Suddenly, a single luxurious carriage rolled through the estate gates, its lacquered body gleaming like obsidian under the midday sun. The rhythmic clatter of its wheels on cobblestone drew every servant's attention — and with each turn, a sense of unease began to grow.
It wasn't one of their kingdom's designs. The crest upon the carriage door was foreign — belonging to the neighbouring empire. But what truly froze the servants' blood was the second insignia beside it:
A stone tower wrapped in thorned vines — the emblem of House Ross.
A chill spread through the courtyard.
"Ross…?" one maid whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Then… that means—" another began, but stopped, fear catching her tongue.
None of them had ever seen the Duke's son, yet they all knew the stories. Rumors carried by merchants, whispers traded between noble servants — tales of arrogance, cruelty, and shame. Tales of Jerry Ross.
The maids instinctively stepped closer together, clutching their aprons. Even the stable boys, usually loud and carefree, went silent. One muttered under his breath, "Why would someone like him come here…?"
Their gazes turned toward the manor's upper floors, where their Young Miss might still be unaware of the visitor. That single thought sent a cold wave of dread through them all. She was their pride — pure-hearted, kind, and radiant as sunlight. The idea that he might have any reason to approach her made their stomachs twist in disgust.
The carriage came to a slow halt before the grand stairway. The horses snorted, uneasy, as though they too sensed something foul within. No one moved. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, waiting — dreading — for the door to open.
With a soft click, the carriage door opened. A tall man stepped out first — Duke Ross. Around forty, he carried himself with the grace of a seasoned noble. His neatly combed black hair and clean-shaven face gave him a refined, commanding presence. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the courtyard with silent authority, and every movement he made seemed measured — calm, precise, proud.
Then, his son followed.
Jerry Ross descended the steps of the carriage with a self-satisfied air. Today, he was dressed in immaculate clothes — a white shirt with gold embroidery, a deep red vest, and a cloak fastened by a jeweled clasp. Gold rings gleamed on his fingers, and a heavy chain hung from his neck. It was clear he had dressed to impress, yet his appearance betrayed him. His hair, slicked back with too much oil, clung to his forehead, and the acne scarring his cheeks stood out sharply in the sunlight.
His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes — cold, restless, and predatory — scanned the courtyard slowly, as if searching for something… or someone.
The servants stiffened. Even without a word, they could feel the wrongness in the air. He wasn't drunk, not this time, but the hunger in his gaze was worse — controlled, deliberate. A few maids instinctively stepped back, clutching their aprons tightly.
One of the younger maids could no longer contain her anxiety. Her hands trembled as she whispered to a fellow servant before bolting toward the manor, her skirts flying around her as she ran. She had to warn her lord — she had to ensure the Young Miss was safe.
Jerry Ross's eyes followed her every step. Then he clicked his tongue audibly, a sharp, almost mocking sound.
"Tsk," he murmured, his voice low but carrying clearly in the courtyard. "That little birdie flew off."
A shiver ran through the few servants still near the carriage. His gaze lingered longer than necessary, assessing and calculating, as if taking notes of every reaction around him. Even without a word, the message was clear: he noticed everything.
Duke Ross, standing beside him, remained calm and composed, unaware of his son's restless scrutiny. But for the household, each second stretched unbearably, the sense of impending danger thickening the air with every passing heartbeat.
Duke Ross's dark eyes flicked toward his son, sharp and measured. He leaned slightly closer, his voice low but carrying a controlled authority.
"Jerry," he said, his tone firm yet calm, "behave yourself. We are on an important mission."
Jerry smirked lazily, tilting his head. "Relax, Father. I'm just… observing."
The duke's gaze hardened. "No. I mean it. Act straight. Do not… cause trouble here. We cannot afford a scandal, not now."
Jerry clicked his tongue again, audibly, and muttered under his breath, "Tsk. Always the party pooper."
Duke Ross's jaw tightened. Without another word, he turned back to the carriage, maintaining his composed posture, but the warning hung in the air — a subtle but unmistakable signal that even his son's indulgence had limits.
Jerry, however, let the words slide over him. His eyes still roamed the courtyard, sharp and calculating, a predator contained only by his father's quiet command.
