14.

“So you think I’m a reckless man with no sense of responsibility.”

“No, that’s not what I meant…”

“Well, I can’t blame you. If you look only at the facts, this marriage is essentially a transactional arrangement—I paid the Church a sum of money, and in return, acquired the Saint as my bride.”

The way Klaus said it, with a cold smirk and a hint of self-derision, made Azniel’s fingers dig once more into the folds of her skirt.

“As long as Antagon remains strong, I have need of you, Azniel. Unless, of course, you come to dislike life here at Gestern…”

“No! That’s not what I meant at all,” she said quickly, shaking both hands in mild panic.

Now that she had no ties left to the Holy Kingdom, the only person she could even begin to rely on—even if the warmth was as dry as desert wind—was Baron Gestern.

Klaus’s gaze drifted to her hands.

So small, so thin—he could probably wrap his own hand completely around one of hers.
Still soft like they were in childhood… or rough now, after everything she’s been through?

He caught himself mid-thought, a flicker of something uncomfortable passing across his face, and brushed it away with a half-hearted comment.

“In any case, I intend to provide you with everything you could possibly need, to ensure you never feel that way. And if I may make just one personal request… perhaps you could gain a bit of weight.”

“Ah…”

“It’s a love marriage, after all. If I claim to adore my wife but she looks like she’s starving, who’s going to believe me?”

“Yes… I understand.”

Her hands tangled together as if looking for somewhere to hide.

Klaus’s eyes lingered briefly on her shoulders—thin and drawn in, like she was trying to take up less space. So fragile under the pretense of composure. So terribly light.

* * *

“Dwelsher was established as a manor estate 130 years ago during the reign of Wilfred II. The paddies are rich with fertile soil, and toward the north—Green Dales—lie broad pastures, ensuring steady yields year-round. A golden parcel of land, if there ever was one.”

The days that followed became a process of Azniel being carefully reshaped into the lady of Ashfeld.

“This manor was granted to Duke Macferdin—Wilfred II’s younger twin son—when the throne passed to the elder twin, Stephen III. It was during Duke Macferdin’s time that this estate and residence were constructed.”

The one guiding her through the grounds was the chief butler, Jerome. He had been with Klaus since the earliest days of Antagon, back when Klaus still lived in a cramped city flat in Laffen. Jerome, once a butler to one of Antagon’s early investors, looked to be in his early fifties and carried himself with quiet poise. He gave Azniel a practical and concise overview of the art pieces, interior, and gardens—enough to acclimate without overwhelming her all at once.

“Most of the items here were originally collected or brought from the palace by Duke Macferdin, but the master has added several of his own pieces as well. For example, that statue of the First Saint over there.”

Once the tour of the three-story mansion—which was at least twice the size of the Great Temple—was complete, they moved to the gardens. It was exhausting, but Azniel didn’t complain. After all, now that she had signed the contract, this was officially her role. If nothing else, she was good at devoting herself to work.

“The garden layout was redesigned after the master moved in. The rose hedges, arranged in a spiral around the central fountain, are its highlight. If only you’d arrived in summer… still, you can look forward to next year.”

“Rose… hedges?”

“Don’t they sound rather unlike the master?” Jerome chuckled gently.

“Ah—of course, you’d recognize them. The variety’s called Dawn of the Temple.”

“Ah… of course.”

“They say it was created by a saint who possessed the Gift of Abundance, yes? Oddly enough, it’s only cultivated within the Holy Kingdom. I’m not sure how the master found out, but he worked for months to convince a nursery to import them into Gillios.”

“I see…”

“I hope they bring you comfort when you’re feeling homesick for the Holy Kingdom.”

Perhaps the aging butler saw the rosebushes as a subtle symbol of Klaus’s hidden tenderness—his quiet way of offering affection. His expression remained brightly pleased. Azniel returned his smile, but the trace of doubt never quite left her face.

‘The back garden of the Papal residence… wasn’t that where we used to meet?’

