INWY~48

Chapter 48

In the middle of an olive grove, beneath the shadow of a small hut, two men stood. Their attire was far removed from the workers around them, making their presence stand out like an ugly scar on the peaceful scene.

The laborers stole glances their way, but not a single one approached. They treated them like pariahs.

Dante’s jaw was tight as he checked his watch.

Thirty minutes. It had already been half an hour since he arrived at Miles’s olive farm.

He hadn’t spoken a word, but each time Dante raised his wrist to glance at the time, Callis’s face grew darker, as though charred by unseen flames. His nerves were fraying, burning away by the second.

If only Dante would curse again, like before. At least then Callis could measure the temperature of his anger. But no—Dante simply stared at the grove with an unreadable expression.

The summer sun beat down, sharp and merciless. Rows of olive trees lined the fields, filling the air with the sharp scent of green leaves. Unripe fruits, still pale and firm, swayed lightly in the heat. Workers were weeding, stringing fine nets to keep out pests, preparing the grove for the full arrival of summer.

Trivial chores. Nothing worth delaying a Grand Duke for.

Dante tilted his head slightly, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back the curse rising in his throat. Closing his eyes for a moment, he forced his seething fury back down.

“I.”

The cold voice split the silence, making Callis flinch hard enough for his shoulders to jump. Slowly, creak by creak, he lifted his head.

“Why,” Dante said, each syllable clipped, “am I standing here—”

A pause.

“—watching this nonsense?”

The fury pulsed through every fractured word, and Callis swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. To understand how it had come to this, he had to rewind thirty minutes, to when they first arrived.

Upon arrival, Callis had sought out Miles, the farm’s owner and head of the Citizens’ Council. But the worker he sent returned quickly with a message.

“The farm is busy preparing for summer. He asks that you wait.”

“What? Wait? He told us to come to him!”

“He said you showed up without notice… he’s sorry, but please rest in the hut until he can come.”

And with each word, Dante’s expression had grown darker, more dangerous.

The worker, terrified of that murderous aura, fled before Callis could even protest. In the end, the two had been forced to retreat into the hut’s shade.

Madman. That was Callis’s final verdict on Miles.

Even if he didn’t know Dante’s true title, Miles must have guessed he was a high noble. To summon a noble to his farm, leave him waiting in a shed like a beggar? It was lunacy.

Callis wanted nothing more than to drag the insolent man here by the scruff of his neck.

Then—

“Callis.”

The Duke’s voice was colder than the shade itself.

“Y-yes?”

“Bring him.”

Callis’s heart sank.

Of course… he hadn’t meant literally.

But Dante’s order was absolute.

Swallowing hard, Callis clenched his fists. I lasted longer than most would have, he told himself grimly, before stepping into the blazing sun.

In the end, Callis succeeded. Miles arrived at last, scowling as though he were the one inconvenienced.

And then—he walked right past Dante without so much as a glance, ducking into the hut.

Callis’s jaw dropped. He called us here… and now this?!

Instinctively, he glanced at Dante. But the Duke only smirked faintly, as though amused.

Suppressing his own outrage, Callis followed them inside.

The hut was dim and cramped, the sunlight filtered through a single dusty window. Rough benches and a table sat in the center, boxes of empty bottles stacked carelessly to one side. Tools—axes, shovels—hung on the walls. The air was thick with the musk of wood and the oily tang of olives.

It was nothing more than a storage shed. The worst possible place to meet anyone—especially a Duke notorious for his fastidiousness.

“Sit,” Miles said, settling himself on a creaking bench.

Dante glanced at the bench, then raised a brow. “We’re both busy. Let’s keep this short.”

“Hah. So you’re a noble after all? Forgive me for not recognizing.” Miles’s laugh was sharp, mocking. “Yes, I know you’re busy. To a resort owner, the work of a humble farm must seem laughable.”

“Not laughable. Just hot. Hard to wait in the sun.”

Dante’s voice was even, careless, but Callis recognized it instantly.

This was the Duke of Behern at his desk—when his patience had run out and even courtesy was stripped away.

Danger.

The two men glared at each other, their fury different but equally sharp.

“I read your declaration,” Dante said at last. “Impressive preparation. But it ends here.”

Miles’s face twisted. “Is that a threat?”

“A suggestion,” Dante replied with a quiet laugh. “Ignore it, and then it becomes a threat.”

“You think gathering signatures was a mistake? Even those who first agreed would never have imagined their signatures would empower a man who bullies and blackmails his own people!”

“Ah.” Dante’s eyes glinted cold. “So you’ve chosen.”

His voice was glacial now, void of any warmth. The weight of it pressed down like stone.

Miles faltered—then shouted louder, defiance masking his unease. “Go on then! Threaten me all you like! The Council and Mayor Lester will hear of this immediately—”

“Tell me, Miles,” Dante cut him off, voice low as a blade. “Where did the royal subsidies go?”

Miles froze.

“…What are you talking about? Are you accusing me of embezzling funds? That’s a lie, slander! I won’t—”

“Enough.”

Dante’s words sliced through his protest. He leaned forward, gaze dripping with disdain.

“I told you. Let’s be brief. If the virtuous, patriotic chairman of the Council knows his place and keeps his mouth shut, I’ll overlook the matter of the subsidies.”

Miles stammered. “Wh-what? Who the hell are you to—”

“Just answer.”

Dante tilted his head, a mocking smile tugging at his lips.

“How will you choose?”

***

Riena left the café earlier than usual and made her way to Florian’s central square.

The stone plaza was small, a miniature echo of Behern’s grand square—its clock tower, its weathered paving, the fountain with street vendors clustered nearby. And, as always, the square drew people.

She slipped among them easily, pretending to browse trinkets while her ears strained to catch the threads of conversation.

“So the resort won’t be opening after all?”

“They say the townsfolk oppose it. But who knows? If the owner’s a wealthy noble, he might just ignore us.”

“Shame, really. If outsiders came, business might’ve picked up for our shop.”

“I can understand Miles, though. Outsiders bring trouble. That’s why I signed the declaration too.”

There it was. Riena’s eyes sharpened.

She had come here for this—the gossip that swirled wherever people gathered.

And right now, the only topic was the resort.

Voices grew louder as more people chimed in, many agreeing with Miles, unwilling to oppose him.

Riena set down the trinket in her hand and stepped closer, ready to weave her words.

“Such a pity,” she said lightly, her tone carrying. “If the resort ran, Florian could prosper. Perhaps even outshine Sermar.”

It was the perfect bait.

She knew well the inferiority complex Florian held toward its neighboring town.

If she played it right, she could turn this crowd. Maybe not all of them—but enough.