“I should have asked about My Lady while I was in the North. I foolishly held back my curiosity and didn’t even prepare myself…”

“Sir Thierry, were you that curious about My Lady?”

“No, not just me—everyone was curious. Her beauty was already famous…”

“You must have been really looking forward to meeting her.”

“Shut up! W-what do you mean, looking forward to it!”

Thierry snapped at Jacques as if he had struck a nerve. But no matter how much he protested, his face was red as a beet, making it impossible to hide his embarrassment.

Still, Thierry wasn’t entirely wrong.

At the time, every knight in the Snowfield Order had harbored a certain fantasy about Aveline Croeta.

A legendary beauty whose fame had reached even the farthest corners of the North, the one and only consort of their proud and noble lord, the fated partner chosen by the gods…

For knights who swore loyalty to their lady, could there be a more romantic figure?

However, as soon as they arrived in the capital with all their expectations in tow, they were met with something closer to outright hostility. Treated worse than stray dogs, the knights couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

The admiration they had secretly held was quickly replaced by resentment, and soon, opposition to Aveline began to spread among them.

Knights are not fools. They know what kind of lord they want to serve.

And Aveline Croeta was one of the few noblewomen who evoked no desire in them to protect her.

“Well, it can’t be helped. My Lady dislikes swords.”

Jacques shrugged, and Thierry sharply turned his head away, his expression twisting. It was clear that particular fact didn’t sit well with him.

Thinking about it, it really was a ridiculous tragedy. The consort of the man hailed as the empire’s greatest knight despising swords?

Especially here, in the Mazengarve Empire, where one’s stance on swordsmanship was more than just a matter of preference.

As a nation of knights, the empire hosted grand-scale events like hunting tournaments and jousting competitions, providing ample opportunities for warriors to display their skill and valor.

During such occasions, noble ladies would attend to cheer on their knights, and the victors would dedicate their triumphs to them. It was an age-old tradition—a knight’s romance.

And yet, the Snowfield Order would never be able to fight in such events for the Duchess of Evuteren. It was only natural that their morale would plummet.

‘So this is fate, huh…’

A wave of weary regret crashed over Kazerre like a storm.

But no matter how much he asked, the gods would never answer him. Even if they did, he already knew the truth all too well—he alone would have to bear the weight of this fate.

The conclusion had already been decided. Shutting down his thoughts with practiced ease, Kazerre lifted his gaze.

He refocused on his subordinates, who had been bickering in front of him. Noticing his sharp gaze, the knights stiffened and stood at attention.

Only Lionel, still chuckling to himself, continued to tip back an empty liquor bottle, apparently amused by it all.

Kazerre chose to bring up a matter that could be settled quickly.

“In two days, we’ll assign a knight to escort Aveline.”

His tone was flat, as if eager to get an annoying task over with.

The knights, in contrast, tensed up immediately, their ears perking up. Even when camping in monster-infested mountains, the patrol roster hadn’t made them this nervous.

“The escort will be…”

*

Four days later, in front of the duchy’s main entrance.

Aveline appeared slightly later than the appointed time.

Waiting by the carriage stood a coachman and a knight clad in the uniform of the Order.

She walked toward them at a leisurely pace.

“Good afternoon, Lady Croeta.”

The knight inclined his head stiffly in greeting, and Aveline lifted the corners of her lips into a bright smile.

“It is a lovely afternoon, Sir Thierry.”

Thierry’s face twisted awkwardly as he returned the gesture.

His smile was so strained that it looked more like he was about to cry. Truly, he was a man whose emotions were written all over his face.

Aveline lightly teased him, as if enjoying the moment.

“I never imagined I’d see you like this.”

At her words, Thierry clumsily furrowed his brow, forcing an attempt at a smile.

As if he could have predicted this—Kazerre choosing him, of all people, to escort the one person he got along with the least.

‘The escort will be Thierry.’

‘What? M-me, sir? Not Patrick?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please reconsider, Your Grace! I’ve never escorted a lady before!’

‘Perfect. You can gain some experience.’

Faced with his lord’s unyielding decision, Thierry’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

At that moment, as if to rescue him, Jacques eagerly raised his hand and volunteered.

‘I’ll go!’

‘Denied.’

However, before Thierry could even feel grateful, Kazerre coldly rejected Jacques’ request.

Standing beside Kazerre, Xenon cast a pitying look at the dumbfounded Thierry and offered some advice.

‘Make sure to dress appropriately so you don’t bring disgrace upon the Lady, Sir Thierry.’

The smug amusement laced in his kind voice still echoed in Thierry’s ears.

‘What in the world is my lord thinking? Is he punishing me or something?’

Thierry’s face clouded with gloom as he turned the thought over and over in his mind. But he couldn’t let such feelings show in front of Aveline.

In the end, Thierry lowered his head like a guilty man and spoke.

