It was afternoon by the time they got back, and Renea said her goodbyes before she returned to the castle.

“Thank you again—” Renea said, with a polite bow. Ailn felt a brief pause there. She was forcing herself to omit the nickname she’d given him, and maintaining her distance. “I won’t be able to leave the castle after this.”

Her hands fidgeted.

“But…” Renea paused. She looked guilty. “I don’t want to twist your arm, but… if you could see me off the day I leave. A few weeks after the day of the wolf…my leave was delayed till after my birthday.” Her expression turned sheepish at the small kindness she’d been granted. “It would be nice to have a proper farewell.”

“I can do that much,” Ailn said, ambiguously.

It was her birthday? Really? His guilt was getting almost as bad as his hunger. He hoped he could do more for her than just show up, but it really depended on what he could find in his research.

“Thanks,” Renea gave him a sincere smile, waving as she headed off with Nicolas and Camille. “Bye, then… for now.”

Ailn sighed as he headed back inside the cottage.

The relative warmth of his abode washed over him, and against his better wishes, he felt a sense of relief and homecoming.

It was still too damn cold, of course. And he had to restart the fire. Blowing on the embers he’d smothered with ash before he left, Ailn slowly brought it back to life. Then, satisfied it was taking off on its own, he grabbed his pipe, tobacco, and matches from the chest, lit them, and started to smoke.

Now he really was feeling cozy. Ailn hated that.

He eyed the berries he had left. Popping the last three in his mouth, he grabbed the bag of dried meat Kylian left him too and ate a single piece.

His mind was razor-sharp right now. He’d gotten past the misery period, and achieved—unwittingly—fasting-induced clarity. Until Kylian came back with those books, though, there wasn’t anything to cut up with that razor-sharp mind.

Speak of the devil, it was just as Ailn was mulling over how messed up the eum-Creid family was that Kylian came pacing in, huffing and puffing because he was carrying a rather heavy looking crate.

“I hope you’re aware… ugh,” Kylian breathed heavily, the soreness in his throat evident from the hoarseness of his voice, “how hard it was to retrieve these for you.”

He set the crate down with a thud, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. Winded, hunched over with his hands on his knees, Kylian had managed to work a sweat despite the awful cold.

“Kylian, what the hell’s wrong with my family?” Ailn asked, not even looking at him. He took a drag from his pipe.

Kylian just stared at him irritatedly, still too short of breath to respond. Eyes squinted, shaking his head, he sounded fed up.

“I cannot… think of a single more inappropriate question to ask a vassal,” Kylian groaned.

Ailn lifted the lid of the crate.

“Histories for the last few hundred years… documentation of succession, recorded by the Azure Knights… you even managed to get a copy of the eum-Creid family charter?” Ailn whistled.

“Sir Fontaine was quite eager to assist,” Kylian said simply. “As was Ennieux. She herself is poring over the legal niceties, seeking a way to prevent Renea’s disinheritance.”

“Any luck so far?”

“None.”

Ailn clicked his tongue, starting his research with the family charter. Making sure to sit well away from the fire, he propped the lug of a book up on his knee and skimmed through the pages.

“...This really is remarkably concrete,” Ailn frowned. “It’s specific, but unyielding.”

Twenty years old. It was a high threshold for adulthood, relative to the rest of the empire. Some noble families accepted heirs as young as fourteen.

“Shouldn’t the age of inheritance be younger?” Ailn asked. “I would’ve guessed Varant’s headship crises came more from dire circumstances than internal strife.”

“That’s a rather difficult question to answer,” Kylian said, in a contemplative tone. “I don’t know, truthfully. Perhaps Neifflor eum-Creid was simply that insistent on the maturity of the leader.”

“So, he specifically didn’t want a Sophie situation, huh?” Ailn threw another piece of dried meat into his mouth, which Kylian didn’t fail to notice. “I’m astounded that the family charter goes all the way back to the city’s founding.”

“Varant’s long continuity of tradition is noted within the empire,” Kylian shrugged. Finally rested, he took one last deep breath. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“Jerky before you go?”

“Save it for yourself,” Kylian frowned. “If there’s any other way I can be of assistance, make sure to let me know, Ailn.”

After a couple of hours skimming the charter, and the castle histories, Ailn found himself shocked how little wiggle room there seemed to be.

The only time anyone ever ascended to headship early was when they were the last surviving member of the direct lineage. Inheritance and disinheritance procedures, meanwhile, were determined by the family head, and required direct approval from a member of the imperial family.

The bishop didn’t even matter. A hundred years ago, an enemy of the eum-Creids had tried to obstruct the family by bribing the bishop—and the notary—to act in opposition to an adoption. But the imperial family had specifically decreed that the moment they personally approved, the adoption was as good as done.

That same logic would undoubtedly apply to removals from the family register as well.

Varant did have its fair share of headships decided by duels, surprisingly. Dukes always acceded the headship to Saintesses, but same-gendered rivals were often willing to battle it out—not just would-be dukes, but also aspiring Saintesses.