Where a young Saint and a frail novice boy would sit shoulder to shoulder and talk beneath a hedge just like this one.

Almost reflexively, Azniel turned her head toward Klaus’s study—the very room where they had signed the contract the day before.

‘There’s no way he thinks I don’t remember…’

So then… did he plant them out of longing for that time? And if so—was she part of that memory?

The master of the house was already away at work, but even so, that quiet question lingering in her chest was more than enough to echo in his absence.

Soon, etiquette lessons began.

“Good day, Miss Azniel. I am Stella, widow of the late Count of Rumièn. I will be your instructor in matters of court and social etiquette.”

“The Countess of Rumièn is something of a spiritual guide for all the ladies of Laffen society.”

“Oh, Mr. Garrison, you flatter me.”

“Many noble daughters have studied under the Countess from a young age. Those lucky enough to have her as their chaperone often end up the most sought-after debutantes of the season. Mothers of eligible sons all scramble for her favor.”

“Oh my, now you’ve embarrassed me—especially coming from the secretary of Antagon’s world-famous president.”

“The famous one is the president, not me.”

Everyone wanted to earn favor with the head of Antagon. Nobles, especially those desperate to get their hands on the newest model of mana car, would fall over themselves. Which was why acquiring the busiest, most well-connected woman in the Laffen social scene—the Countess of Rumièn—was a task well within reach for Antagon. A large sum from Baron Gestern’s personal accounts helped, of course.

The result was a Countess full of warmth and curiosity as she looked Azniel over with sparkling interest.

“You already have such a noble, elegant air. I daresay I’ll have very little to correct.”

“We look forward to your guidance. As mentioned, for now…”

Shh. Ian held a finger to his lips, and the Countess playfully winked in reply.

It was a mutually beneficial deal. The large payment she was receiving included the duty of spreading flattering rumors about the future Baroness Gestern. The Countess could already picture how society would explode with gossip once word of Azniel’s transformation got out—and the thought of it thrilled her.

“Now then! First, let’s go over how to greet royalty. Since Baron Gestern enjoys the king’s favor, it is imperative that the future Baroness learn this properly.”

The lessons were held in the reception room on the first floor of the manor’s west wing—the traditional space where the lady of the house would receive personal guests.

“Repeat after me: ‘I am graced by the Radiance of Gillios.’”

“I am graced by the Radiance of Gillios.”

“Put more emphasis on Radiance. Like this: the Radiance… of Gillios!”

“The Radiance… of Gillios.”

Countess Rumièn was a strict teacher, but generous with praise.

“When you bow, straighten your back more. Bend your knees—yes, a bit more. Watch your toes! …Very good. Now rise. You carry yourself so naturally—no doubt the Saint in you still lingers. Even your posture feels textbook perfect.”

That compliment, though well-meaning, tugged at something strange inside Azniel. Her identity as a Saint was not just a title but her entire self. Hearing it referred to as if it were merely an old profession… left her unsettled.

Still, she believed it was now her role to master these lessons, and so she applied herself diligently, without complaint.

One day, Baron Gestern’s personal tailor arrived.

Though he specialized in menswear, he had more than enough experience with women’s fashion—and he was discreet enough that Azniel wouldn’t need to worry about her attire becoming gossip in the Laffen fashion circles.

“We’ll be tailoring three dresses each for outings in the city and for receiving guests.”

“Three of each…?”

“Don’t worry. Once you’re formally introduced to society, you’ll be free to shop for dresses all across Laffen.”

In truth, it wasn’t disappointment but shock that had Azniel hesitating. She was startled at the extravagance of ordering nine full dresses. But the tailor’s nonchalant tone left her no room to object.

“Hm, you look wonderful in both muted and vibrant shades. But since it’s autumn, let’s start with something lower in saturation.”

Azniel had never chosen her own colors before. Robes, vestments, ceremonial garb—everything she had worn thus far had been assigned by function and rank. She hadn’t even known people in the outside world considered what colors suited them.

Now, even that was something she’d have to learn.