The unfamiliar rhythm of a cane striking marble made the court maids in the corridor turn as one.
From the far end of the passage, a towering figure approached—broad-shouldered and powerfully built, moving with deliberate slowness.
Hair black as ebony framed a face of severe beauty, and though his eyes remained closed, an unmistakable chill radiated from him with every step.
One of the maids, her eyes widening, nudged her companion sharply with her elbow.
"Is that...
His Grace the Duke of the West?"
"The cane doesn't suit him at all," the other whispered back.
"You don't need to tell me.
Oh, the princesses will be in an uproar when they hear.
Come—let's go, quickly."
Every marriageable princess in the empire dreamed of winning the Duke of the West—a man whose influence was second only to the Emperor himself.
Meanwhile, Gerald struck out a precise, unhurried rhythm with his cane as he traversed the palace corridors.
Olive walked half a step ahead, serving as his silent guide.
At last, they stopped before a door engraved with gold filigree.
Olive offered a respectful nod to the elderly master of ceremonies stationed there.
The old man returned the gesture, then drew a breath and announced in a voice that rang through the hall:
"Presenting His Serene Highness, Duke Gerald von Vines!"
The great doors swung wide.
Beyond them lay a hall draped in deep imperial blue, its walls gleaming with gilded accents.
A magnificent table stood at the center, and upon a raised dais at its head sat the Emperor himself.
This was the site of the annual private council—a meeting between His Majesty and the four Grand Dukes that preceded the Congress of Nobility.
Gerald entered slowly, his cane tapping against the polished floor.
"Vines greets His Imperial Majesty."
His face revealed nothing as he inclined his head before the throne.
"Duke.
Come, take your seat."
The master of ceremonies followed Gerald inside, deliberately scraping a chair back with an audible sound.
Gerald approached as though guided by the noise, tapped the chair leg lightly with his cane to confirm its position, and sat.
The two dukes already seated—and the one hereditary duke present in his ailing father's stead—watched him with expressions ranging from naked curiosity to barely concealed anger to something entirely unreadable.
"Duke of the West."
The Emperor's voice carried a lazy, honeyed quality.
"I've sent you invitation after invitation, yet it seems we only manage to meet at these formal occasions."
"Forgive me, Your Majesty."
Gerald's tone was perfectly neutral.
"As you can see, I have not been well."
"So I've heard.
And yet—" The Emperor smiled, a glint of venom in his golden eyes.
"You still managed to secure an engagement."
"I thank Your Majesty for the congratulations."
"Ah, yes.
*Congratulations.*"
Gerald deflected the barb with effortless grace, and the Emperor's eyes flashed with predatory interest.
"Well then—since the Duke of the West has finally graced us with his presence, let us have our customary discussions.
We only gather like this once a year, after all."
"I shall endeavor to visit more frequently," offered the Hereditary Duke of the East, his smile gentle and accommodating.
"I understand that men of importance are busy."
The Emperor inclined his head slightly.
"The Duke of the East himself remains unwell?"
"Yes, Your Majesty.
I, who have not yet formally inherited the title, am ashamed to impose upon Your Majesty's patience with my presence alone."
The Emperor's gaze lingered on the heir's hair—already threaded with silver despite his relatively young age.
"Enough of that.
It is time you assumed the ducal title properly."
The heir responded with another graceful nod and a soft smile of gratitude.
"On that note—I intend to award you the Order of Noel."
A ripple of surprise passed through the room.
The Order of Noel was the empire's highest honor for service to peace—no one had received it in nearly a decade.
The unexpected announcement made the Hereditary Duke's eyes widen.
"I'm told the East suffered greatly from drought this past year," the Emperor continued, his tone almost conversational.
"Word has reached me that you provided aid not from your family's treasury, but from your own personal funds."
"I humbly beg Your Majesty's leniency for my presumption."
"The annual Congress of Nobility will be held in the Hall of the Sun."
"The Hall of the Sun?"
The Duke of the North, silent until now, finally spoke.
"That has not been used in quite some time."
The Hall of the Sun—a magnificent chamber crowned with a glass dome that flooded the space with natural light—was reserved only for coronations and the most prestigious award ceremonies.
