Invitation.

The hall had grown restless, and even the estate’s head attendant attempted to rein in his master. His intervention, however, was brushed aside without ceremony.

“This is a joyous occasion celebrating the birth of the young master, so perhaps a touch of restraint might be in order?”

“Hmm? But the star of the show is me, isn’t it? This is a celebration of my child’s birth.”

“Be that as it may, the banquet proper is about to begin, and…”

“All the better, then. Won’t it make for fine entertainment?”

The frantic footsteps of attendants scrambling to prepare the impromptu event clattered through the corridors. The clank of metal implements mingled with voices debating the logistics of the hastily arranged affair, creating an atmosphere that was at once oddly festive and deeply unsettling.

Aspara’s gaze drifted to Gus, who stood lost in thought. She leaned close to the interpreter attendant, who looked as though the life had been wrung out of him, and entrusted him with a single plea.

“If at all possible, please see to it that no one is hurt.”

Gus met his wife’s eyes squarely for the first time in a while. Worry filled that gaze. As for whom it was directed toward…

The thought deepened, and with it came the memory of Flower’s provocation and his wretched desire.

Even so, Gus gave a heavy nod.

“Thank you.”

Aspara managed a small, slightly relieved smile.

The servants signaled to the guests that the duel was ready to begin. Near the grand windows of the hall, which overlooked the sprawling garden below, the audience gathered, a mixture of anticipation and unease on their faces.

“…And so, with honor and glory at stake, by mutual consent, I solemnly declare the commencement of this duel. The match begins the moment the scarf touches the ground. I shall throw it now.”

The estate’s personal physician recited the customary rites of the duel, then cast the starting scarf.

Watching the blue silk flutter lazily through the air, Gus fingered the blunt wooden sword at his hip. Curiously lighter than the one Flower held.

If at all possible, see to it that no one is hurt, she said.

Flutter.

The scarf, thrown high, began its descent.

What kind of husband would refuse such a request?

The instant the blue silk brushed the ground, Gus drove the sword in his hand straight into the floor.

Then he charged at his opponent barehanded, seizing one shoulder in a single grip and locking him in place.

“Urk—!”

It was over in a heartbeat.

Gus extended his free hand toward the solar plexus. Flower squeezed his eyes shut, certain a blow to a vital point was coming; but the touch that arrived was not painful.

Swift yet precise, with an economy of motion that wasted nothing, Gus’s curled knuckles pressed into a pressure point near Flower’s solar plexus.

“Huh?”

“Ah…”

Dignitaries from across the central kingdom had been invited to the celebration of Flower’s heir.

There had, of course, been a genuine desire to share and flaunt the happy occasion. But Flower, who had been scheming to maneuver the famed warrior-king into a disadvantageous duel, had invited every acquaintance within reach.

And so it was that Flower, in full view of fifty-two of the continent’s most prominent figures,

“BWUUEEGH—”

vomited uncontrollably.

A hush fell over the estate.

When snickering began to break through the low murmur, the estate physician serving as referee finally called out:

“Ah— ahem, Sir Flower Bat, your knee has touched the ground.”

Gus’s victory was declared in a voice utterly devoid of enthusiasm or excitement.

From the audience came applause that was less clap, clap, clap and more clap… clap… clap, hesitant and halting, and it was over almost before it started.

Gus pulled the sword from the floor with one hand. Despite its blunted tip, it had been driven deep.

He extended a hand toward the man still doubled over on the ground, retching in small, pitiful spasms.

“Ha ha… — —— —.”

What is he saying…

Flower, his face flushed crimson from the blood rushing to his head, wore the expression of someone who thought he had just delivered a devastatingly cool line; but Gus could not understand a word.

He picked up the fallen blue scarf as his victor’s token and withdrew.

Among the murmuring crowd, Aspara’s relieved expression was the first thing that caught his eye.

His heart sank a little.

Not joy at her husband’s victory. Not pride. Pure relief.

A seed of doubt took root: whom, exactly, had she been cheering for?

As I thought, my wife—

“— — —!”

Just then, someone’s cry, one of the estate’s attendants, most likely, rang across the garden.

Every eye in the room turned as one, and Gus followed their gaze upward.

At the top of the estate’s central staircase, a woman carrying a small child was descending.

The duel hasn’t even been settled yet and already— No, she timed this deliberately to steal the spotlight.

