“Ares Dekan….”
“I’m here.”
Having taken on the name of a dead man, he walked on. He was alive, yet dead; dead, yet alive. It was so for everyone, and even for himself.
Save for one person—Grace Taylor.
She had perceived his existence with perfect clarity, even in moments unknown to him. Through her calling his name, the ambiguous existence that had been neither living nor dead became clear.
“Ares….”
Grace’s faint call gradually melted away the name of Walter that had been covering him so completely. As that painful name, buried beneath terrible guilt and scars, slowly dissolved from his soul, the name that had long been curled up and hidden was revealed.
“Ares.”
Do you know?
What your call means to me.
Ares buried his head in her shoulder and answered.
“I’m by your side.”
Ares soothed her endlessly, sharing his warmth.
“Grace. Grace Taylor.”
And he called her name, which felt elegant yet sharp. Until her trembling subsided.
＊ ＊ ＊
Some called the Duke of Richmond’s castle the “Blue Eagle Castle.” It was partly because the eagle was the symbol of Richmond, but more specifically, it was because of the blue eagle crest and the chandelier decorations in the main keep’s hall.
The massive eagle crest used in the time of the first duke still hung directly behind the ducal chair, boasting its majesty.
The hall, painstakingly crafted by the first Duke of Richmond, was itself a legacy and a treasure. The twelve ivory pillars supporting the domed ceiling were impressive, but even more eye-catching were the numerous chandeliers.
Among them, the most overwhelmingly dominant was the chandelier hanging at the center of the hall’s ceiling, a piece decorated with no fewer than two thousand crystals and one thousand sapphires. At its top hung a sapphire sculpture shaped like a flying eagle.
Usually, the hall was opened for important events or banquets, and most recently, the countess’s birthday party had been held there. On the day of that party, the hall’s splendor had been beyond words.
But tomorrow, it would be used for a slightly different reason.
The countess declared that the hall had to be decorated to suit the purpose, and for two days she personally inspected every corner.
“Remove all the decorations.”
She had them take down all the lavish decorations prepared for her birthday party, as well as the pottery and vases that were as historically significant as the hall itself. All the blue tapestry crests that had hung along the walls were replaced with black ones. The chandeliers were raised so high they seemed to have vanished, and the chairs prepared for each family head were black as well.
The atmosphere of the hall changed as easily as flipping one’s palm.
“Just like a funeral hall. As expected of you—truly impressive.”
Late at night, Count Rinko, who had come to look around the hall, giggled and praised his wife.
“This is where the Duke of Richmond’s political life ends. How could I decorate it lavishly?”
“Heh-heh, that would have been a sight to see, too.”
The smile faded gradually from the count’s face as he rubbed his chin. He stared at the ducal chair upon the dais, then walked toward it as if bewitched.
Thud, thud—the sound of his footsteps on the stairs felt like thunder. And the moment he sat in that massive chair, a thrill ran from his head to his toes, and his blood seemed to boil.
“Tomorrow. It’s tomorrow.”
Although he hadn’t been able to kill the bastard before coming to the ducal castle, if he severed the wretch’s political life completely tomorrow, everything would flow in its proper order.
＊ ＊ ＊
And so, the next day.
Count Rinko woke feeling refreshed, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He had not dreamt any ill-omened dreams, and the joint pain that always plagued him was gone.
“What of the Duke’s movements?”
“He has not stepped a single foot outside his room.”
“He is no different from my grandmother. So, is the old ghost still asleep?”
“Yes. The dowager lady likewise shows no movement.”
“Good, good. Everything is good.”
Enjoying his leisure all morning, he only donned his black suit and left his room when the Grand Council was imminent.
“Has the Duke arrived?”
“Well… They say he arrived first.”
“First? He must have been quite restless.”
“Um… yes.”
Though the servant’s tone was ambiguous, the count simply laughed, feeling pleased. But when he entered the corridor to the hall, his smile vanished bit by bit.
Perhaps because it had been decorated like a funeral, it was so quiet that one could hear a pin drop—even though small talk usually leaked through the open door into the corridor. Beyond solemnity, an inexplicable tension permeated the air.
The count stopped dead in his tracks and asked.
“Is everyone here now?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Now inexplicably displeased, the count deliberately cleared his throat loudly before moving on.
It was natural for the master to appear last. Every master he had ever seen had done the same. They always arrived last, entering while receiving everyone’s gaze. So he walked with his shoulders spread wide and his head slightly raised, like a master. Then, arriving before the open door, he turned toward the hall—and was swallowed whole without even realizing he was being swallowed.
Neither the overwhelming size of the space nor the large blue eagle crest could capture his attention.
Black suited him well. No, it was as if black existed for him. Every decoration intended to resemble a funeral merged with the duke’s atmosphere, evoking the judgment seat of hell.
What was this strange sense of déjà vu, as if he had seen this somewhere before?
Then, the duke, who had been leaning languidly against the massive chair with his long legs crossed, slowly uncrossed them and leaned his upper body forward. Sliced sunlight dyed his face. The moment that face, submerged in darkness, was revealed, the count vaguely thought of a black tiger—and simultaneously realized the source of his déjà vu.
The color drained from his face.
Over twenty years ago, the day he had followed the previous duke to the imperial palace. The count had been overwhelmed by the solemn hall decorated entirely in pitch-black. Beneath the massive black tiger crest—greater even than the blue eagle crest—a man who seemed to personify the tiger within the emblem smiled at them.
“You’re late, Duke of Richmond.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. But why do you always arrive so early? Is it not the custom for the master to arrive after the guests have entered?”
“There is much to see—who arrives when, with whom, and with what expression.”
The Emperor’s figure rose as vividly as if it were yesterday, and the duke smiled with that very same face.
“You’re late, Count Rinko.”
Cold sweat ran down the count’s back.