“Disowned…?” Renea repeated that one word, and said nothing for the longest time. Since her head was bowed, no one could see what her face looked like. It wasn’t hard to guess, though. “I—I understand. And I am… grateful for the mercy that I’ve been shown.”

Her voice tightened at the end there, the last few syllables raising in pitch.

“May I return to the lord’s chamber?” Renea asked. She spoke rapidly, and her words clipped.

“You may.”

Renea didn’t respond a last time, as she walked past him at a brisk pace, almost breaking into a jog. Normally, Ailn felt, she would’ve kept a sort of decorum in her posture—hands clasped together demurely, her bowed head in more of a graceful nod. But her arms swung through the air forcefully. And when she passed Sigurd she unconsciously turned her face away from him—enough that Ailn caught a glimpse of her tearful expression.

Racing after her niece, Ennieux suddenly stopped once she was a few paces beyond Sigurd, addressing him without facing him.

“Your Highness, might I request the honor of a private audience at your earliest convenience?” Ennieux asked.

“If it concerns Renea, you may speak to me now,” Sigurd said coolly.

Ennieux’s fist clenched, her thumb digging through her evening glove, scratching back and forth—an uncharacteristically indelicate gesture from a woman whose fluid motions were her most noble quality.

“Please do not do this, Sigurd.” Ennieux’s request was short, and eschewed the typical formalities of address. “I beg you.”

“The matter is settled, Ennieux,” Sigurd said.

Ennieux said nothing else, and went after Renea.

Ailn, meanwhile, tried to avoid doing anything to grab Sigurd’s attention. The best thing he could do was hang back until the knights dispersed, and Sigurd forgot about his existence.

If he’d known this was going to happen, he would’ve avoided being seen in the first place—he could’ve positioned himself surreptitiously behind one of the pillars of the front gate. Unfortunately, Sigurd was staring right at him now, and it didn’t look like he’d settle for just giving Ailn an angry glare.

“Step forward, Ailn,” Sigurd said.

With stiff steps, Ailn walked up, deciding that he’d follow the path of least resistance for now. And despite a growing sense of irritation, he stopped a few paces in front of Sigurd and kneeled.

“You’ve been flagrantly disobeying my command to stay away from the castle,” Sigurd said. “I overlooked it when you rarely made an appearance.”

Ailn stifled a frustrated sigh. He’d known that Sigurd had ‘banned’ him from the castle, but wasn’t sure if that was limited to residing there, or if it also included visiting. The knights’ relatively lenient attitudes until now had slowly convinced him it was the former.

“...You’ll have to forgive me… Your Highness.” The words tasted like acid, and came out like bile. “As you may have heard, I’d recently been attacked to the point of near death. Since the attack, I’ve found myself ill at ease when alone.”

“Indeed, you have always been a coward,” Sigurd said. Earlier, Ailn thought he’d heard a thaw in Sigurd’s icy tone when he spoke to Renea. Evidently, he had no such warmth left for Ailn. “The assailant, however, has been in custody for a full week. Gird your loins and return to where you belong.”

This was more than just thoughtless on Sigurd’s part. Having moments ago informed Renea of her impending disinheritance, banishing Ailn from the castle was a nasty thing to do. It was bad enough as things stood, but Sigurd was doing it on the presumption that the Ailn in front of him was the original.

What point was there in taking away what little time his siblings would have had to spend together?

The current Ailn had somewhat expected this, given the poor reviews the rest of the eum-Creids gave Sigurd’s personality. But just five seconds into their meeting, Ailn already had an awful impression of his ‘new’ older brother.

And with every exchange between them, it was rapidly worsening.

“I beg of thee, most noble, illustrious and exalted brother, another fortnight of rest,” Ailn said. “If it pleases thee, I humbly beseech thee, verily, that this unworthy brother of yours be granted the mercy of time to recuperate. And I defer, as always, to your infinite wisdom, Your Highness, most gracious and benevolent.”

It was a lark whether Ailn could do anything with two weeks of continued access to the castle, but it was better than nothing, and would at least give him a chance to touch base with Renea.

His plan had been to do what was necessary to earn Sigurd’s favor, for now. Unfortunately, Ailn’s natural dislike for Sigurd made it difficult for him to resist hamming up the formalities.

