Chapter 90

Dominic fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. If he were to slip up here, it could lead to something far worse than the accident he had caused. Daniel's threat to set fire to the Brabant Hall was no idle boast. That madman's mind was likely already brimming with several plans on how to do it. Daniel didn't make decisions lightly, but once he set his mind to something, he would see it through. After the deaths of his mother and those around him, Daniel had become pathologically obsessed with the safety of Ricardo and Dominic. From the moment he brought Ricardo and Dominic into his space, which he had fortified and isolated from the outside world, the two became his family. Three years ago, when the Nottingen spear was flying towards Dominic, Daniel had thrown himself in front without hesitation. He would rather die himself than see Dominic die before his eyes. That was the madman, Daniel. He would kick and abuse others all day but couldn't bear to see them hurt by someone else.

‘He’s not normal. Not normal.’

Dominic rubbed his stiff neck and grumbled.

“Hey! How am I supposed to remember all that? I passed out as soon as my shoulder dislocated.”

Daniel placed the book he had been reading on the table and walked to the window.

“Remember it accurately if you don’t want to send an innocent person to their death.”

“I really don’t know. I can’t remember.”

As soon as Dominic finished speaking, Daniel turned around. He walked silently to the door, and Dominic shouted at the back of his head.

“T, twenty-two! That’s all I remember. After that, I lost consciousness, so how would I know who hit me or kicked me next?”

Dominic yelled at Daniel, who was looking at him coldly, trying to gauge the truth.

“It’s true. And it didn’t hurt as much as when you hit me last time. So don’t go causing trouble. Ouch… My jaw hurts from shouting.”

Dominic held his jaw with both hands, tears streaming down his face. It really hurt, not just for show. Daniel, who had returned to the bedside table, threw a bag of cold water from Lake Vigeland at Dominic.

“Five will never be able to hold a sword again. Thirteen have broken bones. The other five have minor injuries. Total, twenty-two. One more than you said.”

Dominic, who had picked up the bag of cold water, stared blankly at Daniel, feeling sick.

“You, you… Did you go and cause a ruckus already? Not just any knights, but the Emperor’s guards? Are you crazy? What’s wrong with your head? Huh?”

“I only fought because they wanted a formal duel.”

Daniel, who had replied indifferently, crossed his arms at the window. At that moment, a messenger pigeon with a small tube attached to its leg fluttered in and perched on the windowsill, pecking at a crumb stuck in the frame. As Daniel extended his arm, the pigeon perched on his hand without hesitation. While he was untying the knot, Dominic, who was holding the bag of cold water to his jaw, shouted.

“Have I been injured only once or twice? Have I broken only a few bones?”

The messenger pigeon, startled by the loud noise, spread its wings and flew out the window. Daniel carefully read the tiny writing on the scrap of paper. Dominic’s nagging continued, seemingly unaware that his face was twice as swollen as usual.

“What’s your problem? If you look closely, you’ve broken more bones than I have, you shameless bastard!”

“I won’t let anyone who disrespects my brother and Uncle Ricardo go unpunished. I won’t sit idly by and watch my people die anymore. If I live the same way as before, there’s no point in coming back to life.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed as he read the serious news, even though he replied calmly. Dominic, who had run out of breath from shouting, slumped his shoulders and spoke seriously.

“Since we’re on the topic, I’ll be honest. Daniel, you’re not normal. I tried to stop you when you insisted on keeping the duchess in that room, but…”

Was it the cold water or the shocking memories from that day that made his body shiver?

“I get chills even in my sleep when I think about the day you tore the door off and went into that room. How can you make a woman stay there? It’s creepy.”

Daniel, who had finished reading the note, looked out the window and replied calmly.

“Frida is different from that woman.”

Dominic, who could read both the belief that it would happen and the hope that it would in Daniel’s tone, chuckled.

“What’s so different?”

“The Countess of Muhheim hated her husband, but Frida loves me.”

Even to Dominic, this was beyond doubt.

‘She must love me. For now.’

But whether her feelings would remain unchanged after knowing all the truths was uncertain. Despite appearing innocent, she was a strong-willed woman who would surely be deeply disappointed by Matilda’s story. Once trust is broken, the seeds of doubt that take root in the gap are hard to bridge.

“Daniel, you know. The Count of Muhheim also loved his wife.”

The story of the man who, driven mad by his possessiveness, ended up in a tragic state was well-known.

“His wife cursed him by writing on the walls in blood and jumped off the terrace, hating him so much.”

***

Ricardo wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the knights’ unbridled language, peppered with profanity. Frida also sighed deeply as she watched the knights, who had drawn their swords at the unfamiliar man from Turque, a mercenary by trade.

‘Still, though…’

Despite the efforts of the Baron of Boiled to educate them, they were still mercenaries, albeit in expensive uniforms.

“Madam, these are your knights.”

