Arc-6 Ch-23

 To begin with, the ducal rank itself is an anomaly within noble society. They possess royal blood, yet are treated as vassals rather than sovereigns of the realm. And still, they hold succession rights—albeit the lowest tier—and are exempt from blame when acting in the king’s stead during times of national crisis. A second royal house, commanding vast territories and immense military might within the kingdom. A flaw within the lion’s body to be feared—yet at the same time, a spear and shield protecting the royal family. A vassal capable of replacing the lord at any time—that is the peculiar nature of a ducal house. 

The Holfort royal family established the Redgrave ducal line for several reasons. As insurance against the extinction of the royal bloodline;

As a sanctuary for royals defeated in succession disputes; As administrators of direct royal territories, allowing the monarch to focus on statecraft; As intermediaries between the crown and rebellious lords. In every sense, since the first Duke Redgrave, the ducal branch existed solely as a convenient pawn for the royal line. Qualified to be kings, yet never allowed to ascend.

For generations, successive dukes bore that mortification while steadfastly supporting the Holfort royal family. No one knows when the rift began. Perhaps the seeds of discord were sown the very moment the ducal house was founded. As the kingdom’s lands expanded and society advanced, governance inevitably grew more complex—too vast for the king and his close aides to manage alone. They required loyal retainers to carry out the royal will—but the lord nobles were untrustworthy. Most of them descended from petty kings or tribal chieftains who once ruled the floating islands they now called territories.

The kingdom’s founders were not natives of these lands. They were mere wandering adventurers, who expanded their dominion and subdued others through the coincidental power of Lost Items. The lord nobles remembered this well. If allowed into national politics, they would soon twist it to serve their own ends. Consumed by suspicion, the king and his advisors resolved to one day eradicate the lord nobles altogether. Until then, the ducal house needed only to buy time. Over time, nobles residing in the capital and serving in the royal court began to emerge.

A new breed without territories—granted titles and stipends by the crown, serving directly under the Holfort royal family. They became known as court nobles. These men and women faithfully carried out their duties in strict accordance with royal will. Their goal: to cement the supremacy of the royal family within the Holfort Kingdom. Their method: to torment the lord nobles with policies that weakened them, extinguishing any spark of rebellion. The founding of the academy, the spread of matriarchal ideology, heavy taxation, and restrictions on airships—these measures all served that purpose.

And they worked.

But the royal family and its courtiers failed to notice that the embers of resentment still smoldered. What does it take to govern a nation?

In times of war, the answer is strength. But in peace?

Rule by force and law alone cannot command the people’s hearts—it only fuels rebellion. Excessive taxation and restrictions on trade and movement turned the territories of lord nobles into stagnant ponds—development halted, poverty took root. Worse still, women from the capital—raised under twisted ideologies—married into the provinces and belittled their husbands. Discontent festered, and the flames of rebellion turned toward the capital.

“Never forget,” they swore, “the defiance shown to the Holfort royal family—remember it, even unto your children and grandchildren.”

The accumulated resentment yearned for a new leader. A stronger, more legitimate king. A purer, more righteous ruler. By the time the lord nobles lost faith in the crown, change had already begun in the capital as well. The court nobles—who had oppressed the lords under the pretext of maintaining peace—grew ever more arrogant. They wielded royal authority for their own pleasures and twisted politics to suit their whims. They accepted bribes to conceal corruption, used status to oppress others, and blamed every inconvenience upon the king himself. Ironically, it was not the distrusted lord nobles who decayed first—but the court nobles once deemed loyal.

Inwardly, they came to scorn the king. A wise monarch who sought reform was a nuisance; better a foolish puppet they could easily control. They indulged in strife, in drink, in gluttony, in gambling, in debauchery. They corrupted the righteous and trampled the weak. The policy meant to strengthen the crown by favoring the court nobles and suppressing the lords—

—it only deepened courtly corruption and inflamed provincial resentment.