Still, they had to be of age.

Ailn closed his eyes to think. Were there really no options here? The last option left was to make an appeal to Sigurd, but Ailn didn’t see much hope in talking him out of his decision.

He’d have to consider it more carefully later. Evening was approaching fast.

Hopefully something would come to him while he was setting traps. Groaning at the thought of going back out into the cold, Ailn once again threw ash into the fire so he could leave the embers to smolder, and steeled himself for another round against the small, protein-filled rodents of the forest.

He just had to be more careful. A little more natural in his concealment, more meticulous attention to the sensitivity of the trigger stick.

Ailn gathered up more berries as bait.

Once again, going through the laborious process of fixing all his deadfall traps, this time taking pains to make sure they were just barely off the trail, Ailn checked back on his first trap to make sure it hadn’t prematurely gone off.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Trap was still set. Bait was still there.

Good.

He headed back to his cottage, satisfied, surprised to see Ceric just shivering at the front.

“I admire the courtesy, but,” Ailn let the man into the cottage, “you can just help yourself next time. Isn’t it a bit late to be visiting?”

“I-it was a great a-adventure, Ailn, my friend,” Ceric’s teeth chattered. “Y-you see, I was so struck by t-the catacombs which that criminal ring had brought us through…” He rubbed his hands together for warmth as Ailn rekindled the fire. “I had intended to be here by n-noon, but I got lost.”

“You really shouldn’t… explore a place like that without a map,” Ailn frowned.

“Phew,” Ceric breathed a sigh of relief as he finally started warming up. “Don’t worry. Even if I got lost, I could just use Nightwriter to find my way out.”

Ailn sincerely doubted Nightwriter would be any help at all in that situation. And even if it were, that would require going to sleep in the catacombs. But he didn’t press the issue.

Pulling out his trusty notebook, Ceric flipped to the latest page to show Nightwriter’s latest response.

‘Q: How shall Ailn eum-Creid rectify his poor reputation?’

‘A: He who dares to be can never be weak.’

Nightwriter was as coy as ever, and that was being charitable.

“Well… I appreciate the sentiment,” Ailn sighed. He hadn’t expected anything, anyway, but he’d give Ceric a piece of dried meat for his troubles. “Maybe I’ll see the wisdom of it with a night’s sle—”

Ailn stopped mid-sentence, just as he was feigning giving Nightwriter’s advice any heed.

‘He who dares to be…’

Now, there was an interesting thought.

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

Sophie’s divine blessing manifested at the age of five, when no one was around to witness it. She really was a late-bloomer, and that’s why no one had caught it. Most eum-Creid children felt the holy aura by the time they were three.

She hid it, because she understood what would happen if she revealed it. Illegitimate child or not, she would certainly be officially adopted into the family.

And Renea would lose her place.

It was true that Sophie was partially motivated by a desire to be free from burden. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she felt a quiet resentment toward Celine; she had only learned a year earlier that Celine was her mother. However, she concealed this blessing primarily out of a sincere desire to protect Renea.

So many years later, Sophie realized her poor decision had only caused Renea more pain in the long run. Nothing had ever made Sophie feel so miserable as watching her sister break down under the knights’ jeering and Aldous’s vindictive, disgusting words.

Now, Sophie was about to be adopted into a family she never wanted to join, and Renea, who’d always loved that family more than they deserved, was going to be disowned. The irony of it all left a terrible taste in Sophie’s mouth, like a thin gunk lingering on her tongue.

She let Sigurd know as much.

“You truly just spat upon the ground in front of all the knights,” Sigurd remarked, making a face of utter repulsion. “Inside, no less. Were you not forced to take etiquette lessons as a lady-in-waiting?”

“That—” Renea, standing behind Sophie, also made a face even as she tugged at Sophie’s sleeve, “—it’s not as if they must teach you to refrain from spitting…”

Averting her eyes and unconsciously covering her face with one hand in embarrassment—as if trying to hide it—Renea tugged on her sleeve again, urging Sophie to come with her.

“Accept my challenge, Sigurd,” Sophie said, her voice taking on a mild hissing timbre. It was as much emotion as her typically indifferent demeanor would allow. “Duel me, or prove yourself a coward.”

Sophie had gone out of her way to interrupt a meeting in the Great Hall. Not only were scores of knights gathered, but among their ranks and sitting near the front were the officers of the Order.

Of course, she was interrupting a budget meeting, so it came off as rather obnoxious even to those knights who supported her. Picking such a poor time and place to grandstand only undermined her case for early ascent to headship—she was essentially showcasing her immaturity in the most oblivious way possible.

“Firstly, I would not accept a challenge that I am not forced to,” Sigurd said. “Secondly, I cannot even accept the challenge if I wished. Tell me, did you even attempt to read the family charter?”

“The family what?” Sophie squinted her eyes as if Sigurd were attempting to trick her. “What does it matter? I’m the strongest.”

