Chapter 10: ① The Inner Palace Burns Quietly

Since then—it had only been a single night. And yet the shock of the foreign man named Yuuri Ravelt becoming “master of the inner-palace harem” was quietly rippling through every corner of the royal castle.

The next morning. Deep within the royal castle of Oltania, in the Round Table Chamber where state affairs were conducted, those who held the kingdom’s fate were gathering in silence.

(…No matter what I say, aside from Mother, these are people who won’t take me seriously.)

Amid the rigid silence, Lieselotte alone swept her gaze over the attendees. The one who broke that silence was, ironically, the shadiest man of all.

“Next month’s coronation—and the wedding to the ‘Hero.’ Both are matters that will decide the kingdom’s fate. Attention at home and abroad is, willingly or not, converging upon this place.”

The instant those words rang through the hall, the air hardened. A freezing tension keen enough to make even breathing feel blunted.

(…So it begins.)

Lieselotte looked around the faces encircling the round table and sighed inwardly. She trusted no one but her mother. Though seated at the heart of governance, she felt somehow like an outsider.

“Oltania has performed a Hero Summoning and obtained a ‘foreigner who raises women’s magic.’” That was a rumor we had deliberately spread—a manufactured tale that mixed convenient fantasies into the truth.

(…I truly am going to marry that shameless merchant, am I.)

(First Queen as me, and Second Queen as Mother… that’s ridiculous even as a joke.)

(…Well, Mother is certainly beautiful. I can’t say I don’t understand why men are drawn to her.)

What flitted through her mind was his face, always full of quips. It should have been nothing but foolishness, and yet—somewhere deep in her chest, there was a strange commotion.

On the central table lay, in orderly array, sealed letters from foreign states, prophecies, and copies of analyses. Beside her, her mother turned pages with composure. There was the force and grace befitting a queen.

“The Orhan Empire is maintaining outward silence—yet they are moving their intelligence network and attempting unofficial contact.”

(…Naturally. A ‘Hero who raises magic’ is hard to believe. But if it’s true, then of course the Empire moves.)

“Your Majesty the Queen. Any direct approach from the Empire?”

The Chancellor pressed in with a voice as gentle as ever.

“My, how courteous. One might think that sounded like a diplomatic report.”

Still smiling, Mother didn’t so much as shift her gaze as she replied.

(…In principle, negotiations with the Empire fall to the royal house. For the Chancellor to float ‘backchannel talk’ like this is proof he’s probing.)

With her eyes lowered, Celine spoke lightly.

“Or do you suspect I’m holding some ‘backchannel’ myself?”

The Chancellor’s expression didn’t change as he answered quietly.

“…No. Only that we have heard of informal exchanges.”

“And you would have us officially debate informal exchanges here?”

Her tone remained gentle, but her words were honed. The Chancellor lifted a corner of his mouth and replied blandly.

“…Officially, we remain silent.”

“In that case, the Empire is still judging the timing of its move.”

Celine let her gaze drift briefly, then continued.

“If my brother—the Emperor of the Orhan Empire—were serious about moving, there would never have been any ‘watch and wait’ to begin with.”

(It’s already common knowledge that the Empire moves beneath the surface. But—why bring this up ‘now’?)

(By invoking an ‘unconfirmed threat,’ does he mean to shake the royal house? …Chancellor. Is your target Mother—or me?)

In the wake of those words, the chamber fell into a heartbeat of silence.

“…Indeed. As expected of Her Majesty the Queen, to divine even the ‘meaning of the Empire’s silence.’ To we common folk, it sounds like nothing but quiet…”

The Chancellor wasn’t laughing. He only smiled with eyes cold and unfathomable as the bottom of a lake.

“Be that as it may, our state cannot stand without accord between the royal house and the Chancellery. Whatever the movement, we shall march in step with Your Majesty’s will.”

“—Yes, to the very end.”

(How smooth. What you want is ‘hurry Lord Karou’s debut,’ isn’t it? You have no intention of marching in step.)

A sigh slipped quietly from deep in her throat.

(…Is something leaking? Queen Leticia?)

(She should have done nothing—yet nothing is the most frightening thing of all.)

“Oh? Has the next Queen of Oltania some concern upon her mind?”

(Sharp-eyed…!)

Lieselotte blinked once and straightened her back.

