“I’m not saying we’ll immediately break away from the Empire,” Kennard said, his tone firm yet measured. “More than anyone, I don’t want to provoke unnecessary conflict.”
Serin frowned. “But by increasing the mining output, aren’t you preparing for war? His Majesty might think the same.”
“It’s just preparation for the worst-case scenario,” Kennard replied coolly.
He tapped the end of the armrest with his fingers, a subtle rhythm echoing the tension in the room. Though he reassured Serin with talk of precaution, his mind had already played out tens of thousands of possible outcomes.
Regardless of how the situation unfolded—no matter the direction events took—he had come to one unshakable conclusion.
Whatever happened, he had to protect Elena and his people.
Knock, knock.
The sharp sound of knuckles against wood broke the heavy silence that had settled over the office.
“Come in,” Kennard called out.
The door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped inside. It was Irish.
It had been several months since Kennard had sent him to the capital to investigate the secret funder behind House Blade.
“I greet Your Grace,” Irish said, dropping to one knee. He placed his sword gently on the floor and bowed his head, one arm raised diagonally across his chest in salute.
“You just got back?” Kennard asked, eyeing the dust and sweat clinging to the man’s cloak.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Irish confirmed.
It was clear he had come directly to the castle without pause.
“Rise.”
At Kennard’s command, Irish stood swiftly and straightened his posture, shoulders squared with military precision.
“Did Hazel arrive safely at House Blade?” Kennard asked.
On the day Kennard had gone to inspect the area blocked by a landslide, he had found something unsettling—footprints belonging to the White Fox Tribe scattered across the scene.
Carriage wheel tracks were also visible on the path, which looked to have been deliberately cleared. The path’s sudden accessibility and the distinctive traces led him to one troubling possibility: Hazel might have been in that carriage. She might have been taken.
To ease his growing concern, he had sent a letter via Irish—who happened to be in the capital at the time—asking for confirmation of Hazel’s safe return.
“Yes, Your Grace. I confirmed that she arrived safely,” Irish reported, his voice steady.
Kennard nodded slightly, though his expression remained tense. “And there were no signs of the White Fox Tribe?”
“No, Your Grace,” Irish replied. “There were no traces of them at all.”
At that, Kennard leaned back in his chair, his gaze clouded. The confirmation should have brought relief—but instead, his mind grew more entangled.
“Why would the White Fox Tribe deliberately clear the landslide?” he murmured, almost to himself. “They opened a path and left obvious tracks… They had to know they’d be discovered.”
He leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, deep in thought.
“Maybe they did it on purpose?” Serin offered cautiously, brows drawn together in concern.
“On purpose…” Kennard echoed, his voice low with consideration. The idea gripped him.
Serin’s tone sharpened slightly. “The villagers of the White Fox Tribe pulled a reckless stunt under the guise of the Sabbath. They even went as far as to invite Your Grace. Judging by that, it seems they no longer intend to simply hide away.”
At Serin’s words, a vivid image rose unbidden in Kennard’s mind: a White Fox woman, her silver hair soaked in blood, lying lifeless on the altar.
His brow furrowed deeply, the cold gleam in his eyes sharpening like a blade.
Irish, who hadn’t been present during the events being discussed, listened quietly to the exchange—until a sudden shift in Kennard’s expression sent a chill through the room.
The coldness in his eyes was unmistakable.
“It’s not just Leto,” Kennard said, his voice low and sharp. “There must be members of the White Fox Tribe secretly working with them. That runaway priest, for example.”
“Leto?” Irish echoed, blinking in confusion. He turned to Serin, silently asking for context.
“Oh, that…” Serin sighed and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”
The irritation in his tone made it clear he wasn’t in the mood to explain. Irish, catching the cue, fell quiet again.
Kennard leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze steady. “What about your end? Were you able to uncover who’s backing the Duke of Blade financially?”
“Well…” Irish trailed off, glancing uncertainly at Serin, as if seeking backup.
Serin tilted his head toward him and gave a silent nod, urging him to speak.
“It was Count Remid,” Irish finally said, his voice barely above a murmur. He shrank his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller.
Kennard’s right eyebrow arched, and the long scar running diagonally across his face twitched with the motion.
“You don’t mean Marten, do you?” he asked, his tone flat but edged with disbelief.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Irish confirmed with a small nod.
A long, heavy silence followed.
Kennard stared at him—eyes narrowed, unblinking—like a judge weighing a verdict, or a blade poised just before the strike.
Irish swallowed. But he stood firm.
Kennard knew he wasn’t the type to lie. Among his men, Irish was second only to Serin and Lassino in terms of secrecy and loyalty. A man who wouldn’t speak without certainty.
And if he’d come all this way to deliver the report in person, rather than by letter, there was no doubt—this wasn’t just important.
It was dangerous.
“Did you find out why Marten would fund House Blade?” Kennard asked, his voice low and measured.
Irish nodded slowly. “The duke’s daughter…”
“Hazel?” Kennard’s tone tightened.
“Yes. Apparently… he was imprinted on her.”
“What?” The word escaped Kennard in a sharp, incredulous breath.
A wave of irritation surged through him. Hazel. Even after she had left, her name continued to surface—continued to pull at him. That alone was enough to stir his anger.