As the long decay of the Holfort Kingdom dragged on, change was heralded by several women. One was Queen Mylene Rapha Holfort.

One was the commoner-born Saintess, Olivia.

And one more—

That woman’s name was…

※　※　※　※　※

Guided by Cordelia, we walked down the corridor of the ducal mansion. I make a point to exercise enough to avoid gaining weight, yet the sheer size of this mansion always wears me down. My body and spirit, long accustomed to life in the Bartfort territory, are forced to acknowledge the vast gulf between the former Angelica Rapha Redgrave and the current Angelica Fou Bartfort.

They say human cells are replaced entirely every few years. Having changed both body and soul, am I still the beloved young lady the people of the ducal house once adored?

Still, I’m grateful that Cordelia keeps chatting idly as she leads us to the room where Father and my brother await. She can be overprotective, but her constant consideration touches me. Leaving her behind when I married may well be the source of her hostility toward Leon. Even I, when the marriage talks first arose, suspected it was nothing more than a publicity stunt by the ducal house—to marry me off to a frontier upstart.

I still remember vividly the day I grew weary of the capital nobles’ scornful stares and departed for the Bartfalt territory with only a handful of guards. During those few days of preparation, Cordelia had tended to me with unwavering devotion. If I had brought her with me, would her attitude toward Leon be different now?

No… The Bartfort lands I first arrived at were struggling through development, and Leon, still suffering from the aftermath of war, was at his lowest. Had Cordelia met the Leon who greeted me with “go home” as his first words, she would have seized my hand and dragged me straight back to the ducal mansion. How the two of us—who met under such circumstances—became a loving couple is something even I can’t explain.

“Here we are.”

We arrive at one of the mansion’s reception rooms—the finest, reserved for entertaining distinguished guests. Choosing such a room for this rare meeting between the house head and his daughter… It’s proof that Father and my brother now regard me not as a Redgrave, but as a Bartfort. Among nobles, marriage is politics. Some parents treat their married daughters as spies; others, as expendable pieces. The higher the rank, the more political the marriage—daughters become tools to be used.

Even so, some small part of me had hoped we could meet again as family, as we once did. Father and my brother truly love me, and I love them in return. To stand on a path that may oppose such beloved family… perhaps that makes me a cold woman.

“You okay, Angie?”

Leon bends down slightly to peer at my face. He must have sensed my unease. His mind sharpens only when I’m troubled—it’s practically a special talent. That wide gap between when he’s attentive and when he’s not… that’s his one flaw.

“No issues. Sorry for worrying you.”

“Good to hear.”

“Cordelia, your guidance ends here. Thank you.”

“Milady, no thanks are necessary. Viscount Bartfort—please, please take good care of milady.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Then, I shall escort your attendants to the waiting room.”

Leon takes the bag, and as Cordelia and the attendants withdraw, their figures grow smaller down the corridor. Turning my gaze away from their retreating backs, I face the reception room door and lift the knocker.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The heavy, low sound of hardwood striking metal reverberates through the hall. The few seconds before permission to enter feel unbearably long. When the door finally opens, a familiar man peers out. I bow slowly in greeting.

“You’ve come. It’s been a while, Angie. You too, Lord Leon—glad you made it.”

“It’s been far too long, Lord Gilbert.”

“I’m relieved to see you’re well, brother.”

“Let’s skip the formalities. Father is waiting.”

The man before us is my brother, Gilbert Rapha Redgrave, heir to the Redgrave ducal house. Meeting him again after years apart, I notice his presence has grown more imposing. After my marriage, Father entrusted most of the ducal territory’s management to him. To outsiders, it appeared to be ordinary preparation for succession—so I once believed. Now I understand: Father had begun focusing on behind-the-scenes maneuvering, leaving my brother to handle public affairs such as diplomacy and administration. Never did I imagine Father’s ambitions extended to the throne itself, nor that my marriage to Leon was part of that design. Terrifying—this is the first time I’ve truly felt fear toward my brother.

The brother I once knew was kind.

