Chapter 16: Matters of State

  As evening fell, a carriage arrived at the duke’s mansion, bringing a guest.

  He was a strange guest—utterly mismatched with the luxurious carriage; even the coachman was better dressed. He wore a tattered, filthy robe, as if ashamed to be seen, his face hidden beneath its folds.

  The servants of the duke’s mansion were well-trained. Though they watched the duke greet this guest with a broad smile, personally welcoming him, they showed no hint of surprise. They went about their duties as usual. Yet they noted: even Grand Duke Erney— the duke’s future in-law—had never received such a courtesy.

  “I told His Eminence the Bishop about my visit here,” Ethan said as soon as he and the duke entered the drawing room and sat down.

  The duke smiled. He waved a hand, and a servant approached, carrying Ethan’s knife. The duke picked it up and handed it to Ethan, then ordered all servants to leave. Only the two of them remained in the room.

  He could tell the young man had spoken without malice or fear. This was not a threat—“Don’t you dare touch me”—but a statement of preparedness: he had come ready for anything.

  To speak so plainly despite the warm welcome revealed a man who, though shrewd, disliked scheming.

  The duke admired such people. Though few could match his own cunning, he preferred this kind of straightforwardness. Even as an enemy, they made for a satisfying opponent.

  Now he felt he understood the young man’s character. He had come to the grand duke’s mansion in a tattered robe, awkwardly unfamiliar with etiquette, yet he carried himself with neither pride nor humility. This was someone with a strong sense of self—someone who cared nothing for power or status.

  Such people were rare. Most could be bought with money, authority, or fame—but this man seemed immune to all three. For most schemers, there had always been only one way to deal with such unyielding souls: kill them.

  Yet the duke liked these types. In fact, the simplest, most basic approach worked best on them: reason with them, appeal to their heart, and make them see your side as right. Before long, they would stand with you—far more reliably than anyone bought with favors. Unfortunately, those who habitually bribed others were often narrow-minded; projecting their own motives, they assumed everyone could be bought.

  Thus, all pleasantries could be skipped. The duke got straight to the point: “Rest easy. Now that His Eminence has spoken, who in the capital would dare harm you? In fact, I must ensure your safety. If anything happens to you, the blame will fall on me.” His expression was gentle, his tone friendly—no trace of flattery, as if chatting with an old friend.

  Ethan nodded. Holding his knife again felt like reconnecting with an old companion; a sense of security settled over him. Even though he knew nothing about politics or power, he understood the weight of the bishop’s position. And the duke’s frankness had dispelled most of his wariness.

  The duke pressed on, even more directly: “To be honest, I’ve been wanting to kill you to silence you.” With someone this straightforward, you had to be straightforward too.

  Ethan frowned. “Silence me about what?” The reason surprised him—but also felt, in a way, expected.

  “About your unit being wiped out by orcs in the west. That cannot be known to others,” the duke said, still unflinchingly direct. “It’s a top-secret military matter—leaks must be prevented at all costs.”

  Ethan nodded. This was why the duke had ordered him “executed on the spot.” This was the root of all his troubles over the past two months. Finally, he understood.

  Contrary to his expectations, the duke had openly admitted his ill will and explained its cause. Yet Ethan could tell the duke was not lying. This made him realize the duke was not a treacherous man—and convinced him the invitation had been made in good faith.

  “That information is invaluable. The men of your unit did not die in vain,” the duke said, his tone grave as he laid out the stakes. “But if this news falls into the hands of those with malicious intentions in the court, the consequences would be catastrophic. Have you told anyone about this?”

  “No,” Ethan replied. Old Sandro would have no interest in such stories, and Ethan had never had the chance to tell anyone else.

  The duke smiled genuinely, nodding. “Good. To be honest, I’ve never liked this distasteful way of keeping secrets either—but it’s the rule.”

  “What? Do all major secrets get kept by silencing people?” Ethan asked, shocked.

  The duke nodded. “Of course. As long as only a few people know, this method works. Think: when weighed against the safety of thousands and the interests of the nation, which matters more—several lives or the greater good? If you were the ruler of this country, what would you choose?” He smiled. “Such is the nature of matters of state.”

  Ethan frowned, turning over this unassailable logic in his mind. He nodded—convinced the duke’s actions were justified. All his wariness and enmity toward the duke vanished.

  The duke seemed to bring it up casually: “I assume His Eminence the Bishop doesn’t know about your ordeal either?”

  Ethan shook his head. A weight lifted from the duke’s chest—this most critical question was no longer a concern. But on the surface, he merely nodded lightly. “Bishop Ronis is a kind man, but he has always had no interest in military or state affairs. His intervention this time was probably a coincidence—or perhaps a personal favor.”