William, as the heir, was already standing at the entrance, greeting arriving guests with composed formality. Upon hearing the maid's news, Charles quickly made his way to his son. "William," he said quietly, "Duke Ross has arrived. Let us greet him together to ensure nothing goes amiss."
Together, father and son waited as Duke Ross and his heir approached. Charles inclined his head with a courteous smile.
"Welcome, Your Grace," Charles said, his tone measured and polite. "It is a pleasure to have you here."
The duke bowed deeply, keeping his voice respectful. "Count Charles, the honor is mine. Your hospitality is most gracious."
"Thank you," Charles replied smoothly. "I trust your journey through the forest was uneventful?"
"Indeed, Count," the duke said, glancing briefly at his son before returning his attention to Charles. Polite smiles were exchanged, though a subtle tension lingered—the rivalry between their port cities underlying every gesture.
"Your son has grown considerably since the last we met," The Duke remarked, inclining his head toward William.
"Yes… he is learning much," Charles said carefully, his tone steady but deferential.
"And your young man—how fares he in his studies?" Charles asked.
"History and fencing occupy most of his time," the duke replied. "He enjoys testing himself against worthy opponents."
William gave a faint smile, and the two boys exchanged polite nods, each aware of the weight of their fathers' positions, the trade rivalry, and the tensions threading between their cities.
"Ah… admirable," Charles said, meeting the duke's eyes briefly. "Perhaps our sons might learn much from each other."
Polite laughter and small talk passed between them, yet the tension remained—a silent acknowledgment of rank, rivalry, and the careful dance of diplomacy. Even under smiles and courtesy, every gesture and glance was measured, every word carrying weight.
The silence that followed their exchange of courtesies was heavy, stretched thin like glass.
The butler stood a few paces away, attentive but quiet, ready to assist if needed.
The Duke's gaze lingered on Charles, his tone smooth and conversational — too soft.
"Count Charles," he said, "word of your daughter's remarkable deeds has reached far and wide. Even across our borders, her name carries weight. Your empire may cherish her, but do know — the neighboring one has also taken notice."
Charles's polite smile didn't waver, though his eyes sharpened faintly. "I didn't realize her small efforts had reached so far. I'll be sure to convey my daughter's gratitude for such attention."
The Duke's lips curved just slightly. "A child of both brilliance and compassion — a rare combination. You are fortunate indeed."
Before Charles could respond, Jerry's voice cut through the measured air — light, almost teasing.
"Well," he said, his grin widening, "if she takes after her mother, then I imagine she must be beautiful as well."
The room went still.
The butler froze, pretending to adjust his gloves. A few servants lowered their eyes immediately, as if the floor had suddenly become fascinating.
Charles's hand twitched at his side, veins rising against his skin.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and replied, voice calm but glacial.
"I thank you for the compliment, Lord Jerry. However, I would prefer such remarks remain… within bounds."
Jerry tilted his head, mock innocence gleaming in his eyes.
"Oh? Forgive me, Count. I only meant it as praise."
The Duke's gaze slid toward his son — a flicker of restrained irritation in his eyes.
"Jerry."
A single word, but it cut like steel.
Jerry clicked his tongue faintly. "Tsk. Yes, Father."
William's fists clenched at his sides.
This bastard… he's not just bold — he's testing us. Testing how far he can go.
The muscles along his jaw tightened as he fought the urge to speak.
No. Stay calm. Don't draw Father's ire. But if he mentions her again…
The air grew thick, as though the hall itself held its breath. Even the faint rustle of servants' skirts sounded loud against the silence.
The thick, tense air was suddenly broken by a soft, lilting laugh.
All heads turned. Stepping forward was an elderly man, his presence radiating calm authority. He wore the distinguished robes of the Church of Light: long and flowing, pure white, with intricate golden trim along the edges. Crosses were delicately embroidered across the fabric, glimmering faintly in the light, and a simple golden pendant hung from a chain around his neck, catching every shimmer.
Recognition spread instantly.
"Bishop Jereco Vans," someone whispered.
The bishop's eyes twinkled as he surveyed the group. "Forgive my intrusion," he said lightly, though his tone carried no true apology. "It seems I happened upon a most… interesting conversation."
