He clenched his jaw, the pressure building in his chest.
He knew this was just part of the investigation, but still—Marten? Of all people?
“You’re telling me Count Remid—that man—was imprinted?” Kennard snapped, his voice rising. “And with Lady Hazel, of all people?”
Serin let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “It’s true?” he asked, turning to Irish with wide eyes.
Irish gave a helpless shrug, his expression awkward. “I know how it sounds. But yes, it’s true.”
“I mean, if you say so, Irish, then I’ll believe it,” Serin muttered, waving a hand. “I trust you. But still—Count Remid? Really? Your Grace, you’ve known him for years. He’s your friend. You’re telling me he got imprinted? That’s just… absurd.”
He let out a huff and pressed a hand to his forehead, exasperated.
Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “Imprinting doesn’t happen based on who the other person is,” he said sharply.
The irritation in his voice was palpable, but then he fell silent, his gaze drifting toward the floor in thought.
He had just scolded Serin, but the truth was, he’d been thinking the same thing.
Marten—calm, rational, unshakably composed Marten—imprinted? That alone was difficult to believe.
But that he would go so far as to fund House Blade because of it?
That was something else entirely.
“So?” Kennard leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. “Are you saying Blade used the money Marten gave him to expand his private forces? Then used those same soldiers to earn merit in the war—and later offered them to His Majesty?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Irish confirmed with a short nod.
Kennard narrowed his eyes. “And Marten’s reaction?”
“Pardon?” Irish blinked, caught off guard. “I’m not sure I follow…”
“I’m asking if you think Marten expected all of that to happen,” Kennard clarified, his tone clipped. “Blade was just a baron. Then, out of nowhere, he’s made a duke. And His Majesty even goes so far as to declare Hazel my fiancée.”
“Ah.” Irish straightened slightly, understanding dawning on his face. “From what I gathered, Count Remid hasn’t changed a bit. He’s been living as usual—same routines, same habits.”
Kennard clenched his jaw, eyes dropping to the desk in front of him—not because there was anything there, but because he needed to think. Irish’s words echoed in his mind, and he turned them over, again and again, trying to trace the thread that tied Marten to House Blade.
“Your Grace.”
Serin’s voice cut through the silence. He stepped closer, both hands braced on the desk as he looked at Kennard intently.
“What now?” Kennard asked, not bothering to mask his irritation.
“Do you think His Majesty knew that Count Remid was imprinted on Lady Hazel?” Serin asked, his brows drawn together. “I was just wondering—what if he declared her your fiancée while knowing that?”
Kennard stilled.
A fresh wave of irritation surged through him.
Serin’s words made the already tangled knot in his mind tighten even further. The implications were messy—too messy.
“His Majesty disliked Count Remid almost as much as he dislikes you, didn’t he?” Serin said, his tone matter-of-fact. “If you think about it that way, it seems entirely possible.”
His eyes held a quiet certainty—this wasn’t speculation. He was stating it as truth.
Kennard shot him a cold glare, but didn’t argue. As much as he wanted to dismiss the idea, the logic was hard to refute.
He’d always been a threat to his brother. Though only the second prince, his bloodline was purer, stronger—something the Emperor had never forgotten. And Marten, his closest friend, had shared in that disfavor. The Emperor’s dislike for both of them wasn’t a secret.
Given that, Serin’s theory didn’t sound so far-fetched.
Kennard exhaled sharply, frustration simmering beneath his voice. “Even if he was imprinted… what the hell was Marten thinking, funding House Blade? If he was going to go that far, he should’ve just married her.”
“Well…” Irish hesitated again, eyes flicking cautiously to Kennard’s face as if gauging his mood.
Kennard frowned. “What is it?”
“Count Remid did propose to her,” Irish replied carefully. “But… Lady Hazel turned him down.”
Kennard’s brows drew together. “Why?”
Irish scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a strained smile. “Well… Your Grace knows what Count Remid’s usual behavior is like.”
He had answered as best he could—carefully balancing honesty with diplomacy. After all, criticizing Kennard’s close friend too openly was dangerous ground.
Kennard let out a bitter huff, running a hand through his hair.
“That damn guy…” he muttered, trailing off, too exasperated to say anything more.
Knock, knock.
The sharp sound broke through the heavy atmosphere in the office.
“Come in,” Kennard called without looking up.
In response, the door opened smoothly, and Lassino stepped inside—neatly dressed, his posture immaculate. He carried a silver tray with both hands and gave a polite nod before crossing the room in silence.
“What is it?” Kennard asked, his eyes narrowing as Lassino set the tray on his desk.
Resting atop it was a single envelope, sealed with the imperial crest.
“It is a personal letter from His Majesty,” Lassino announced evenly.
At those words, Serin and Irish immediately exchanged uneasy glances.
“A personal letter?” Serin repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Such letters—handwritten and sent directly by the Emperor without passing through his aides—were practically unheard of. For one to be delivered now could only mean something unusual… or dangerous.
Kennard felt a sharp throb rise behind his temple. A chill crept down his spine.
He stared at the wax seal in silence for several long seconds, a growing sense of dread coiling in his chest.
Reaching for the paper knife beside him, he slid it under the envelope’s flap and broke the seal.
The letter inside was brief—just a few lines, handwritten in the unmistakable scrawl of his brother.
But that wasn’t what made his breath catch.
As Kennard’s eyes scanned the words, he felt the blood drain from his face.