“Yes. Though it be for the sake of the country, to see ‘the man who will be my husband’ treated like a mere tool by strangers… my chest aches a little. No—surely, that feeling is no illusion.”

(I am prepared to marry as a tool of statecraft. But he is different. He is only a ‘foreigner’ summoned for our convenience.)

(To stand by and watch him be toyed with… that I cannot do.)

“Oh, how compassionate. You are like a goddess of benevolence.”

Still smiling, the Chancellor went on with theatrical sweetness.

“I have heard as much from my daughter as well. Lord Karou, she said, was truly gentle and mild.”

(…Tedious flattery.)

“—And yet, benevolence and mildness alone cannot move a nation.”

The Chancellor softened his tone, keeping it impeccably elegant.

“At times, one must have the resolve to pass sentence. Above all, any judgment cannot stand without support around it. The Chancellery too, under Her Majesty’s will, intends in utmost sincerity to support you. —Yes, to any extent.”

(A ‘support’ that is a yoke.)

Celine’s smile did not falter as she answered softly.

“My daughter is still unseasoned. But the inner-palace harem holds Duchess Cecily of House Sanctia, and I—will guide Liese as well. Please, watch over her warmly.”

(Mother… the ‘guidance’ you speak of—what and whom to remove may be part of it, and that frightens me.)

The Chancellor narrowed his eyes and continued as if savoring a “comparison between daughters.”

“Indeed. My daughter Leticia, too, has many shortcomings, but she will give her utmost aid. Please do not hesitate.”

For an instant, a glint of sharpness flashed through his eyes—then returned to a smile.

(…A staredown, is it.)

Placing a finger upon one of the sealed notes, the Chancellor lowered his voice.

“Incidentally, it seems the Four Eastern Principalities, alarmed by the talk of reunification, have begun to build up arms. There is confirmation of mercenary bands flowing in—so the latest reports say.”

He paused, adding weight to his words.

“States with high independence will move as the moment suits them. If they scent an opening on our side, they will bare their fangs without hesitation.”

Letting his gaze slide slowly around the table, he added quietly:

“…Therefore, now is precisely the time to show that we are a single rock within. For ‘trust’ is a thing that crumbles at the mere hint of inner disorder.”

(What is needed is not harmony, but obedience…)

(Your ‘single rock,’ Chancellor, is a boulder completed by crushing the Queen’s faction beneath it.)

(But I have no intention of letting myself be the side that is ‘crushed’—not so easily.)

Chapter 10: ② The Inner Palace Burns Quietly

That single phrase, “a single rock,” left a dull pressure hanging over the room.

Everyone held their tongues, and yet they watched, as if weighing something. Lieselotte could feel those eyes turned upon herself and her mother.

(Measuring a king’s measure by words… this is the kingdom’s ‘council.’)

Beneath the gentle voices, there were only thoughts that pricked like needles.

Just then, the creak of armor rose from across the table. A massive frame leaned forward, and a weighted voice split the air.

The army’s supreme commander, the Grand Marshal—the father of Consort Eleanor. The hero who won the civil war and retook the royal capital. His voice alone had the pressure to overbear the room.

“So long as we have the Hero, dealing with the four Eastern traitor-dukes—no, those lot who persist in declaring ‘independence’—is easy. Now that the call for reunification swells, this is precisely the time to settle it by the army’s hand. If it is military business, leave it to us.”

For a moment, the air trembled. He had addressed head-on a “spark” that everyone else had avoided touching.

(…As expected.)

Steadying the breath that had hitched in her chest, Lieselotte kept her gaze fixed.

(To make the Hero the army’s symbol—and for the Grand Marshal himself to say it. But that… would be troublesome.)

She remembered Yuuri’s face from last night. The flippant grin, the glib tongue—and for some reason, an absurdly abnormal capacity for recovery.

(Combat ability? Hopeless. Endurance? Anomalously high. If pressed… yes, on a bed, he would be a ‘Hero.’)

Having imagined that far, Lieselotte lightly pressed a cheek.

“…We cannot yet allow Lord Husband to stand upon the battlefield.”

The one who declared it, openly and grandly—was Celine.

“Oh? That is most curious. If he will not stand upon the battlefield—where does the Hero intend to stand?”

The Marshal’s tone was taunting, yet his eyes were earnest. Celine did not flinch. She lifted her fan to her lips and smiled gently.

“Why, in the inner-palace harem… of course.”