  Ethan nodded. When he had realized the old man who often visited Sandro at night was the bishop himself, he had been utterly astonished. Sandro had given the bishop a brief account of the situation, and the bishop had immediately ordered his carriage brought inside the house to wait for the duke’s return.

  From start to finish, the bishop had never asked why the duke wanted Ethan dead. Nor had Sandro. They had helped Ethan resolve the crisis, yet had shown no curiosity about its cause—not even the slightest interest. It had been as casual as helping a child who had fallen in the street.

  Though confused, Ethan had not asked. He could not press the bishop, and asking Sandro would have been pointless. So he had attributed their indifference to simple disregard. Besides, they had resolved a matter that had nearly cost him his life with such ease.

  The duke was equally unsure why the bishop and Sandro had intervened. But it did not matter—he had gotten the answers he needed, and the issue would soon be resolved neatly. “Fortunately, only Clovis and I have seen your face,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll announce that the fugitive has been captured and executed. Then you’ll be safe.” He looked at Ethan, as if showing respect. “As for the future—for the stability of the empire and the safety of its people—I must ask you to keep this secret.” It was a grand, honorable title; no young man could resist it. Once accepted, he would take pride in it and guard it fiercely.

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  This time, the duke was slightly surprised. Ethan shook his head—but his attitude was as forthright as the duke had expected. “Of course I’ll keep the secret. But not for the nation or its people—I couldn’t care less about matters of state. I just don’t want to put you or the bishop in a difficult position. And besides, I don’t want to die.”

  The duke was a little taken aback, but the outcome was satisfying. He laughed heartily, lifting a wine cup from the table. “Then this matter is settled. I am truly sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you over these two months. Please forgive me.” He smiled even wider. “And thank you for keeping this secret.”

  Ethan also lifted his cup, a faint smile on his face. “You did what you had to do. I’m just doing the same.”

  They clinked cups and drained their wine.

  “On a personal note, I have always been grateful to you,” the duke said after discussing the details of keeping the secret and other matters. He patted Ethan’s shoulder, looking him in the eye. “I truly appreciate you saving my daughter.” His tone was sincere—no pretense, perfectly capturing a father’s gratitude.

  Ethan felt a twinge of guilt. “Has Sophia recovered from her injuries? Where is she now?” These questions had weighed on his mind for two months.

  The duke’s expression darkened. He shook his head slightly. “After injuring her spine, the journey back was rough… She’s alive, but her hands and feet will never move again.”

  “Can I see her?” Ethan asked eagerly.

  In the bedroom, when Sophia saw Ethan, Duke Mrak realized he had not seen his daughter smile in a long time. The thought filled him with sadness.

  “Why did you take so long to come?” Sophia asked. Her pale face flushed with excitement. “Didn’t you say you’d wait for me here?” It was the only way she could express her feelings—even moving a finger was impossible now.

  Ethan knelt beside the bed, looking at her. “I’m sorry. Something urgent came up. But I’m here now, aren’t I?” He had already coordinated with the duke in the hallway, agreeing on their story.

  Sophia gave a bitter, self-deprecating smile. “It’s a shame I can’t move anymore. If I could, I’d cook you my famous pastries.” She had grown much thinner, her face pale. The long torment of her injury had taken its toll—and worst of all, she had to face the fact that she would spend the rest of her life lying motionless in bed. It was a burden few could bear, especially for someone so young, so beautiful, with so many dreams and hopes for the future.

  Her body lay still under the covers, as lifeless as the corpses Sandro covered with cloth on his tables. Only her neck could move, a faint sign that she was alive.

  “This is all my fault…” Ethan felt a stinging in his eyes, like after a yawn. He was the one who had done this to her. He remembered the clumsy, cruel lie he had told. For the first time in his life, he knew what heartache felt like—a mix of helplessness and regret, the agony of knowing he could have prevented this mistake, yet being powerless to undo it.

  “How can you say that?” Sophia said softly, seeming far stronger than he was. Perhaps she had grieved so deeply in recent weeks that she had accepted her fate. “Without you, I would have died out there. I never would have come home, never would have seen Father or my sister again.” She paused. “It’s just a shame I lost my notebook in the marsh—all the medicinal notes I collected over the past two years. And I never found those two herbs you told me about…”

  Without me, you would have been fine. If I hadn’t set that trap, you would never have been injured like this. He dared not say the words, which only made his guilt worse. Ethan had read in Sandro’s books that healing magic was nearly useless for brain injuries. After working with Sandro for so long, he knew the spinal cord was an extension of the brain.

  “There must be a way,” Ethan said, looking at her. “There has to be a way to heal you. I promise.” He remembered the book that had taught him meditation. He had seen entries in its table of contents about magical legends and strange artifacts—even mentions of “resurrection magic,” something unimaginable. If he went back and read the book carefully, translating its foreign text, he would surely find clues. There had to be hope.

