INWY~03

Chapter 03

The royal banquet hall glittered with gold, crystal, and vibrant flowers, all arranged to celebrate the Crown Prince’s birthday.

The court orchestra’s graceful music wove through the air, blending with the soft murmur of conversations among the elegantly dressed nobility.

“At last, the Arbern social season has returned.”

“Last year’s Behern season was far too dull, wasn’t it?”

Each year, the social season rotated between cities of the Bermark Kingdom. 

This year’s host was Arbern, the capital, where the royal palace stood. 

Last year, it was Behern, the Grand Duke’s seat. 

Thus, noble opinion always swayed depending on which city played host.

“Oh, I still enjoyed Behern. Most of all, it was delightful to catch frequent glimpses of Grand Duke Venachert.”

“My, Lady Pendleton!”

The noblewomen giggled like schoolgirls, their chatter circling inevitably toward today’s anticipated guest—the so-called “Half-Blood Duke,” Dante Venachert.

The nickname had only one origin. 

Dante was the illegitimate son of Princess Lowellin—sister to the current king—and an unknown commoner. 

For that reason, he had never been acknowledged as a legitimate royal. 

Only upon reaching adulthood had he been granted the title of Grand Duke, a tale spread widely throughout the kingdom.

But that was all. 

The proud, haughty royals and high nobles still refused to recognise him as one of their own. 

Before his face, they bowed, for the king himself had bestowed the title—but behind their fans, they sneered. 

How could they possibly accept as royal blood a child born of a princess who had borne a bastard without marriage, and with a man of no name or station?

Only the ignorant lower classes bothered to feel pity for him.

“Will she come today?”

A lady cast out the question delicately, without naming names. 

Yet everyone knew she wasn’t speaking of Dante.

“Surely she’ll appear. It is His Highness the Crown Prince’s birthday, after all.”

“Oh, don’t be so certain. She avoided the founding festival itself by locking herself away. Do you truly think she’ll emerge from this?”

The ladies who had moments ago giggled like girls now wore sly, sharp smiles.

“Indeed, the Grand Duke would hardly humiliate himself by bringing her.”

Their laughter, half-hidden behind painted fans, was cold as glass.

Whenever Dante was mentioned, another name inevitably followed.

The Grand Duchess, Riena Venachert.

Unlike Dante, who at least drew whispers of admiration, Riena was afforded nothing but scorn. 

With no known origin, no family, and no presence in society, she was little more than a convenient subject for ridicule during idle tea-times.

As the noblewomen’s gossip swirled, the Queen and Crown Prince sat upon the dais, presiding over the celebration in place of the ailing King.

Queen Gloria Venachert gleamed in a sapphire gown adorned with the royal jewels, her elegance magnified beneath the chandelier’s glow.

“Happy birthday, my dear Reichert.”

Her voice, refined and filled with maternal warmth, carried clearly. 

She raised her champagne glass with pride shining in her eyes.

A crystal-clear chime echoed as her glass met her son’s.

“Thank you, Mother.”

The Crown Prince’s emerald eyes—so distinctly royal—curved with a gentle smile.

“Have you thought of a gift you’d like?”

“…Hmm.”

Reichert’s gaze swept across the dazzling hall, filled with nobles and bourgeois who had gathered solely for his celebration. 

After a moment, he returned her smile.

“With all these people gathered here to celebrate me, what greater gift could I possibly ask for?”

On the surface, the words sounded humble. 

In truth, they dripped with arrogance.

Gloria laughed softly, satisfied. 

Soon enough, Bermark itself would belong to Reichert, once the sickly King passed. 

His words, then, were hardly untrue.

Just then, the herald’s voice boomed through the hall:

“His Grace, Dante Venachert, Grand Duke of Behern, has arrived!”

The atmosphere, which had hovered in airy chatter, shifted at once into hushed anticipation.

For everyone—save two.

At the sound of his name, Queen Gloria and Crown Prince Reichert’s faces hardened instantly.

The grand doors swung wide, and under the chandelier’s brilliance strode a man with golden hair shining like the sun.

His tall, lithe figure commanded the eye; the cut of his tailcoat fit so perfectly it seemed crafted solely for him.

Gasps rippled through the nobles, composure forgotten.

The beautiful Half-Blood Duke had arrived.

With long strides, Dante advanced down the crimson carpet. 

Unlike in the carriage hours ago, he now wore a faint, measured smile.