“Methinks that the rat unchecked has started to imagine itself the lord of the manor,” Sigurd growled.

Ailn forced a benign smile on his face. He’d actually read that phrase just yesterday in one of the ducal library’s histories—an apocryphal quote that a certain Prince Aenslych had said before executing a corrupt minister.

“‘Methinks’ said rat was forced to take up the slack of the lord who left a fox to guard the henhouse,” Ailn said. “...Your Highness.”

The hasty ‘Your Highness’ thrown in at the end did little to soften the blow of Ailn’s fighting words. Sigurd’s eyes were bugging out so badly it looked like they really might pop out of their sockets.

If anything, throwing in Sigurd’s title as an afterthought came off as insulting.

“Shut the gates on this fool,” Sigurd said, gnashing his teeth. “If he tries to enter the castle, beat him down.”

“Beat—are you serious?” Ailn said, as two knights came over and grabbed him by the arms. “I haven’t even gotten a chance to sleep—”

Dragging him to the front gate, the knights swung him back to get some extra momentum when they threw him forward. Given their extraordinary strength, he flew about six feet, landing in a pile of snow that had been shoveled to clear out the gate’s entrance.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Arghhh!” Ailn yelped. The throw didn’t particularly hurt, but the snow that got into his cloak and tunic was miserably melting, rendering his attire sopping wet. Squinting at the knights who had thrown him, he recognized them as the same ones who messed with him at the start of the inquisition.

The one who’d stopped him at the front of the chapel was smirking, peering down on Ailn obnoxiously as he worked with the other knight to ostentatiously shut the gate.

“Don’t think this means you’ve won,” Ailn growled to himself.

----------------------------------------

Sophie had never been a responsible person.

Nominally she’d been raised as a ‘maid,’ but from the very beginning she more or less had free rein of the castle. The servants who kept the closest watch on her—especially a nanny she’d suspected to be her real mother—were well aware of her true identity.

As a consequence, while the real maids busied themselves with washing and drying linens, Sophie was leaping into the massive piles they formed. When she was supposed to be prepping vegetables in the kitchen, she was snatching cookies and sneaking away.

No one minded. The lady of the castle, Saintess Celine, was always nice to her, and the duke didn’t seem to have much say in the matter, anyway.

If it takes a village to raise a child, then Sophie was indeed that proverbial child. Wanting for nothing, and unbothered by her lack of parents, Sophie spent her days roaming the castle and having fun—often coaxing along Renea, her lady and her best friend.

Back then, she hadn’t even known Renea was her sister.

These memories came back to her in a nostalgic dream as she dozed off in the carriage during the final stretch of her journey back to Varant. The picture floated through her mind like a cloud, soft and happy: a tiny Renea fretting nervously while Sophie tried to unscrew and liberate the pretty Saintess statue from the broken fountain.

But the cloud dispersed, jolted away by a bump in the ride. Sophie scowled.

It had been an especially tiring couple of days. Sophie, serving as an emissary of divinity, had visited a settlement along the northern wall that had recently been attacked. As the Saintess, it was her duty to heal injuries and comfort hearts.

Before, she’d just follow Renea around, manifesting her holy aura when it was needed. Now, she had to muster her best smile for the grieving people, and deliver sermons with as many kind sentiments as possible. Sophie was putting in a sincere effort to don the robe in Renea’s stead.

More for Renea’s sake than the people’s.

An official proclamation had yet to be made regarding Renea. The debacle of their nine year lie wasn’t just embarrassing—it was complex, difficult to explain, and even harder to believe. For now, it seemed best to simply let people talk. Few would believe it initially, but Sophie’s unannounced assumption of the role would act as a tacit admission.

If Sophie did her job well, then maybe they’d just quietly let the issue go, making things a bit easier on Renea.

The problem was wherever she went, people reacted with utter confusion and mild disappointment. Sophie almost thought it would be better to wear the silver wig and impersonate Renea outright—but she had no desire to replicate her dainty and delicate performances.

All these things, and more, were on Sophie’s mind as she made the long journey back to the castle. This was the first time she’d shouldered the weight of responsibility herself, and it was even more exhausting than she’d feared.

By contrast, reinforcing the barrier around the entire castle was trivial. As the carriage finally rolled past the front gates, Sophie managed the task before she even stepped out. The only consequence was some itchiness around her face.

