It was early afternoon, and the sun had just passed its zenith and was beginning its descent. Sunlight poured through the large glass window that dominated one study wall, bathing the room in a warm glow. Sitting at his desk, tucked neatly into one corner of the office, Ruben absorbed his work. The soft rustle of paper turning seemed to encompass the entire world, a quiet, tranquil rhythm filling the air.

His green eyes focused intently on the documents before him. The delicate contours of his nose, firmly pressed lips, straight and poised shoulders, and hands gracefully holding a pen all came together to paint a picture of the young Duke at work, a scene as if captured in an exquisite portrait.

“Your Grace.”

Ruben lifted his gaze slightly to acknowledge the voice calling him. Enoch found himself, not for the first time, struck by the man’s beauty. Ruben possessed a transcendent elegance that seemed to defy gender, evoking an almost divine reverence. Yet he remained entirely indifferent to his appearance—not unaware, but uninterested in wielding it as a tool. His disregard was as innate as his beauty itself, an indifference that befitted someone born flawless.

He was diligent, above all else, and his looks held no influence over his character or actions. While some, particularly older noblewomen, lamented the lack of refinement in how his beauty was presented, others found themselves breathless over his unadorned radiance. Yet, to Ruben, none of this mattered in the slightest.

To those who knew him well, his remarkable appearance was often seen as a hindrance, overshadowing his countless virtues. Enoch was one of those who thought so. Anyone who judged the Duke by his looks understood nothing about him—how righteous, steadfast, and intensely reliable he was. Despite the weight of the expectations placed upon him by the many who depended on him, he never faltered, his shoulders never stooping under the burden.

How much of an honor it was to kneel and pledge allegiance to the resolute figure of his back! Of course, Ruben himself seemed entirely unaware of the significance of such vows, which, to Enoch, only made him all the more worthy of admiration.

“What is it?”

“A royal missive has arrived. It’s regarding the tax law proposal.”

Ruben’s handsome brows furrowed slightly, his irritation plainly visible.

“That one again?”

“Yes, as expected.”

Enoch respectfully handed the document to Ruben. Ruben’s expression grew increasingly grim as he read through it, even though he knew much of its content from anonymous sources.

The law itself was almost laughable. A list of noble estates would be compiled, and based on each territory’s income, economic size, and population, they would be categorized into tiers, each with its corresponding tax increase rate. At first glance, it was a fair and reasonable proposal. The problem, however, lay in the criteria—it amounted to nothing more than the king’s personal preferences. And Ruben himself was irrefutable proof of that bias.

“Effenberg is barely touched?”

“Yes, as you anticipated.”

Ruben raked his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Effenberg, a region historically renowned for its affluence even before the kingdom’s founding, was a hub of agriculture and commerce. Its fertile soil produced crops distributed nationwide, and its proximity to the capital and well-maintained roads cemented its role as the center of trade. From farmers to merchants, a wide variety of professions flourished there, making it the economic heart of the kingdom. If any territory deserved to be taxed at the highest rate, it was Effenberg.

Yet the missive ranked Effenberg at a mere fourth out of five tiers, the second lowest category. The reason was simple: the crown favored the Effenberg family, thanks to Helia Bailey’s engagement to one of its members.

Ruben scanned the list again. In stark contrast, the top tiers were filled with noble houses that either lacked influence or had failed to curry favor with the royal family. Among the names, one stood out to him: Marquis of Caros. The northern territory governed by his godfather was a harsh land, its barren soil, and frigid climate ill-suited for agriculture. The lack of trade routes rendered commerce nearly impossible. And yet, its tax increase was higher than his own territory’s. It was absurd.

He understood that the royal treasury was depleted and that new sources of revenue were desperately needed. But this? It was akin to the nobles of the royal family extorting funds under the guise of tax law, no different from common street thugs demanding protection money. Worse still, they made no effort to hide their greed, flaunting it openly to amass more loyal followers.

The thought of being lumped into the same category as such people—because of his association with Helia Bailey—was intolerable.

“This position is revolting.”

Setting the document down, Ruben pinched the bridge of his nose. A wave of fatigue washed over him.

Knock, knock. The sound came at just the right moment. Ruben said, without removing his hand from his face, “Enter.”

Will stepped cautiously into the room. Sensing that the matter required privacy, Enoch took a few steps back to yield the floor.

“Your Grace, a message has arrived from the Star Residence.”

The Star Residence? Ruben’s brows twitched ever so slightly. From past experience, any news involving Helia was rarely good, just like his cursed position as her fiancé.

Still, ignoring it wasn’t an option. Suppressing a sigh, Ruben gave a resigned nod. Will spoke with care.

“Her Highness the Princess is unwell.”

“What?”

Ruben’s flawless brow furrowed deeply, like a pristine surface cracking. The news wasn’t good news, as expected, but its nature was unexpected.

He froze, lifting his head. His sharp gaze fixed on Will, who instinctively swallowed under the weight of his master’s piercing eyes.

“What’s the diagnosis?”

“Well… it seems they’re not sure.”

Will hesitated, an unusual display of unease. Ruben waited silently, clearly expecting more.

Under the Duke’s frigid scrutiny, Will finally relented and revealed the crux of the issue.

“Her Highness has refused to allow anyone near her. She has even turned away the ducal physician, permitting only a single maid to attend to her. As a result, we have no way of assessing her condition.”

What does that even mean? Declining a physician’s care despite claiming to be ill? For a fleeting moment, an uncontrollable anger flared in the calm green of his eyes. Was everyone just standing idly by, watching this unfold? 

The accusation nearly escaped his lips, but Ruben bit it back effortlessly. This wasn’t Will’s fault. What authority did the servants have in this matter? If the princess refused, no mere attendant could barge in by force. Even knowing this, Ruben found it difficult to quell the urge to reprimand Will.

Closing his eyes, Ruben took a moment to compose himself. He reluctantly acknowledged that his anger was excessive. The one person capable of unsettling him to this extent had always been the same, and it irked him to no end. How could someone consistently throw everyone around them into disarray yet act so selfishly?

As always, his frustration inevitably targeted Helia. It was a familiar cycle of thought.

“What’s the reason?”

“Well, that’s…”

Indeed, there must be some justification for such an outrageous attitude. Even if it was a reason Ruben found utterly incomprehensible, there must be one. Helia’s actions had always been beyond reason, so he had long since given up trying to understand her. Silently, he considered the possible reasons for her refusal to accept medical care.

Distrust in the capabilities of the Duke’s Duke’s personal physician? She could have simply summoned the royal physician if that were the case. Or was it her pride, unwilling to allow anyone to touch the body of a royal? If she had the energy to worry about such things, her condition surely couldn’t be that dire.

Ruben eliminated the possibilities in his mind one by one, his refined features hardening with each discarded theory. No matter how many scenarios he envisioned, none justified the inability to assess her condition for three whole days. Will was a competent butler, and the servants of the Duke’s household had likely grown accustomed to Helia’s tantrums. Yet, why had they seemingly done nothing? Ruben couldn’t help but arrive at one possible explanation.

Will, sensing his master’s unspoken suspicions, bowed profoundly and confessed. As expected, Ruben’s guess was correct.

“From the moment the symptoms appeared, no one has been allowed past her door. Even the reason for refusing care remains unknown.”