It wasn’t bad, arriving slightly late, though the staring faces—the way they ogled as if he were some rare beast on display—were grating. 

He pressed the irritation down.

He did not dawdle. 

The carpet’s end was obvious: the dais, where the Queen and Crown Prince waited with stiff expressions, as though unprepared for his presence.

Dante nearly laughed aloud at their faces.

How entertaining.

At the foot of the dais, he bowed with impeccable grace.

“I greet Her Majesty the Queen and His Highness the Crown Prince of Bermark.”

Reichert forced his lips into a polite curve.

“Welcome, brother. You must have had a tiring journey to Arbern.”

“The honour is mine, Crown Prince.”

Dante bowed once more, flawless in courtesy.

It was a performance, of course. 

The nobles knew it and scoffed inwardly, but to the bourgeois dazzled by royal grandeur, even this play-acting made Dante appear the wronged yet noble Grand Duke—acknowledged, however reluctantly, by the royal family.

A convincing little farce.

When he descended the dais, the true revelry began. 

The orchestra swelled, young debutantes sparkled, and couples spun across the floor in radiant waltzes.

Like peacocks preening for mates.

Dante’s judgment was merciless. 

Finding the spectacle beneath him, he reclined at a seat along the edge of the hall, idly swirling his champagne.

Boredom pressed heavily until a shadow fell across him.

He tilted his head lazily and smirked. 

Unsurprising.

“Sit, Crown Prince.”

His tone now was casual, bordering on insolent.

Reichert’s brow twitched, but he took the seat opposite, choosing restraint.

“You didn’t bring the Grand Duchess, I see. She must still be hiding away in Behern.”

Dante’s golden eyes glinted as he chuckled.

“Even you, Your Highness, ought to show respect when speaking of my wife.”

His voice was smooth, almost playful. 

Yet the rebuke landed.

Reichert’s false smile faltered. 

His nose flared.

“Your wife’s absence is noted, brother. This is a royal function, with every noble present. For the Crown Prince’s consort to—”

“Strange. I was under the impression Her Majesty did not recognise her as such.”

Dante’s words cut across smoothly, twisting the exchange. 

It was his gift—to seize the reins of any conversation, turning it as he pleased.

Reichert’s lips tightened, his composure cracking.

Dante glanced at his watch, unimpressed. 

By the time he returned home, the hour would be late—thanks to those cussedly clogged roads.

“Perhaps before the next banquet, Your Highness might see the court roads properly maintained.”

“…What?”

Reichert blinked, wrong-footed. 

Dante finished his champagne and rose, clearly finished.

“I’ve given you sufficient time. I’ll take my leave now, Crown Prince.”

“I’ve only just begun speaking with you—”

Dante ignored him, striding away.

“Wait, brother!”

Frustration burst through Reichert’s composure. 

He stood abruptly, voice sharp enough to draw attention.

“Grand Duke Venachert!”

Dante paused, more annoyed than moved. 

Some nobles now turned openly to watch, while others pretended not to listen even as their ears strained.

Idiot.

Suppressing a curse, Dante approached his cousin, leaning in to murmur near his ear.

“Public image matters—for you as much as for me.”

Reichert flinched, realising too late how many eyes lingered on them.

“I’m indulging this little play for your sake. For the sake of the Crown itself. You’d be wise to remember that.”

Reichert’s face contorted, his voice dropping low.

“…And when your truth is revealed, it won’t be the Crown that falls—it will be you.”

Dante chuckled softly.

“Perhaps. But then, everyone will also know the Crown Prince cannot manage even a single royal enterprise.”

The words were cutting, irrefutable.

Reichert’s fists trembled, but he could not answer.

Since the King’s illness, it was Dante—not Reichert—who had been running the royal enterprises.

And the timing of the King’s collapse… so near Dante’s elevation…

“You’re still nursing suspicions, I see.”

Dante clicked his tongue. 

His cousin suspected him of harming the King. 

Tiresome.

Reichert said nothing. 

To voice such thoughts would spark a scandal beyond control.

Dante studied his cousin’s clenched jaw, then smirked faintly. 

Something about the Crown Prince’s trembling indignation reminded him of a timid beast baring teeth it didn’t truly know how to use.

He clapped Reichert lightly on the shoulder, leaning close again.

“A word of advice, cousin—know when to stay in your place.”

Reichert’s fists shook with fury as Dante turned and walked away, leaving him rooted, seething with impotent rage.

One day, Reichert vowed, he would repay this humiliation.