever she heard stories about Gwenael, Valentine used to think that Astaire and Gwenael would have compatible personalities.

Was it because Count Glastia and Astaire were incompatible? Despite being blood relatives, Astaire and Gwenael never had the chance to become close.

‘Still.’

In any case, everything from the past was meaningless. Now he was just prey that had conveniently fallen into her lap.

Valentine extended her right hand. Gwenael naturally kissed the back of her hand.

“I’m Belle Laure. Nice to meet you, Monsieur Glastia.”

“Please call me Gwenael.”

Gwenael showed a charming smile. Amaryllis watched the two with satisfaction.

Those who were eyesores needed to be removed as soon as possible. Both Count Glastia and that woman who resembled Madame Marguerite.

* * *

That night.

“Master.”

There was a voice calling Valentine, who was sitting in a chair at the tea table.

Valentine raised her head. Where her gaze fell, a bleak darkness swept in. The thickened darkness blossomed into the shape of a person.

A man imbued with darkness stood fully in place. Lucifer looked down at Valentine intently.

“Isn’t it going as you wished, Master?”

“That’s right.”

“Then why do you seem half out of it?”

At those words, Valentine pressed her temples firmly.

“I never thought…”

Green eyes seemed to flicker before her. Valentine’s body trembled as she recalled Gwenael.

“That I would meet someone even more insane than Astaire.”

Astaire’s nature itself was cruel. There was a problem with his innate personality.

But Gwenael felt a bit different from that. Though he could be judged as much more human than Astaire, there was something strange, an oddly ambiguous aspect that couldn’t be clearly defined.

“An insane guy, you say.”

“Yes.”

Recalling her time with Gwenael, Valentine moved her fingers. Thump, thump. The short sound of her index finger hitting the tea table echoed.

“Perhaps it would be right to say he’s purely mad.”

Yes. This was the only word that could fill that ambiguous boundary.

If Astaire was a degenerate with innate personality problems, Gwenael was closer to an uncontrollable madman.

Valentine moistened her mouth with wine instead of tea. Once again, a blood-red light swirled in the glass resting on the table.

A bitter smile bloomed on Valentine’s face.

“I never thought the day would come when I would evaluate Astaire as a person with thoughts.”

“What did he do to make you say that.”

“Gwenael threw a punch at Liam.”

Astaire was a tyrant without any redeeming qualities. Nevertheless, there were points of comparison with Gwenael, who acted as if there were no consequences.

“Astaire… yes, he wielded his sword, but… he didn’t suddenly throw punches at nobles. He couldn’t do that.”

Unfortunately, most of those who fell victim to Astaire’s sword were servants or maids of relatively humble origins. Astaire didn’t carelessly raise his hand against high-ranking nobles or those who could benefit him.

Astaire clearly distinguished before whom he became weak and before whom he became strong. Though his nature was twisted, he was subtly discerning about people.

Even while grinding his teeth at Count Glastia, wasn’t it because of Marianne Glastia, his mother, that he couldn’t bring himself to kill him?

Even though his relationship with the Empress, Solice of Ingrid, was strained, he watched relatively quietly when there was no justification. How much had Astaire ground his teeth at the Empress who blocked his path at every turn?

If Marianne Glastia had closed her eyes a little earlier, the Glastia County would have met the same fate as the Ingrid County. It was the greatest fortune for Count Glastia that Marianne Glastia had endured for so long.

In any case, though Astaire acted as he pleased, there existed at least a minimum of ‘thought’ in his actions. Calculating his own gains and losses.

Astaire was one who sucked out everything that benefited him to the marrow before discarding it.

But such aspects couldn’t be found in Gwenael.

Gwenael de la Glastia was a bull that charged in without thinking ahead or behind.

Valentine’s eyes narrowed as she recalled what happened in the salon. The candle dimly lighting the room flickered. The shadows cast on the walls seemed to come alive and dance.

“…I’m tired.”

“It’s time to rest.”

Lucifer, who had muttered heavily, lifted Valentine. He skillfully laid her down on the bed.

“Sweet dreams.”

A hand imbued with darkness covered Valentine’s eyes. Her consciousness slowly sank to the other side of the abyss. Even in that moment, resentful faces floated one by one in her mind.

…Do they know?

That Valentine had become a person who couldn’t even sleep without Lucifer now.

* * *

Earlier that day, in Amaryllis’s salon. Valentine was guided to the tea room with Gwenael.

Gwenael, slouching in his chair, crossed his legs. He stared blatantly at Valentine to the point where it might be considered somewhat rude.

“You really do look alike. Surprisingly so.”

What he finally uttered… Though he probably said it on purpose because of what Amaryllis had said earlier, Valentine showed no particular reaction. What was there to say when someone tells you that you resemble yourself?

Gwenael showed a friendly smile. It was a rather serious smile that didn’t match his casual attitude.

“Ah, I hope you’re not offended? Don’t take it badly, it’s a compliment. Madame Marguerite was a renowned beauty.”

…Of course, there was an awkward feeling listening to someone talk about herself as if it were another person’s story.

“Everyone in Gabrienne praised her. How many people drooled next to Astaire? How ridiculous that sight was.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It must be a scene you can’t even imagine?”

The woman before him lowered her eyes timidly at the light joke. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her exceptionally white skin.

“So much so that after she died…”

Gwenael, who had paused briefly, stole another glance at Valentine.

It was understandable why both his father and the Empress were so concerned. However, even if they have committed sins, there was no reason or need to be anxious.

After all, the dead cannot be resurrected.

“You know the story about how in the neighboring country, when a criminal was so beautiful that the executioners couldn’t swing their axes, they put a mask on the criminal? They used to bring up that story and say that Duke Blumir had a heart of iron.”

“That’s an interesting story.”

“Rather than interesting, it’s incomprehensible. How he could kill such a thing so nonchalantly. Even I would have dropped the sword I was holding with trembling hands.”

Such a ‘thing’. From that small expression, it was clear how Gwenael viewed Valentine.

Valentine inwardly sneered. Sometimes, the greatest driving force that moves people is jealousy.

“Monsieur Glastia.”

“Gwenael.”

There was a voice immediately correcting the form of address. A somewhat irritated voice was heard.

“Call me Gwenael. You can even call me Gwen if you like. Calling me Monsieur Glastia makes me feel like I’ve become my father.”

“It seems you’re not on very good terms with your father?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. Isn’t that how all father-son relationships are?”

Gwenael was smooth-talking. It was just the right attitude to lure young nobles who had just set foot in the capital.

“Perhaps Mademoiselle doesn’t know? Fathers try not to understand their sons, and sons can’t understand their aging fathers. It’s just a rift that forms. Neither good nor bad.”

Contrary to the widespread rumors, it was an extremely sensible statement.

Gwenael grabbed Valentine’s hand. Kissing the white silk glove, he whispered.

“From now on, as per Her Majesty the Empress’s order, I shall diligently attend to you, Mademoiselle Laure. To the best of my ability.”

Valentine gently curled up the corners of her mouth.

The fact that Empress Amaryllis had attached Gwenael while pretending to be full of goodwill.

Those who had just entered the capital Gabrienne, or young people who had just set foot in high society, might have marveled at the Empress’s thoughtfulness. After all, the influence wielded by Count Glastia was not small.