“He… personally…?”

“Yes, my lady.”

At Hian’s matter-of-fact reply, Ophelia’s gaze lingered on the tea leaves inside the cabinet, refusing to move.

Chadwick had never liked tea. He preferred strong liquor or coffee brewed from fine, dark-roasted beans. There had been no reason for him to concern himself with tea leaves, nor to instruct that they be kept for her.

Ophelia folded her hands tightly together in her lap.

“My lady, shall I prepare this tea for you?”

Hian, standing beside her, asked once more.

Still staring at the cabinet, Ophelia answered softly.

“…Do so.”

At her words, Hian bowed and withdrew.

Not long after, a maid entered and set a tray before Ophelia. Upon the table were a round teapot, teacups rimmed with gold, and a small glass bottle filled with sweet condensed milk.

Ophelia’s eyes lingered on the bottle as she asked the maid,

“Did you bring this on your own?”

“I was instructed to always bring condensed milk whenever preparing tea for you, my lady. If it does not suit your taste, shall I take it away?”

“…No. Thank you.”

Ophelia shook her head faintly, and the maid retreated with careful steps out of the chamber.

Left alone, Ophelia looked at the sunset-colored liquid, its fragrance both rich and gentle. Slowly, she poured the condensed milk into her cup. The milk spread like clouds, softening the dark hue until it glowed warm.

“I think tea tastes best with milk. Sweet, smooth, don’t you agree?”

Chadwick was the only person who knew that Ophelia liked to drink her tea with milk. Since discovering that adding milk to tea was considered childish among the nobility, she had kept this preference hidden.

But how had the maid known? Who could have told her?

Ophelia stared at the white milk in her cup for a moment before finally raising it to her lips.

“…Sweet.”

The soft taste spread gently across her tongue, warmth seeping deep into her body until it unfurled within her like comfort. Slowly, she let her eyes fall closed.

“Divorce? Don’t be ridiculous.”

His voice was sharp with anger, which was so unlike him.

Why was he angry with her? Was it because she, the sinner in his eyes, had dared to suggest divorce? Or was it something else?

“I will never allow you to leave me.”

Had he forgiven her, even if only a little, without realizing it?

A fragile hope brushed against her heart, and Ophelia let out a trembling breath. The sweetness lingering on her tongue drew a wistful smile to her lips.

“You said you wouldn’t let me divorce you, Chadwick.”

If she could not have divorce—

“Then I need you.”

If he could not give her his heart, she had no choice but to divorce him. One of them had to go for her to be able to carry on living.

Ophelia tightened her grip around the teacup.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫

Meanwhile, Chadwick mounted the gate to the Forest of Beasts and spent the entire night cutting down monsters.

Only three or four hours remained until the morning state council, yet Chadwick could not endure without cutting something down.

By now he knew well: this seething rage within him would never settle without blood.

Sweat and blood sprayed together like rain. The voices of the beasts seeped into his mind along the current of g*re, clawing at his sanity.

And yet, laughably, none of their whispers scratched at him half as deeply as Ophelia’s single phrase—let’s divorce.

Because of that, he swung faster, struck harder, tearing through monsters with a ferocity beyond his norm.

Sensing the difference, even the creatures themselves—faces twisted with fury—began retreating into the heart of the forest.

“Useless things.”

Upon hearing these words, he let out a bitter laugh and allowed his sword to slip from his grasp.

The heavy iron blade fell to the ground with a dull clatter, failing to embed itself in the earth.

Chadwick’s gaze dropped to the sword for a moment before shifting almost indifferently to his waist.

There it hung: the Holy Sword. It gleamed like an ornate masterpiece and hummed faintly to remind him of its presence.

“The wielder of the Holy Sword…”

A cold sneer curved his lips.

“What a joke.”

Of all the burdens that came with his unwanted title, none were things he had ever sought. Not his father’s death. Nor the endless killing. Nor this station that dragged him into nothing but ceaseless, troublesome affairs.

He wiped the dark red blood from his cheek and lifted his gaze to the dimming sky.

If he was to reach the council in time, he would have to ride back through the gates to the palace without pause, just as he had done for the past four years without fail.

And yet, why did today feel different? Why did the routine feel suffocating and unbearably heavy today?