Still, now that she was home, she wanted nothing more than rest. Perhaps she would dive into a pile of linens for old time’s sake, and eat some cookies while laying on top of them.

Of course, Sophie would get no such respite. Because as she exited the carriage, she noticed her half-brother Sigurd had returned.

His presence alone was sufficient to raise her ire, but today there was something else. The knights looked uncomfortable. And Renea, who always attended Sigurd’s assemblies of the Order, was nowhere to be seen.

Sophie was almost certain that the oft-absent Knight Commander had come back to Varant just to do something absurd.

Throwing open the carriage door and jumping down—not bothering to wait for the agonizingly slow raising of the saber arch—Sophie walked briskly up to Sigurd.

To her surprise, Sigurd gave her a light bow.

The last time Sophie and Sigurd met, she had been a mere maid. Most nobles would almost certainly have dug in their heels, and refused to accept a commoner as the new—if eventual—family head.

Yet, Sigurd greeted her now with the proper respect that was due her new status.

“My Lady, Sophie. I see you’ve returned from the settlement. I trust your journey went well?” Sigurd asked. His words were perfectly affable, even if his tone hardly matched.

Sophie didn’t care.

“Where’s Renea?” she demanded.

“She withdrew to the lord’s chamber,” Sigurd said. “I presume she wished for privacy as she finds peace with her new dispensation.”

“Speak directly, Sigurd,” Sophie said coldly, omitting the title Sigurd was owed by decorum. “You most of all are obnoxious when you dance with your words.”

“...Very well.” Sigurd’s eyes narrowed, and he returned her frostiness in kind. “I’ve seen to it that Renea will soon be disowned. As is appr—”

“She’s WHAT?!” Sophie shouted.

“She’s being disowned, as is appro—”

“This can’t stand!” Sophie snarled. “A steward shouldn’t think his proper seat is the throne!”

“...As is appropriate for a girl who’s lied to the duchy and empire for nine years,” Sigurd said irritatedly. His eye twitched as Sophie assailed him with a metaphor much like the one he’d not long ago used on Ailn. “We make ample room in our family for the pathetic. We cannot house a girl who is deceitful besides.”

“What right have you to act as a mere lame duck?!” Sophie shouted.

“A lame du—are you mad?” Sigurd’s face trembled violently as he exerted himself to keep his voice from rising. “I remain regent for three years yet!” he exclaimed with palpable exasperation.

“You are a seatwarmer,” Sophie hissed. “And you have stepped beyond your role!”

“What—” Sigurd’s hands flew to his head, his voice continuing to rise in disbelief, “—do you even base that on?! This is well within my purview! Were you twelve, would I be forced to delay all matters of state for eight more years?!”

“I already act as the Saintess now! Your regency is nothing more than a formality!” Sophie yelled—though, the slightest hesitation in her voice could be heard. Clearly, she lacked precise knowledge of their respective duties and the proper delineation between them.

“If you blame anyone, then blame yourself! Do you think I relished this decision?!” Sigurd yelled. Restraining himself no longer, he eagerly engaged Sophie in her mudslinging. “That girl was honest and kind when she was young—who could have led her astray, I wonder? Were I able to punish you twice in her stead, I surely would!”

He gritted his teeth and growled, “Fortunately for you, the eye of punishment looks past you, shielded as you are by the divine blessing.”

Sophie’s eyes widened in surprise. She apparently hadn't anticipated such an admission from Sigurd, nor was she prepared for her own fault in the matter to be so pointedly hurled back at her.

Perhaps she had expected Sigurd to try and ‘put her in her place.’ Instead, he was clearly restraining his own contempt solely out of respect for her position.

Simmering with anger yet maintaining a harsh glare, Sophie delivered her calm assessment.

“I see,” Sophie said quietly. “It’s not that you are power-hungry, but that you are a coward. It matters not to me. Just know this—I will ensure Renea’s disinheritance does not succeed.”

Sophie proceeded on into the castle, leaving the knights who had escorted her standing awkwardly behind, now left to linger beside Sigurd.

“Er… Your Highness, Sigurd…”

“Does she truly not realize she has to dismiss you?” Sigurd growled, smacking his forehead in frustration.