"It is there that the Order of Noel shall be presented to the Hereditary Duke of the East."
The Emperor's smile was magnanimous.
"Surely even the ailing Duke himself will be satisfied with such an arrangement."
The meaning was unmistakable: *Accept the honor.
Assume your title.
Do it soon.*
"I am overwhelmed by Your Majesty's boundless mercy."
The heir's voice trembled with emotion as he bowed deeply.
The Duke of the South observed this display with a barely concealed smirk.
"The South remains peaceful, I trust?"
The Emperor's attention shifted, catching the Southern Duke's wandering gaze.
"It does."
The curt reply made something sharp flash in the Emperor's eyes—but it faded just as quickly.
"Good.
Southern wine has become quite the rarity these days.
You should visit the palace more often."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
"And the North?"
"No change."
The Duke of the North's voice was flat, almost drowsy—the tone of a man too indifferent to bother with pretense.
The Emperor himself had little genuine interest in the harsh, impoverished northern territories.
The only thing of value there was the Duke's legendary mastery of alchemy—his creations were enough to astound the world.
"And how fares your son?"
The question was posed politely enough, but its true meaning was clear: *Have you found the boy yet?*
"He is well."
The Northern Duke's voice remained hollow, almost dreamlike—but for the briefest instant, his gaze hardened to ice.
The Emperor clicked his tongue inwardly in frustration.
The Duke of the North's only weakness was his sole heir—a son born late in life who had vanished years ago.
Imperial spies had been planted throughout the northern territories, searching endlessly for the boy.
Every attempt had proven futile.
Now the Emperor's golden gaze settled upon the Duke of the West, who sat motionless with his eyes still closed.
He had never stopped doubting whether Gerald was truly blind.
He had tested him with subtle tricks time and again, searching for proof.
"Duke of the West."
The Emperor leaned forward slightly.
"Since you are now engaged, perhaps you might join me for a meal with your bride?"
The impassive Duke slowly raised his head.
The Emperor felt an involuntary shudder run through him.
Though Gerald's eyes remained shut, it felt as though their gazes had met—as though those closed lids concealed something far more dangerous than blindness.
No matter his condition, the sheer *presence* of the strongest man in the empire could not be dismissed.
The Emperor masked his irritation at having momentarily yielded to that pressure behind an easy smile.
"It amazes me how silent your tongue has become.
After all, it was your *eyes* that suffered—not your voice."
The Duke of the West remained perfectly still for a long moment.
Then, slowly—deliberately—he raised his eyelids.
The Emperor and the other dukes held their breath.
No one had expected him to actually open his eyes.
The irises that had once been deepest black were now a muted, clouded grey.
Nothing in the known world—not medicine, not even alchemy—could alter the color of a man's eyes.
And yet his had changed.
The pupils drifted without focus, seeing nothing.
Until this moment, his blindness had been only half-believed—a convenient rumor, a possible deception.
Now, in this very hall, before the most powerful men in the empire, he confirmed it himself.
"Your Majesty."
Gerald's voice was calm, unhurried.
"I am blind, and therefore unable to observe proper table etiquette.
I must humbly request to be excused from any formal dining."
The Emperor's face turned to stone.
By revealing his blindness openly, the Duke of the West had created the perfect, unassailable excuse to decline the invitation.
While the two dukes and the hereditary heir stared into those grey, unfocused eyes, their minds raced with calculations—measuring, scheming, reassessing.
"...I wish you a swift recovery, Duke of the West."
"You have my gratitude, Your Majesty."
The Emperor's gaze slid meaningfully toward the others before settling elsewhere.
Gerald closed his eyes once more and leaned back in his chair with an air of complete indifference.
If the thug Gerald had kept alive after the ambush had survived long enough to report, his master would certainly have received word about the Duke's eyes.
But even with such intelligence, the enemy would continue to doubt.
To second-guess.
To wonder if it was truly real.
That was precisely why Gerald had opened his eyes.
He had sacrificed his secret—and in exchange, he had sharpened every other sense to its absolute limit.
He listened.
Four hearts beat around the table, each with its own rhythm—some quickened by curiosity, others by fear.
And one heart beat slower than all the rest.
Steady.
Calm.
*Unsurprised.*
As though this was exactly what he had expected.