He was the one who calmed my temper and guided me onto the right path. I genuinely believed we were close siblings. But if Father truly seeks the throne, then as heir, my brother must be complicit. Every kingdom needs a mighty founding king to seize power, and a capable successor to consolidate it. History books are littered with countless pseudo-nations that rose to dominance in a single generation, only to collapse immediately from failed succession. The thought that my smiling brother might now see me as nothing more than a political pawn tightens painfully around my heart.

Portraits of past dukes line the walls. Shelves are filled with books; a chandelier hangs overhead; an intricately carved sofa and table gleam under soft light. The ducal mansion’s reception room alone is larger than the entire main hall of the Bartfalt estate. Selling just the furnishings could build several of our homes. And yet, in this vast room, there are only four of us—Leon, Father, my brother, and me. For nobles, servants are tools, their presence ignored when sensitive matters are discussed. The absence of any attendants here is telling.

What is about to be spoken must not reach other ears. The unspoken message alone heightens my unease. Advancing toward the back of the room, I see a white-haired man seated, gazing out the window.

“Father, Angie and Viscount Bartfort have arrived.”

“Hm.”

The man rises slowly and turns to face us. Vince Rapha Redgrave, Duke of Redgrave. Head of the ducal house—and my beloved father. Years have passed since we last met. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth have deepened, but his presence remains formidable.

“We rejoice in Your Grace’s continued health.”

“We are deeply grateful for the many favors bestowed upon us by the ducal house.”

Leon and I, dressed in formal attire, bow deeply. Father and my brother, in contrast, wear casual clothing. The contrast in our attire and greetings makes our relationship painfully clear. To the ducal house, a viscount family is just one among countless lower nobles. No matter how hard we struggle, the ducal house could erase all trace of us with a mere gesture. And from this overwhelming disadvantage, I must somehow secure reconciliation with the royal family—or at the very least, present proposals for national reconstruction. The enormity of the task makes me dizzy. Father greets us with a pleasant smile, yet the eyes behind his half-lidded gaze remain sharp and watchful.

He is surely welcoming his long-absent daughter while quietly probing our intentions. In this moment, I feel the full weight of noble society’s karma pressing down on me. Or perhaps I’ve simply gone soft. Life with the earnest Bartfort family may have dulled my noble instincts. They value self-reliance and simplicity, and compared to life in the capital—where one must constantly measure every word and glance—the freedom of frontier living may have made me careless. Perhaps I’m already unfit to be called a daughter of the ducal house.

“Let’s dispense with the stiff greetings,” Father says at last. “First, let us celebrate this family reunion after so long.”

“Yes.”

My brother rings a small handbell and gestures for us to take our seats on the sofa. Father says nothing at first, simply studying me in silence.

“You’ve grown quite large. The birth is soon, I assume?”

“Yes, in about half a month.”

“Due dates are only estimates. We’ve arranged for skilled midwives here—rest easy.”

“Thank you.”

“But your visit takes precedence now.”

He shifts his gaze to Leon.

“Viscount Bartfort, there’s no need to hold back. Dealing with strong-willed Angie must be exhausting.”

“Oh, absolutely. She’s being nice now, but usually she’s terrifying.”

“Leon!”

We’re supposed to be showing unity as husband and wife—why are you selling me out!? Even as a joke, what if they start believing I actually bully you? As our light banter fills the air, Father still doesn’t laugh. In fact, the more we try to ease the mood, the more artificial his smile becomes.

“The children…”

“Yes?”

“How are they?”

“They’re both growing well. Very excited to meet their new sibling soon.”

“Good. Healthy children are all that matters.”

“Thank you.”

“Bring them next time. I’d like to see my grandchildren after so long.”

“Of course.”

“A mother absent too long from home invites concern. The frontier lacks the comforts of the capital—I do worry for you.”

“…Your concern is deeply appreciated, Father.”