The Amethyst Knights, as Daniel had said, were Frida’s knights. They were not ashamed or trying to hide their past as mercenaries, but as knights, they needed to maintain a certain level of etiquette. Determined to resolve the situation as quickly as possible, Frida let go of Ricardo’s arm and placed her hands in front of her, addressing the knights firmly.

“Everyone, sheathe your swords.”

The knights glanced at Ricardo, seeking his approval. Frida raised her voice even more.

“This is an order from your lord. Sheathe your swords.”

Only then did the knights, who had been pointing their swords forward, one by one return them to their scabbards. They did not lower their guard, however, and closed ranks to protect her. Frida, clearing her throat, lifted her chin and spoke sternly.

“You are the knights of the Rihardt Duchy. Remember who you are and act with caution. Be lenient with the weak and strict with the strong. This is the basic stance of a knight.”

She then turned her calm gaze to the hooded man and spoke in a steady but sharp tone.

“I apologize for the harsh words my knights have said to you. However, they have the right to verify your identity. Why can’t you show your face?”

The man, as soon as Frida finished speaking, pulled his hood down over his forehead.

“My appearance is a bit unusual. I’m tired of being the subject of gossip when I show my face in public.”

Unusual appearance…? Frida, slightly lifting the brim, peered over the shoulders of the knights blocking her view, examining the man’s appearance. She felt a sudden pang of sympathy, wondering what could be so unusual that he had to hide his face. Having suffered from her own unique appearance, she couldn’t help but feel a connection.

The man took a step back and spread his arms.

“As you can see, they took all my weapons as soon as I entered the castle, so I have nothing. I don’t know what you’re worried about, but I’ll tell you from here. The roots of lalé should be planted before the first frost…”

“The first frost in autumn is the best time to plant. I know that much.”

Frida calmly interrupted the man.

“And they must be planted in the ground in late autumn to see flowers in the spring. What I want to know isn’t common knowledge. If you claim to know lalé well, prove it.”

The man, seemingly enjoying the situation, smiled under his hood.

“My mother tends the royal gardens of Turque.”

While it was true that the mother of Orhan, the Sultan of Turque’s wife, had a garden in the palace, Meral, feeling a sudden pang, looked away.

“Growing lalé is a difficult task even for the royal gardeners. The climate in Turque is milder, so the roots tend to rot. It’s a very finicky plant, and I can’t guarantee how many of the roots I brought will bloom.”

Frida looked at Meral.

“Meral. As we agreed, the remaining payment will be made after the flowers bloom properly next spring.”

Meral, whose merchant instincts kicked in, waved her hand in dissatisfaction.

“I also mentioned that this is difficult. If the flowers don’t bloom, it could be due to the roots or the soil, and it’s impossible to prove. This is unfair.”

“You were the one who said the soil in the duchy is suitable for growing lalé. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“W, well…”

What a thorough and meticulous noblewoman, without a single flaw. Frida, looking at the flustered Meral, turned to the hooded man.

“What’s your name?”

“…Orhan.”

Right. Orhan is Orhan. Oh… Orhan. It wasn’t a lie, but Meral felt a sudden pang in her chest.

“Orhan, come stand next to me.”

The knights, who had been watching, made way for Orhan to approach. As he walked forward, he stopped when Frida suddenly extended her arm.

“No, don’t come that close. Stand three steps to the right of Sir Molli.”

The man, who seemed out of place for a moment, moved in the direction Ricardo nodded.

“Is this good?”

At this distance, even if it were rumored that they were traveling together, it wouldn’t be a major issue. Frida, satisfied that this was an appropriate distance to maintain her reputation as a noblewoman, nodded.

“It’s fine. Shall we go to the field? Now that summer is approaching, how do you prevent the roots from rotting?”

Orhan, who hadn’t heard the end of Frida’s question, perked up his ears.

“What did you say? Could you speak a bit louder…”

Ricardo, standing between Frida and Orhan, relayed the message.

“You said the roots rot easily? She asked how to manage them as summer approaches.”

“They need to be stored in a cool place. Ideally, they should stay in the ground all year, but in Turque, they started pulling the roots out after the flowers wilted a few years ago because they rot more when it rains or the temperature rises.”

Ricardo, who had been listening carefully to Orhan, spoke up before Frida could ask.

“So, it’s not good if it rains a lot or if there’s a drought?”

“Of course. If the roots rot even a little, it’s over. The strange thing is that even though you plant roots that produced white flowers, the next year they might produce flowers of a completely different color.”

“Really? Lalé is a truly amazing flower. It’s difficult to grow, but it must be valuable.”

As the two men, who were discussing the flower, chatted, Frida couldn’t help but burst out laughing. At that moment, they both turned their heads to the right, where some bushes rustled. Ricardo’s loud voice echoed across the herb field.

“Come out, you hiding behind that tree!”