“— — ——!”

The brown-haired woman called out a greeting while holding the adorable little child. She had large eyes and a generous mouth, a striking beauty, and the child’s face was a perfect miniature of hers.

While everyone was absorbed in this new topic of conversation, Ugli sidled up to Gus and whispered:

“My lord, the scarf — the victor of a duel presents it to the one they hold most dear.”

“Never mind.”

“Oh, come now. What’s so burdensome about a husband and wife showing affection?”

“I don’t want to force it on her in front of everyone.”

There he goes again, overthinking things all by himself, this man.

That was the expression on Ugli’s face as he looked at his master; but he quickly schooled his features into a smile and replied:

“Precisely because it is in front of everyone — there are certain things that must be done.”

Meanwhile, Jack had come scrambling over to Aspara.

“I’m sorry, my lady. I should have stepped in…”

“What on earth do you have to be sorry about?”

“I heard from Ugli. That it was a fight you were supposed to lose — that if things went wrong, it could’ve been a po-polil— plitical— political threat…”

When he had heard that, the sword he had left back in the carriage had never felt so painfully absent.

That should have been his role.

In a fight that must not be won, to die at the appropriate moment and put an end to the conflict: that was the role of the dead-last knight.

Jack had been fully resolved to leap into the duel if need be, to stop things from going wrong.

That was when someone had laid a hand on Jack’s stiff, tense shoulder.

It had been Ugli.

Trust the castle lord.

That was what he had said.

He hadn’t wanted to trust the barbarian castle lord.

But Gus had resolved the problem flawlessly, and Jack had merely stood behind Aspara, empty-handed, watching the duel.

“If being useless is my only use, and I can’t even manage that properly, then what reason do I have to stay by my lady’s side?”

“Nonsense.”

Aspara said.

“After all, I…”

“Jack, your role is to trust me.”

Jack stared at her, uncomprehending.

“If you cannot trust yourself, and you refuse to trust the castle lord, then simply trust me. If you stood by and things went wrong because I gave no order, then the fault lies with my leadership. If I gave an order and you failed, then the fault lies with me for assigning a task beyond your ability.”

“But either way, doesn’t that put you at a loss, my lady?”

“Not at all — in return, you’ll do anything I say. That’s simply the responsibility that comes with commanding others.”

“Is that how it works?”

“That’s how it works.”

He did not look fully convinced, but Jack nodded for the time being.

“Then… shall we go pay our respects to the lady over there — the agass— no, she’s a madam now, I suppose. In any case, to Lady Seven? We should deliver the reply to her letter as well.”

“You’ve been calling me my lady long after I married and now you’re fussing over her title? And the reply — you mean the response to that letter?”

“Yes. I’m glad to see the swelling seems to have gone down.”

“Never mind that. The letter probably wasn’t written by Seven anyway.”

Aspara said this offhandedly, watching the woman mingle and greet guests with the baby in her arms.

“Pardon?”

“Come to think of it — was the writer’s name actually on that letter?”

“I thought you said it was sent by the seven-character lady?”

“I said it came from House Chili. She’s the only acquaintance I have there, so I assumed Seven sent it. But—”

Now that she thought about it, it was strange that the letter had come from House Chili at all. The letter had clearly stated that “the couple shares a bedchamber” and “Aspara’s old room is being used as the baby’s nursery”; so Sebinya Gobir was obviously living at the Bat family estate with the child. Then why had the letter been deliberately sent from House Chili, her natal family’s address?

The second letter, the one Gus had shown her, bore the signature “Sebinya Gobir Bat.”

Yes, the signature. Though the body of the letter addressed to Gus had been written in the northern tongue by a hired scribe, the signature alone was in the common tongue that Aspara could read.

“Two letters on identical stationery, in envelopes so blindingly red that they caught the eye even more than the letters themselves — and one of those envelopes bore a woman’s signature. So naturally, I assumed the first letter was sent by the same person as the second. But now…”

“You’re saying they’re different?”

“I suspect so.”

“Then all the more reason to go speak with her! With the seven-character madam!”

Aspara shook her head.

“No. Whoever wrote it never forged Sebinya Gobir’s signature or planted false information — they only arranged the circumstances to invite a misunderstanding. There’s nothing someone with as little standing in society as me could do about it.”