“…”

The blood clung to his face, smearing no matter how many times he wiped it away. It flowed like tears.

He needed to change his clothes.

The thought of his home flashed through his mind for a moment and Chadwick closed his eyes. Before, when he thought of that place, it was the cold, frozen air that came to mind, as though time itself had stopped. Now, however, it was Ophelia who came to mind instead.

After pausing with his eyes shut, Chadwick mounted the horse tied at the edge of the forest and turned towards the gate. He had to hurry. If he wanted to clean up before reaching the palace, even if it meant stopping at a roadside inn, he could not afford any delay.

Ordinarily, he would have returned home to change into his formal uniform. However, the thought of crossing paths with Ophelia and hearing her utter the word ‘divorce’ again made him change his mind.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫

Steady footsteps echoed along the white marble corridor. The noble, martial sound caused the waiting page to lift his head towards its source.

Chadwick approached with the bearing of a soldier, his icy gaze fixed straight ahead.

“Announce me.”

At the duke’s abrupt command, the young attendant flinched where he stood by the chamber doors. It was only a glance, yet it felt like a crushing weight.

Was this the aura of someone born to rule?

For a moment, the boy stared in blank awe. Only when Chadwick’s cold eyes turned directly towards him did he stand up straight, his chest swelling as he raised his voice to a shout.

“His Grace, Grand Duke Chadwick Dale Weibrick!”

At once, the great stone doors swung open without a sound.

Beyond them, the emperor and the assembled nobles were already seated about the long table, waiting.

Expressionless, Chadwick crossed the threshold.

“You are late, Duke.”

The young emperor welcomed him with an easy smile, his tone almost playful.

“Your Majesty.”

Chadwick bowed his head, his voice flat and stripped of feeling.

Even in that gesture, which to others might seem arrogant, the emperor only smiled.

For if there was anyone above the emperor in this empire, it was Chadwick himself. That he even deigned to bow at all was, to the emperor, nothing short of remarkable.

The late emperor had feared him, had tried to strip away what he possessed—but Chadwick had never cared.

What was the empire’s few centuries of history compared to the long, unbroken line of the Weibrick dukedom? It was the only house said to have endured since the dawn of the world itself. What more needed to be said?

And he was the one who led that house—the one who, by blood and tradition, bore the Holy Sword and annihilated its enemies.

He knew well the truth: the beast in his hand was not subdued because it lacked strength. Leave it untouched, keep the proper distance, and the monster would often consent to march alongside human order.

Like attending the state council every fortnight.
Like agreeing to a marriage with the temple.

So then, what did tardiness or a perfunctory bow matter in the end?

The emperor was willing to indulge him in far greater things, so long as his authority was never gravely threatened.

“Come, take your seat.”

The emperor said with a smile, turning his gaze toward Chadwick.

From the high seat, the emperor looked down—but the light from the windows fell behind Chadwick, shadowing his face, darkening his features until the very air grew chill. At that cold aura, the emperor’s fingers twitched involuntarily.

Forcing the stiffness from his own expression, he spoke.

“Then let us begin.”

Chadwick lowered his gaze and took his seat, positioned just beneath the Emperor and above all the other nobles. The council then commenced.

The matters at hand were worthless.

The only thing that interested the nobles was how much more tax they could extract from the common folk. The worsening famines across the continent, caused by the monstrous population surge, were of no concern to them.

As the endless squabbling of these greedy men began to turn to disgust within him, a voice rose.

“Your Majesty.”

It belonged to a young count, newly inherited from his late father.

“Speak.”

The emperor, brow furrowed at the nobles’ talk of raising taxes, waved a careless hand to grant him leave.

“I have an excellent idea. A way to fill the treasury without raising taxes.”

At that, the emperor’s face brightened, nodding eagerly.

“Let us hear it.”

The count, having won the floor, cast a sidelong glance at Chadwick before continuing.

“We should raise donations.”

His lips curved upward, and his eyes gleamed slick with greed.

“Under the pretext of the Saintess returning to subjugation.”

At that, Chadwick—who had been sitting in weary indifference—slowly raised his lids. In his ash-gray eyes, a cold blue flame flickered to life.