A chill runs down my spine. He’s probing. Those words carry a subtle warning—an inquiry into my movements apart from Leon, especially my recent visit to Lady Mylene. For nobles, information is everything. By tomorrow evening, word of my appearance at Count Atlee’s party will have reached every well-informed ear.

He’s testing my intentions. A clear, quiet warning. As I desperately search for the right words to answer, a servant enters, pushing a cart toward us. Upon it rests a full tea set and a plate of my favorite sweets.

“Here, I’ll handle the brewing,” Father says.

“There’s no need for Your Grace to trouble yourself—”

“Nonsense. What’s wrong with personally serving tea to my daughter after so long?”

Muttering cheerfully, Father begins preparing the tea himself. On the surface, the scene looks calm—but beneath that calm, a subtle tension hums through the air. The most crucial rule when one truly intends to kill an enemy is to ensure that the killing intent never reaches them. You befriend them. Gain their trust. Pretend to be an ally—until the very moment you strike. My father—acting as though he were warmly welcoming his daughter home, all while harboring a sharp glint in his eyes—was terrifying.

“We’re using early-picked tea leaves from Redgrave territory,” he said. “I had them fetched specially for your visit, Angie.”

“Thank you.”

“Now then, let’s partake.”

The tea poured from the pot was a clear golden hue. That color comes from young tea buds harvested in early spring—though the leaves are green, the brewed tea takes on an entirely different shade. I blew gently to cool it, then took a sip. A refreshing, delicate flavor spread across my tongue—distinct from the usual taste and texture of our daily tea.

“An excellent flavor,” I said.

“Indeed,” Father replied. “Tasting the year’s first harvest is one of a lord’s privileges. It’s also essential research, to gauge how the crops will fare this season.”

In the past, it had been common practice for nobles to present the first harvest of their territory’s specialties to the royal family. Regardless of taste or quantity, offering the earliest produce was seen as proof of loyalty—a tradition so fiercely contested it bordered on obsession, at least until a few years ago. That custom faded with the war against the Fanoss Principality. War destroys not only lives but the land itself. When farmers die or abandon their fields, when crops go unharvested, productivity inevitably falls and quality declines.

And when a lord dies in battle or loses his title, the successor is often too overwhelmed by succession duties to maintain former standards. Such stories are commonplace across the kingdom now.

“I truly wish my grandchildren could savor this tea to their hearts’ content,” Father said.

“They’re still too young to appreciate tea’s flavor,” I replied. “It’ll be better once they’re older.”

“Nonsense,” he said lightly. “Experiencing many things from a young age leads to a richer life.”

His grand tone sounded less like family conversation and more like a speech delivered to his faction members.

“You, a lady of ducal birth, and the renowned hero Viscount Bartfort—your children will surely become vital pillars of this nation. No expense should be spared on their education.”

“I don’t intend to spoil them,” I countered. “But forcing excessive education before their personalities are formed would only warp their values.”

My tone came out sharper than I intended—almost accusatory. Certainly, early education is crucial for nobles. One must quickly discern a child’s aptitude and select the most capable heir. There’s no room for sentimentality; many great houses have fallen to foolish successors. And yet, Father’s mention of “the nation” troubled me. Did he mean the Holfort Kingdom—or the Redgrave Kingdom he plans to create?

The meaning changes completely depending on which.

“Then how about dividing the tea plants?” Father said suddenly. “I’d like my grandchildren to grow familiar with this tea’s taste.”

“…Your Grace, that’s an impractical suggestion,” Leon interjected, rejecting the proposal outright.

I froze, unable to understand why he’d jump into the conversation like that.

“What makes it impractical?” Father asked smoothly.

“Simple,” Leon said. “Crops taste different depending on where they’re grown. Even seeds from the same tree won’t yield the same flavor—the soil, sunlight, temperature, and rainfall all affect it. Trying to grow these plants on our land won’t reproduce this taste.”

“I see. Born versus raised, then?”

“Birth is important,” Leon said, “but I believe upbringing matters just as much.”