Even Duke Ross stiffened, his expression tightening. He doesn't even acknowledge me… he thought, jaw pressing into a hard line.
Jereco's gaze swept the hall, calm and assured. "I have heard of your daughter, Count Charles. Her deeds, her talent, her kindness… they have reached the Church as well. Such character is remarkable — perfectly suited for a saint candidate."
He paused briefly, letting his words hang in the air. Then, almost casually, he added, "I was sent to oversee the upcoming ceremony. The Church wishes to ensure that everything proceeds in accordance with our guidance."
Charles and William exchanged glances, unease flickering in their eyes. William's fists remained clenched, though he thought, We must tread carefully… this is serious. Charles's polite mask tightened slightly, a trace of worry showing behind his calm smile. The Church does not act lightly, and their influence is vast.
Duke Ross, however, could not hide his displeasure. His face darkened, lips pressing into a hard line. The Church… they will ruin everything. Every plan he had nurtured, every subtle maneuver to gain advantage, now threatened to collapse under the weight of divine authority.
Even without words, the implication was clear to everyone present. Saphy's character, her deeds, her very presence — the Church had noticed. And though no one stated it outright, all understood what this meant: she was now under the Church's careful watch.
The hall seemed to hold its collective breath, silent against the weight of the unspoken power now pressing down on them.
But then, almost imperceptibly, a smile returned to Duke Ross's face. Not all is lost yet, he thought. The Church can observe, but it cannot force anything — not while I still hold my influence.
Bishop Jereco, too, seemed briefly amused, a quiet acknowledgment passing between the two men. Each carried their own unspoken calculations, minds working in tandem with subtle caution.
Then, abruptly, a broad hand was placed on both their shoulders.
A collective gasp echoed through the hall. Servants froze, eyes wide, hearts hammering.
Duke Ross and Bishop Jereco turned in unison, their smiles vanishing instantly.
Standing before them was the unmistakable presence of the King himself. A man in his mid-fourties, his posture regal and commanding, every movement measured. He wore robes of deep royal blue, trimmed with gold embroidery that traced intricate patterns of lions and suns across the fabric. A heavy jeweled chain lay across his chest, and the velvet cloak that fell to the floor seemed to capture every glint of light in the hall. His eyes, piercing and unyielding, scanned the room like twin sapphires set in stern authority.
Flanking him were his children. To his right, the Crown Prince — ten years old — wore a miniature version of the royal attire: deep blue tunic with gold trim, polished boots, and a small jeweled sash across his chest. Beside him, the princess, seven years old, wore a flowing dress of soft ivory silk edged with delicate gold embroidery, her golden hair gleaming under the hall's light. Both bore the unmistakable mark of their lineage: golden hair and piercing blue eyes like their father's.
Behind them followed the King's retinue: his personal butler, impeccably dressed in black and silver, moving with precise efficiency; and towering above all, his chief guard, Rion Hammer. Standing at eight feet tall (243 cm), Rion's presence was nothing short of terrifying. His bald head gleamed under the light, his muscles bulging beneath fitted black armor that seemed sculpted onto his frame. His eyes, a striking red-black, swept the room with unflinching vigilance, and every movement carried the weight of disciplined lethality.
The hall fell into stunned silence. Every servant, maid, and noble felt the gravity of the moment pressing down, the air itself heavy with awe and fear.
Duke Ross's jaw tightened, a subtle tremor betraying the mask of composure. So the King himself… here? Everything is about to become far more complicated.
Bishop Jereco, usually unshakable, allowed a faint flicker of surprise across his face. Things have now become far more difficult, he thought.
The hall fell silent, every gaze fixed on the King, his children, and the imposing presence of Rion Hammer.
Duke Ross's eyes narrowed, hiding the frustration he could not voice. Bishop Jereco's calm facade remained, but even he could feel the tension in the room. Charles and William exchanged cautious glances, aware that the coming moments would be pivotal.
The stage was set, the players assembled, and the delicate balance of power had shifted.
What would happen when Saphy arrived? Would her presence change everything — for the Church, the crown, and those who sought to control her?
Only time would tell.