Renea’s sleeve tugging only grew more frantic as she realized Sophie had not even done the most basic of due diligence. Her face was getting redder by the moment.

It was particularly painful for her, who had been a skilled statesman. Renea may have lacked the divine blessing, but she was extremely proficient in her every other duty. A sense of professional pride was beginning to knit her eyebrows.

Meanwhile, Sophie just crossed her arms and tilted her head.

“...We should increase the castle’s education funds,” Sigurd muttered. “A small cut to the knights’ recreation budget may be in order—”

“Y-your Highness Sigurd, if I may!” Sir Dartune leapt up, hearing his liege’s sudden declaration. “Her Grace Sophie skipped her lessons as a child! Our education budget is just fine!”

The knights, who had been scrimping and saving a surplus for three seasons, were on the brink affording a billiards table. Those who had invested their hopes in finally getting one shifted anxiously in their seats.

The tension in the Great Hall was palpable.

“Then perhaps we ought to allocate funds for some form of animal control,” Sigurd said, giving a mild scowl as he glanced at Sophie. “Appoint knights thence, whose sole duty would be to corral feral children and ensure they attend their tutoring.”

“Whatever education I lack, I am perfectly suited for the position,” Sophie retorted, her expression darkening at Sigurd’s mockery. Her voice chilled. “I would prove a far nobler head than any cruel coward.”

For a moment, Sigurd just stared at her in disbelief. Then, clenching his fists, gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and even turned his head away.

“You did not ‘lack’ an education Sophie, you squandered it,” Sigurd growled, as a vein started to bulge on his forehead. His still clenched fist rapped against his temple a few times, as if it helped clear away his sheer umbrage. “Very well! You presume yourself a capable family head? Then conduct this budgeting meeting yourself!”

Every knight in the Great Hall turned their heads back between Sigurd and Sophie in alarm, afraid that she would actually accept his offer.

“Then I sha—!” Sophie started.

“L-let’s not be rash, Your Grace,” Sir Fontaine interjected, rising with urgent composure. He placed a hand on his liege’s shoulder to calm him down. “It seems a short break is in order.”

“No, I wish to run the meeti—” Sophie once again tried to speak.

‘Yes, let’s!’

‘My legs have gone dead, Your Grace! I need to stand for a moment!’

“Very well, then. A short break it is,” Sigurd said, his teeth still gnashing.

Sophie whisked her head around back and forth, glaring at the knights who sabotaged her chance to show her stateliness.

“Why don’t we go get some snacks?” Renea said, trying to console her angry sister. Sophie was furious, but to Renea it came off as simple pouting.

Her pacifying gestures actually hurt Sophie’s feelings, though it was difficult to see through her muted expressions. Sophie was taking up the mantle of Saintess for Renea’s sake. Yet everyone in the Great Hall, including the sister she was working so hard to protect, seemed to see her as little more than a joke.

So, she said nothing and simply stomped off, heading up the stairs to the lord’s chamber.

“Sophie? Oh, Sophie! Come on!” Renea scurried after her.

The knights breathed a sigh of relief, and things seemed to be calming down in the Great Hall, so they milled around waiting for the meeting to start up again.

“That girl is seventeen, and yet she acts as if she’s seven, Sir Fontaine!” Sigurd vented to the grandfatherly knight. “At this rate, she’ll yet have less maturity than a nine-year-old by the time she takes up the headship!”

“Your sister will swiftly acclimate with your guidance, Your Highness, I assure you,” Fontaine replied soothingly. “She merely needs her older brother’s kindness and example—”

“That girl is not my sister,” Sigurd said bluntly. “She will become Saintess, but she is not my family.”

“...I do hope you will come to understand you don’t mean that, Your Highness,” Fontaine said, a little sadly.

“It is not sentiment, but the simple truth,” Sigurd arched an eyebrow at Fontaine. He was confused that Fontaine would even question it. Then, turning toward the lord’s chamber which Sophie had just retreated to, he let out a harsh sigh. “This duchy is headed for utter disaster.”

His rugged and resonant tone now dripped with cynicism, as if he’d seen firsthand all the bitterest things in the world.

Sigurd wearily glanced over his shoulder, looking at the portrait of his mother in the headship gallery. His eyes turned icy at the thought of the brat who was meant to carry on her legacy.

Then his gaze drifted sidewards even further—to the portrait of his grandfather, the great Duke Aaron. His eyes were piercing, and his expression grim. It was the look of a man who’d carried the duchy on his shoulders.

Thinking of how their forebears had struggled and strived, Sigurd only grew more irate.

“Countless generations of impeccable leadership. The pride of the eum-Creids who watch vigilantly over Varant! All ended swiftly by one rotten teenager!” Sigurd lamented. “The only worse leader than her would be—”

The Great Hall’s doors slammed open.

“Sigurd!” Ailn called out. “I’m challenging you for the family headship!”