(A-as expected of Mother…!)

While everyone else was struck speechless, Lieselotte clenched the hem of her dress tight—chiding herself lest she hide behind her mother’s back and turn back into a mere girl.

“To place him in the inner palace… a rather inward-looking notion. If the Hero bears power to face the ‘outside’ of the nation—to confine it ‘within’ is a waste. Is the army, perhaps, not to be trusted?”

It was a voice with weight. It was both a point and pressure.

(To ‘enclose him in the inner palace’ reads as ‘confinement’—that is how it looks to them.)

Without averting her eyes, Lieselotte studied the Marshal’s profile.

“Not to be trusted—who said such a thing? We simply wish the Hero to be ‘first’ soothed, readied, and made to grow accustomed to our country. The inner palace exists not to seek war—but to ‘prepare’ against it.”

Celine’s words were even. Yet within them was a will that would not yield.

“To soothe… to accustom… is he some royal lapdog? We have a responsibility to defend the realm. If the Hero’s spirit does not suit, who will guide that power—this too is a problem.”

At that dismissive rasp, something caught in Lieselotte’s throat.

(They insist on managing the Hero’s power under the army…)

Not by heart, but by military orders—that was how the “adults” worked.

“My, forgive me. A ‘lapdog’? What a jest. …The Hero is guided by the Star Spirit’s guidance and the love of the inner-palace consorts. If hearts could be raised by swords and orders alone, the world would know no tragedies.”

The air of the room quivered faintly. Though no one spoke, it all felt terribly noisy.

“Even so—the Hero grieves over the beasts’ depredations from the Demon Forest. He intends himself to become a check upon them. …For that, we must indeed receive the military’s aid.”

(Yield one step. But never surrender the initiative… Mother is, as ever—strong.)

“…We are grateful for your words. If the Hero bears power worthy of ‘preparation’—the army likewise bears the duty to answer that preparation.”

The Marshal continued calmly.

“And whether he is ‘guided’ by the Star Spirit’s will or the consorts’ love… a sword grows dull if it is kept merely as an ornament. Without hands to polish it, it cannot even be swung when the time comes.”

After a breath, he fixed his gaze upon Celine.

“—If you would entrust that polishing to us of the army, we would be most glad.”

(…Of course he will not back down so easily.)

Lieselotte thought. The army too pressed forward, using words of courtesy to apply steady pressure.

“How reassuring. —As expected of the one who bears the kingdom’s army upon his shoulders.”

Celine parried with a soft smile.

“Hands that polish the sword. Yes, indeed, that is necessary. However—the moment when a honed sword is most beautiful is when it rests within the scabbard.”

She denied nothing of the sword—she won by controlling its “presentation.” It was the best line of play to seat the Hero within the inner palace without crushing the army’s dignity.

“Let its shape and its weight be barely shown. That alone makes those around you sense the blade and change their movements.”

(…You can’t possibly mean ‘show only,’ Mother. Knowing you, the information and the air—everything—will be arranged in your colors.)

“The Hero is, even now, finding the very place where that scabbard best suits him. …Please, be at ease. There are times when an ‘undrawn sword’ becomes the very shield that guards the nation.”

“…A sword in its scabbard, you say.”

A beat. The Marshal narrowed his eyes, a trace of softness seeping into his voice.

“I see. To those of us who swing blades, that is a perspective easy to overlook.”

“Then—pray keep that scabbard lightly polished. That it might be drawn without hesitation when it must.”

(…A last bid, then.)

“If that can be granted, we too—shall obey Her Majesty the Queen’s commands.”

(I’m lost for words… how hard it is to bind the civil and the martial into one.)

Mother, fending with elegant riposte behind her fan; the Grand Marshal, pressing on with words heavy as iron. All she could do was watch. And yet—someday, surely. At this round table, without leaning upon another’s back, with her own voice, to speak of this country’s future—may she become one who can.

(…I won’t say ‘like Mother,’ though.)

The air shifted, faintly. Cutting through it, another voice intruded.

“That would not be advisable.”

The eldest of the Ten Sages—white-haired, in high eunuch robes, an ever-smiling old sage—stroked his white beard as he interjected.

“If the Hero were to be incorporated into the army—the Holy Theocracy of the North might move. They take the ‘Star Spirit’s guidance’ as literal ‘divine will,’ you see.”