A faint thud! echoed through the vast marble hall of the Grand Duke's estate as a dart hit a wooden board with surgical precision. The tip vibrated, lodging itself beside a dozen others already clustered at the bullseye.
The elders seated at the long table flinched.
Aithur didn't notice—or perhaps, he didn't care. His expression was cool, detached, almost lazy. He leaned back on his chair, resting his cheek on his fist, his sharp black eyes half-lidded as if even being awake for this meeting was too much effort. His other hand toyed with another dart, rolling it between his fingers with the grace of a predator bored of the hunt.
On the board before him hung a painting—a portrait of a man who looked unsettlingly like Aithur. The resemblance was uncanny except for one thing: the man in the painting had soft green eyes, not Aithur's cutting amber. The painting was no longer pristine. It was riddled with tiny punctures—darts, knives, even a fork embedded near the collarbone.
The servants had long given up trying to replace it. They knew better.
Another dart whizzed through the air.
Thwack! It struck the painted man's left eye.
The elders collectively swallowed. One of them—an old, trembling man named Elder Thane—shifted slightly in his chair, muttering something about needing new air circulation in the hall.
Aithur's lips curved, just slightly. "Did the air suddenly grow heavy, Elder Thane?" he asked, voice calm and faintly amused.
Thane stuttered, "N-no, Your Grace. Just—just an observation."
"Ah," Aithur hummed. "Do me a favor and keep your observations to yourself. I'd hate to waste a dart on someone still breathing."
A cold silence followed. The only sound was the faint clink of the next dart as Aithur picked it up.
This one he didn't throw immediately. He examined the point, polished it with his thumb, and finally looked at the elders, a slow, deliberate smile on his face.
"Anything to report?"
The question, though politely worded, carried the weight of a sword's edge.
Elder Verran cleared his throat, pushing forward a stack of reports. "Yes, Your Grace. The northern border requests reinforcements. There are signs of bandit activity near—"
"Handled," Aithur interrupted, flicking his fingers dismissively. "Next."
Elder Tian—the one always trying too hard to please—hurried to speak. "The grain supply in East Belkrow was delayed, but we've already—"
"Already resolved," Aithur said again, his tone cutting but not cruel. "Next."
Another elder raised a tentative hand. "The construction of the new trade route—"
"Assigned to you, Elder Torvin. You're the only one who doesn't spend half his day sleeping in a council seat."
The other elders glanced at each other nervously, and Torvin—who did spend half his day sleeping—nearly choked on his own spit before bowing his head. "Y-Yes, Your Grace! I'll see to it immediately."
Aithur exhaled softly, spinning the dart again. "So that's all?"
The room hesitated.
He threw the dart.
It hit the painting again—this time, the right eye.
A few elders flinched as if it were their own faces being pierced.
"Good," Aithur murmured, pushing his chair back slightly. "Then we're done here."
Just as he stood, a voice—trembling but bold—spoke from the end of the table.
"Your Grace," said Elder Wieen. His hair was more silver than white now, but his eyes still held that steady resolve that had earned him respect across the estate. He had served Aithur's father and grandfather. His voice carried an authority no one else dared to have in Aithur's presence. "There's still… one more matter to discuss."
Aithur paused. The air shifted. Even the candles flickered, as if nervous.
The Grand Duke's black eyes turned to him. "Speak."
Elder Wieen took a deep breath. "Your marriage, Your Grace."
The entire room froze.
Elder Thane looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. Elder Verran made a silent prayer. Someone dropped their quill, the tiny tap echoing through the oppressive silence.
Aithur blinked. Slowly. "...My what?"
"Marriage," Wieen repeated, his tone steady though the tension could crush steel. "As Duke, you've been lenient on such matters, but now—now that you've been appointed Grand Duke by the Emperor, your name stands equal to the princes. By law and tradition, the Grand Duke must have a duchess to ensure succession and—"
Aithur's lips curved into something between amusement and disbelief. "Succession," he said softly.
He picked up his pen—an elegant, black-inked fountain pen—and twirled it idly between his fingers.
"And tell me, Elder Wieen… what part of my duties involves breeding heirs like cattle?"
Wieen's eyes flickered. "It is not about breeding, Your Grace. It's about the stability of the empire. The people—"
Thwip!
The pen went flying, embedding itself in the table mere inches from Wieen's left hand. Ink bled across the polished wood, spreading like dark blood.
Aithur's voice dropped, sharp and cold. "I said," he drawled, "I don't want to hear about marriage in my presence ever again."
"Y-Your Grace—"
"If you want a duchess so badly, Elder Wieen," Aithur continued, voice dripping with venomous sarcasm, "why don't you marry one yourself? Or better—" he tilted his head, the mockery in his black eyes bright, "—each of you can take turns playing duchess. That way, the council might finally be of some use."
Several elders looked down, biting their tongues to stop nervous laughter—or maybe cries.
Aithur straightened, his cloak falling behind him in a silent sweep. "My ability to sire an heir has nothing to do with some unfortunate woman you throw at me, and everything to do with whether you incompetent fools can keep your lands from collapsing."
He turned toward the exit. His boots clicked sharply against the marble.
At the doorway, he paused.
"Don't," he said without looking back, "take my bite for granted. I am not my father."
The door slammed behind him, shaking the chandeliers.
Silence.
The elders sat in the wake of his storm, barely daring to breathe.
A long sigh escaped Elder Wieen's lips as he looked toward the dart-ridden portrait. The faint candlelight made the holes seem like wounds.
"Gileon…" he murmured under his breath. "It's been twenty-three years, and your son still hates you."
Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.