The Duke of Diarca reached into his pillow and pulled something out. What he pressed into Kiole’s palm, hidden from view, was a small silver snuffbox no larger than a hand. A faint rattle suggested something inside.

“Father, I... something like this...”

“Are you about to say you can’t do it?”

His sharp, blazing eyes were terrifying. Kiole’s lips trembled as he barely managed to stammer a weak excuse.

“I’m currently under His Majesty’s...”

“If they get in your way, kill them.”

“...What?”

“If they annoy you, just clear out anyone around the Imperial family. The ones near the Dawn Palace would be especially effective. The Emperor is soft on that girl—the one I placed the Empress’s crown on myself...”

Though his breath rasped and voice faltered, his words came through clearly.

“They’ll be gone soon enough. Don’t bother caring. What matters is Diarca. Don’t forget that. You know it already...”

“...”

The old man’s hand should have been far weaker than his own. And yet, Kiole couldn’t shake it off. It felt like his hand had been caught in a steel trap—and that realization struck him with fresh horror.

He had been so worried, so desperate for his father to wake up... and now that he had, Kiole found himself wanting to pull away.

Why?

“Now that I think of it... what became of the Crown Prince’s side? Surely— cough, cough!”

“My lord!”

The Duke’s coughing grew violent. At last, Kiole’s hand was freed. The steward rushed forward, gently laying the Duke back and tending to him. The coughing went on for some time before the steward held incense smoke under his nose again. Only then did the Duke’s condition begin to stabilize.

Kiole noticed the bandages wrapped around the Duke’s chest and shoulders were stained with dark, red-black blood.

A man of the Duke’s standing surely would have received healing from priests—holy water, purification stones, every blessing imaginable. And yet the wounds still hadn’t closed. That could only mean one thing.

The Duke hadn’t been wounded by a mere blade.

Was the sword that cut him poisoned?

“You saw through it at once. Yes,” the steward replied softly.

“We focused on healing the wound first, which delayed discovery of the poison. That’s why even with treatment, the slightest shock splits it open again.”

Kiole may not have achieved much as a knight, but he knew at least this much: when a wound treated with holy healing still doesn’t close, it usually means something worse lies underneath. Poison.

The problem with poison is that even divine power can’t entirely purge it. At best, the body becomes immune to that specific toxin. At worst, it leaves behind a kind of scar—a lingering curse. And the Duke’s condition clearly indicated the latter.

Perhaps if he were younger, overflowing with vitality... or if he had led a clean and ascetic life, his recovery would have been easier. But the Duke was neither. From youth, he’d indulged in painkillers and water pipes filled with addictive herbs like Phonegrisa, and like any noble, he despised labor.

Divine healing wasn’t a miracle cure. Pour too much into a body, and it would eventually reject it. Even when successful, side effects—like lowered immunity or difficulty healing in the future—were common.

Only now did Kiole fully grasp the significance of the steward’s earlier errand. The man had been desperately trying to bolster the Duke’s own healing capacity—doing everything he could.

As Kiole stood there, head aching, a rasping whisper broke the air.

“...Eshi?”

The Duke, seemingly asleep under the effects of the incense, was blinking groggily. Kiole stiffened in shock. He hadn’t misheard—he recognized that name.

“My lady is not here. Please sleep, my lord.”

“Don’t lie... she’s right there. I...”

Before the Duke could murmur further, the steward let another plume of smoke drift under his nose. The old man’s cloudy eyes briefly followed Kiole’s form, then fluttered closed under their own weight.

“It’s time for you to return, Lord Kiole.”

“Just now... was that my mother’s name I heard?”

“Yes. He’s been severely shaken by all this. Lately, he occasionally calls out to her. Normally he falls asleep again quickly—but perhaps your visit confused him this time.”

He told Kiole not to mention it in future visits, as the Duke wouldn’t remember. But Kiole, speaking more to himself than the steward, muttered:

“I always thought... he forgot about Mother the moment I was born.”

That’s what everyone said. That’s what Kiole had believed. After giving birth to him, she had grown frail, left to convalesce, and never returned to the capital. She died not long after. What bond could there have been? Even Kiole, her son, barely had any memory or emotion tied to her.

The steward was silent for a while before replying.

“There must have been a time you resented the Duke, my lord. But I assure you... he has always carried you in his heart—as the part of Diarca that retained its lost soul. When the time came for him to fulfill his great vision, he always intended to elevate your blood. That much, please understand.”

Understand what?

The words were too cryptic. But the steward’s expression was too serious for Kiole to ask further. Dazed, he stood up. Only then did he nearly drop the snuffbox the Duke had given him. Remembering it, he fumbled to check its contents.

“Wait a sec.”

He opened it. As expected of the Duke’s refined taste, the snuffbox was ornate and elegant—but inside, it appeared empty.

However, when Kiole tapped a hidden mechanism on the bottom, a secret compartment slid open, revealing its contents.

A small jeweled key, and a signet ring.

He didn’t recognize the purpose of the key, but he immediately knew the ring. It wasn’t the Duke’s official ring that he always wore—but it was the kind given to heirs or designated regents. It was the very item Kironne la Diarca had so desperately desired, yet never received.

If Kironne ever learned this was now in Kiole’s possession, he would surely abandon everything else and come for his throat.

A chill ran down his spine. For now, he left the ring and picked up the key.

“Steward. What does this key open?”

“That is... the key to the Duke’s secret vault.”

“Secret vault?! We had one of those? I’ve never seen it!”

“It’s not in the main estate—it’s hidden elsewhere. Only the Duke knows its location. It’s said to contain his most dangerous information, secret contacts, and personal funds. Perhaps even more.”

“What?”

“You’ll need the signet to use anything inside, even if you unlock the door.”

And now, that signet was in Kiole’s hand too. He froze, speechless.

How the steward interpreted that reaction, he didn’t say. He only smiled with mysterious calm.

“You’re not as surprised as I expected, my lord.”

Wrong. He was utterly shocked. But the frozen expression that so closely resembled the Duke’s masked it well.

The steward escorted Kiole back to the 4th Wall and, before letting him down from the carriage, left him with a promise.

“I would assign someone to accompany you if I could, but in your current position, it would only draw attention. I’ve left word that if you return here, I’ll be notified immediately. Please summon me when needed.”

Kiole wanted to ask him to assign someone anyway—anything to help. But the greater shock still consuming him left no room for such requests.

“...All right.”

The steward bowed, as though addressing the Duke himself.

Kiole returned to his lodging in Sector 5 and sat in stunned silence for a long time. No matter how much time passed, the snuffbox from the Duke remained firmly in his hands. Only after finally accepting that this was real did he bring himself to write a letter to Yuder Aile. It was the only thing he could do.

And now...

Ding...

The café door opened as Kiole sat nervously, leg bouncing under the table. A small bell attached to the door chimed as a cold breeze swept through the room.

Startled by the familiar scent in that chilly wind, Kiole lifted his head.

A man entered, face obscured beneath a black-hooded coat, and took the seat across from Kiole as if they had arranged it ahead of time.

From within the shadow of the hood, violet-tinged eyes glimmered. A face pale as a corpse. The quiet dignity of someone born noble.

It was Yuder Aile.

A flicker of life returned to Kiole’s half-dead eyes.

“You...!”

“Quiet.”

“Mmph!”

Just as he was about to shout with joy, a tiny ball of wind forced itself into Kiole’s mouth.