INWY~18

Chapter 18

Reichert instinctively hunched his shoulders under the Chancellor’s wrath, his eyes darting frantically across the room.

As if begging someone—anyone—to at least pretend to support him.

But in the end, not a single person opened their mouth. 

Restless and cornered, Reichert turned his gaze toward his mother, Queen Gloria.

Their eyes met, and she too read the silent plea in her son’s expression. 

Yet… once words were spoken, they could not be taken back.

And so, with no choice left, there was only one path forward. 

To press on without backing down.

“Your Highness the Crown Prince…! To think you would grant that shameless Grand Duke another chance? He has brazenly broken the royal covenant before us all!”

Now Norman laced his words with insults, revealing his hostility toward the Grand Duke without restraint.

“This is nothing less than an affront to both the Crown and the nobility!”

“I understand well what the Chancellor wishes to say. But a significant portion of the royal shares has already been granted to the Grand Duke.”

It was the Minister of State, who had remained silent until now, who suddenly spoke up—voicing support for the Crown Prince’s stance.

“Even if we were to strip him of his title and holdings now, it would only stir needless turmoil. Among the bourgeoisie and commoners, he is nearly idolized. To provoke unrest in such a climate would be unwise.”

It was true. 

Perhaps “idolized” was a touch of exaggeration, but Dante Venachert was indeed regarded with admiration among those classes.

“Hm. I agree—it would be better to gradually reduce his holdings rather than escalate matters at once. What do you think?”

At the words of the Treasurer, who oversaw the royal finances, several Privy Council members nodded their heads.

Moments ago, they had all remained silent—yet suddenly half the room now sided with the Crown Prince. 

Norman, his teeth grinding, shifted his gaze toward the Chief Justice, who had kept quiet throughout.

“Chief Justice… you personally examined the evidence and approved the Grand Duke’s petition for annulment, did you not?”

The old serpent’s eyes were oppressive as he fixed them on Harold. 

Slowly, Harold inclined his head.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“There was no possibility the evidence had been… forged, I presume? After all, such an honorable man as the Chief Justice verified it himself.”

Forged. 

With that single word, the air in the banquet hall shifted entirely. 

Cold sweat trickled down Reichit’s back.

Considering Dante Venachert’s usual tendencies, the possibility of falsified documents certainly existed. 

And most of those gathered here likely thought the same.

But thinking it was far different from saying it aloud. 

Reichert swallowed hard and chose silence.

“The medical certificate of the former Grand Duchess, the physician’s opinion, sworn testimonies from surrounding witnesses… All of these materials submitted by His Grace were thoroughly reviewed—by myself, the judges of the Behern District Court, and the lawyers as well.”

Despite the Chancellor’s sharp words aimed at undermining him, Harold spoke in a measured, resolute voice, free from personal bias. 

His calm, steady manner was worthy of the Chief Justice’s seat.

Realizing the exchange would not bend to his will, Norman’s expression twisted. 

Instead of further scowling, he forced a crooked smile.

“Ah, I see. Very well. Since the Chief Justice has confirmed as much, and since the ministers here seem to share a similar opinion…”

Norman’s snake-like gaze narrowed, a cold glimmer flickering between his thin lids.

“Then soon enough, we must examine the conditions more closely… to ensure His Grace does not once again parade before us some unvetted woman as he did before.”

***

Florian was a place where dawn broke early. 

Perhaps because it lay further east than Behern, the sun rose much sooner here.

As soon as the day began, Riena left the inn alone and headed straight for the shoreline.

She sat upon the sand, watching the sea sparkle under the morning light.

For the past several days she had done the same—coming to the beach at daybreak and remaining there until dusk, gazing at the endless waters.

Swaaash—

The cool rush of waves brushed against her toes, the sound of surf filling her senses. 

She had not even known until Henry told her that this was the sound of waves breaking, not the wind.

“Is this the sound of the wind?”

“Well, you could think so. But no… this is the sound of water rushing ashore. The sound of waves.”

“Waves…”

“Yes, waves. When I sit here and listen to them, I feel as though all my worries are washed away into the sea.”

And indeed it was so. 

Listening to the crashing surf, her mind emptied, leaving no room for thought.

As she sat there once more, staring at the waves breaking white at her feet, a voice reached her.

“You’re here again today.”

Riena slowly lifted her head to find Henry smiling gently down at her.

He seated himself at her side without intrusion, not wishing to disturb her as she looked upon the sea he himself loved.

Sunlight reflected from the waves and shimmered upon her, casting her in brilliance. 

Her still, deep eyes gave her the air of an ancient tree—different from the restless sea, yet equally unyielding.

Henry watched her in silence for some time before speaking quietly.

“You’ll manage just fine from here.”

At his kind, steady tone, Riena slowly replied.

“This will be the last time I see the sea with you, won’t it, Lieutenant?”

“Mm… perhaps it’s better to say, for now, rather than the last time.”

“But once you return to duty… I can’t be certain when we’ll meet again.”

“Haha. Miss Bronte, you can be rather absolute at times.”

Henry chuckled softly.

“Even so, this is my hometown. Whenever I take leave, this will always be where I return.”

To you, here in Florian. 

But he swallowed those words, leaving them unsaid.

Meeting his tender, ocean-colored eyes, Riena’s lips curved in a faint smile.

“Thank you—for everything. …I won’t forget.”

“You still speak as though it’s the end. Next time, I’ll show you more—every hidden corner of this beautiful city.”

Next time. Not knowing naval law or duties, she could not say when such a next time might come.

A few months, perhaps. 

Or years. 

But she could not spoil the moment by saying she could not promise to wait.

“At this rate, Lieutenant, you’ll never return to duty,” she teased lightly, chiding him for his lingering.

“Ah, you’re right. Then I suppose I must bid farewell—for now—to Florian’s sea.”

His laughter rang bright, echoing her playful reproach.

***

“Guests are beginning to arrive, Your Grace.”

“Yes.”

The reply was curt, flat of tone.

Dressed in a plain black suit, Dante fastened his jacket buttons and turned his head, his eyes cold and sharp as they rested on his steward.

“The preparations?”

“All complete. The bishop from Arbern awaits you.”

Brief, efficient—without any needless words.

“Let’s go.”

Dante inclined his head and strode forward. 

The entire palace seemed to hold its breath, silence broken only by the measured tread of Dante’s and the steward’s polished shoes.

They did not head to the main gate, but to the rear entrance. 

There, waiting, was a diverse crowd—nobles allied with the Grand Duke, bourgeois supporters, even commoners. 

An odd gathering.

Dante halted briefly, his golden eyes sweeping over them with a chilling light.

After only a few seconds, he walked on again. 

Dark gray storm clouds hung low overhead, their shadows casting across his face.

The sharp lines of his jaw, accentuated by the somber weather, made him appear even colder, more severe.

Some onlookers sighed softly, others sniffled in grief. 

Whether genuine sorrow or carefully performed grief, Dante did not care.

He exchanged a brief bow with the bishop of the Arbern Church. 

His every movement—slow, precise, unadorned—was executed with graceful perfection.

So beautiful and composed was his bearing that none could guess how keenly sharpened his inner mind truly was beneath that calm.

As always, he wore detachment like armor, slipping the cross necklace around his throat at the bishop’s hands.

His merciless gaze settled on the small cross-shaped headstone before him.

Today was the funeral of the woman who had once been his Grand Duchess.