“I lack experience in attending to a lady, so I may be inadequate in many ways, but I will do my best, my lady.”

It was an overly honest statement, but Thierry knew he had to apologize in advance. He was well aware of his own shortcomings.

Though he was among the top fighters in the knightly order, when it came to dealing with noble ladies, he was just as outstanding—in incompetence.

‘Whenever something like this came up, he always sent Patrick. So why now…?’

Patrick de Con was, unlike Thierry, a noble-born gentleman well-versed in etiquette. Moreover, unlike most knights, he didn’t harbor strong resentment toward Aveline and often escorted her in Kazerre’s stead.

Thanks to that, Thierry had rarely interacted with Aveline. But for some reason, his lord had deliberately chosen him this time.

‘Was it because I was too insolent to the Lady before…? No, surely not.’

His ever-serious and dignified lord wouldn’t hand down such a petty punishment to a subordinate. The mere thought of it felt disrespectful, and Thierry quickly erased it from his mind, focusing instead on the woman before him.

‘Damn, she’s insanely beautiful.’

Despite his utterly wretched mood, there was no denying it—dressed in a pale yellow gown the color of her eyes, Aveline looked absolutely radiant.

Her long, soft pink hair was elegantly braided to one side, adorned with tiny white flowers, and secured with a blue ribbon that fluttered gently in the breeze.

She was always an exceptionally striking woman, but as she walked toward him just now, it felt as though the sun itself was descending closer.

‘And it’ll probably burn me to a crisp without leaving a trace.’

Thierry scoffed at himself.

But contrary to his expectations, the Lady remained quiet. He had assumed she would immediately reject him, yet she simply stared at him.

“……”

It was better than her picking a fight right away, but the silence was equally uncomfortable for Thierry.

Just when he was beginning to wish she’d go ahead and scold him already—

“Your hand.”

“…Pardon?”

“You need to offer me your hand, Sir Thierry.”

At her pointed remark, Thierry jolted and quickly thrust out his hand.

He had been so preoccupied with reminding himself to endure everything patiently that he had completely forgotten the most basic escorting protocol.

When her small, delicate hand, gloved in lace, rested atop his palm, his mind went completely blank.

‘Wait, how do I open the carriage door now? Do I use my other hand? Or should I let go of her hand first and then open it?’

Watching Thierry flail in confusion, the coachman clicked his tongue in exasperation and opened the door for him. Thierry felt an overwhelming urge to bite his own tongue in shame.

Fortunately, Aveline climbed into the carriage without complaint.

Thierry exhaled in relief, feeling as if he’d just barely survived a crisis. His sweat-soaked back suddenly felt cool and clammy.

Just as he confirmed that Aveline had settled in and reached to close the door—

“Aren’t you getting in?”

“…Me?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, I can ride up front on the coachman’s—”

“I don’t recall the Duke requesting a coachman.”

Aveline tilted her head. It wasn’t genuine doubt—just a silent command for him to hurry up and get in.

‘But why?’

Why did they have to sit side by side? Surely, she would prefer being alone.

‘Does she intend to have a friendly chat now?’

The mere thought of himself forcing a polite smile made his stomach churn.

But Aveline showed no intention of retracting her words. She simply fixed him with an expectant gaze.

“…Then, excuse me.”

Reminding himself over and over not to go against her today, Thierry reluctantly climbed into the carriage.

He now had to endure an entire hour in this cramped space alone with Aveline. The very thought made his throat dry. He had no idea where to rest his gaze.

“……”

“……”

As expected, silence filled the carriage, broken only by the occasional jolt of the wheels.

For some reason, it felt as if even the smallest sound would be inappropriate. Stiff as a board, Thierry rolled his eyes around anxiously.

Across from him, Aveline sat gracefully, her gaze lowered ever so slightly as if in thought.

Her long, delicate eyelashes cast fine shadows on her porcelain skin, and every time she blinked, those faint shadows quivered like rippling silk.

‘Like a butterfly fluttering its wings…’

Before he realized it, Thierry found himself mesmerized by the sight.

The moment he became aware of what he was doing, he sharply turned his head away.

‘Idiot. You’re a damn idiot.’

No matter how beautiful she was, she was still Aveline Croeta.

The woman who looked down on his beloved knights as insignificant, who constantly put his most respected lord in difficult situations—a woman endlessly arrogant and condescending.

But no matter what emotions he harbored toward her, the instant he faced her directly, he couldn’t help but acknowledge her beauty.

That was the truly terrifying thing about Aveline Croeta.

‘Is this a new form of torture?’

Thierry seriously pondered the thought.

To deliberately trap herself in a confined space with a man who was uncomfortable around her, only to remain completely silent—it was a torment far too refined to be accidental.

If her goal was to strangle him with discomfort, then her plan was an undeniable success.

“Sir Thierry.”

Just then, Aveline, who had been sitting motionless like a wax figure, lifted her gaze.