I wanted to scream. Leon thought he was simply discussing agriculture. But Father would never take it that way. Nobles despise blunt words. They prefer insinuation—veiled insults, double meanings, and elegant ambiguity. Father’s talk of “dividing the tea plants” wasn’t a casual gift suggestion—it was symbolic.

Division meant bloodlines. He was referring to me and my children being separated from the Redgrave house. His insistence on the children’s education was a demand—that I raise Lionel and Ariel to serve the Redgraves’ will. And Leon had just rejected that notion outright.

By saying “upbringing matters,” he’d implied that while the Bartfort family might bow in formality, their hearts would never submit—a stance that could easily be seen as open defiance. Leon, innocent to noble subtext, had blundered again.

“An interesting man you are,” Father said, his eyes gleaming faintly. “It’s rare for a noble to know farming rather than gardening.”

“My house was technically noble,” Leon replied, “but so poor that the lord had to grow his own food just to survive.”

“Not a bad thing,” Father said. “This kingdom is full of fools who think nobility alone guarantees their future. They could learn much from one who knows the value of toil.”

“Your praise is too kind,” Leon said, smiling.

That’s not praise, Leon—it’s sarcasm. Father respects ability, but he’s not indulgent enough to overlook insolence. He was only laughing off the remark because Leon is my husband. Before another misstep could occur, I quickly tried to steer the conversation.

“We’re deeply grateful for Your Grace’s recommendation during my husband’s recent ennoblement,” I said. “As a couple, we thank you sincerely for your kindness.”

Bowing swiftly, Leon followed my lead. After a few more words of thanks, I changed the topic.

“No need for gratitude,” Father said. “Other nobles also endorsed Viscount Bartfort’s promotion. Had he been a mere brute, there would’ve been strong opposition.”

“Even so, a leap from unranked to viscount—the fourth tier—is extraordinary,” I said.

“The royal family owes the ducal house,” Father said with a knowing smile. “They aren’t foolish enough to slight the capable.”

No, I thought. The debt isn’t to the Redgraves—it’s to the Bartforts. Leah Bartfort, the first saintess, who toiled for the kingdom’s founding. And now her descendant has repelled a foreign invasion. The royal family must repay that debt carefully. If they treat him poorly, they risk divine retribution. The truth the founders buried long ago has come full circle to haunt them. And Father—ever cunning—intends to exploit that truth to fuel rebellion.

As for me, my loyalty to the Holfort Kingdom has long since faded. My push for reconciliation between the royal family and the ducal house is only to free Leon and the children from this inherited curse. What a pitifully selfish woman I’ve become. And yet, for my husband and children’s happiness, I’d even rebel against my own father. Strangely, I don’t despise that part of myself.

“With this,” Father said, “you now hold a voice in national politics.”

“Don’t get conceited,” he warned sharply. “Baron house had long histories, but your rank is low. The Bartfort name depends entirely on your husband’s skill. Reckless action will only bring ruin.”

“But it’s still a fact,” I said quietly.

In this kingdom, true high nobility begins at the rank of count. Ministerial positions require it. And though individual accomplishments vary, Leon’s title now makes him equal in status to Count Atley, the Minister of Finance. That means he has the right to propose policies before the nation’s leading nobles.

“I have a draft to present to Vince Rapha Redgrave, Duke Redgrave,” I said finally.

Words of no return.

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Authors Note

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Prelude to the meeting.

(Posting delayed due to the cyberattack on the site—crying)

The main story continues next time. These noble exchanges of veiled sarcasm are truly exhausting to write. I wanted something wittier, but there’s only so much room for polish.

Addendum: At the requester’s wish, illustrations by Umatori Ken-sama, ianzky-sama, and Hile Lawrence-sama. My deepest thanks.

Umatori Ken-sama: Skeb

Hile Lawrence-sama: Pixiv

ianzky-sama: Pixiv 1  Pixiv 2

Your thoughts and impressions would be greatly appreciated—they’re what keep me writing.