  “Thank you for comforting me,” Sophia said, a weak smile on her face. “Really, I’ll be happy if you just come to see me often, to talk to me.”

  “This isn’t comfort,” Ethan said, his voice unusually firm, each word heavy with resolve. “I will find a way to heal you. No matter what it takes, no matter how long it takes.”

  Sophia looked at him in surprise, then slowly turned her head away, facing the wall. Ethan could not see her face, but her voice was choked with tears. “Don’t say that. I’ve promised myself I won’t cry anymore.”

  Even after he left the duke’s mansion and walked along the rain-drenched streets, Ethan remained immersed in this overwhelming sense of responsibility.

  The duke had thanked him warmly, telling him not to trouble himself over Sophia’s condition—his goodwill was already enough. After all, it was not his fault.

  But it is my fault. Ethan dared not say it aloud. He was determined to make amends. The thought that his moment of cowardice had turned a gentle, vibrant young woman into a helpless invalid—condemned to lie in bed like a corpse—filled his chest with what felt like boiling lead.

  He could not let this guilt haunt him forever. He could not bear to see her motionless limbs in his half-waking dreams, as lifeless as a corpse’s.

  And the sight of Sophia’s tearful eyes had shaken him to the core.

  When she had finally composed herself and turned back to him, Ethan had seen her face streaked with tears. Her gaunt features had radiated an unexpected light—a fragile fullness, a sorrowful contentment.

  He could tell it was not grief, but another emotion he did not fully understand. Though confused, he felt a strange feeling stir within him, spreading instantly to every corner of his mind. It was as if an innate string in some unknown part of his heart had been plucked, resonating with her unspoken emotion.

  This feeling merged with his sorrow and sense of responsibility, creating a mix of sorrow and joy that filled his body. He felt invincible—ready to walk through fire and sword, no matter how many stood in his way.

  He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not hear the shout until it was too late: “Halt!” He looked up to find himself surrounded.

  Four armored swordsmen stood at the four cardinal points, trapping him. Beyond them stood several young nobles, led by a man with a small braid. Ethan recognized him—it was the same man he had broken the wrist of and struck in the throat the night before. Passersby, sensing trouble, scattered.

  The braided man stared at Ethan by the light of a torch. Pointing at him, he roared: “It’s you! You think you can disguise yourself and no one will recognize you? I’ve already had someone tip me off! Playing the hero, saving the girl—you think you’re tough? Tonight, I’ll cut off your head and use it as a chamber pot!” He sounded energetic—proof of the capital’s priests’ skill in healing magic.

  “Get out of my way,” Ethan said, ignoring him and walking forward.

  “Stop him!” the braided man shouted. Two of the armored swordsmen stepped forward, shoving Ethan back.

  The braided man jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “You dare look down on me? How dare you! Do you know who I am? You think a few cheap tricks and some magic make you great?” He pointed proudly at the four swordsmen. “Look at their armor—they’re royal guards! Do you think they’ll fear your little tricks? I can call hundreds of men to kill you at any time! I am—”

  “I said, get out of my way,” Ethan interrupted, not listening. His eyes fixed on the two swordsmen ahead, he charged straight at them.

  “Kill him! Kill him now!” the braided man screeched, jumping up. The two swordsmen raised their shields and drew their swords, rushing at Ethan.

  “Go to hell!” Ethan roared, pulling his knife from beneath his robe and slashing fiercely at their shields.

  There was a loud crash. The two swordsmen stumbled backward, clutching their hands and screaming in pain. Their deformed shields flew backward—one hitting the braided man in the face, the other in the chest. Two dull thuds and the sound of cracking bones rang out. This time, the braided man could not even scream. He collapsed to the ground.

  “My lord! My lord!” The others rushed to his side. The remaining two swordsmen were stunned by the force of Ethan’s strike, frozen in place. Ethan pushed past them and walked toward Sandro’s house.

  Only when he had gone far did Ethan realize he had used too much force—he had dislocated his own wrist. He popped the joint back into place, breaking out in a cold sweat from the pain.

  Still, he decided to ask Sandro: was there any way to help someone with a spinal cord injury regain the ability to move?

  The answer was as expected. Sandro yawned. “Sure. Take them to the Necromancer Guild in Diya Valley. They’ll have them running around in no time—maybe even flying.”

  “Is there a way to do it while they’re still alive?” Ethan asked, knowing it was probably a waste of breath.

  But this time, the answer filled him with unexpected hope. “Of course there is,” Sandro said, climbing into bed to sleep. “You could also go to the Whispering Woods and find a Leaf of the World Tree. Heh.”

  “What is that? Where is it? How do I—” Ethan pressed, eager for answers.

  “I’m going to sleep,” Sandro said, closing his eyes and curling up in bed. “Look it up in the books yourself.”