Boat, Scene in the Rain

“Thank you all for coming! Let us welcome the Duke of Wylding to deliver his address!”

The beginning of every grand banquet was always so tediously predictable.

The host’s representative stepped onto the podium, delivered a stiff speech of gratitude, coldly wished everyone enjoyment, and then—like clockwork—the audience erupted into polite applause.

Once the tiresome opening formalities concluded, guests resumed their preordained roles across the hall.

Children gathered in giggling clusters. Nobles of similar rank formed conversational circles. Staff moved about, offering assistance. The hosts circulated with wine glasses in hand, flashing practiced smiles as they toasted each attendee.

Only two representatives remained outside this script.

In a quiet corner of the hall, Samael sat in silent isolation, as though the surrounding chatter and music belonged to another world entirely.

Under the shimmering glow of ornate chandeliers, shifting shadows from moving guests obscured the figure of the black-haired, crimson-eyed youth.

He sat alone on a semicircular sofa by the wall, quietly nibbling at the pastries arranged on the round table before him.

“Esteemed sir, might I have the honor of a dance with you—?”

“Apologies, lovely lady. I’m afraid I’m not available for dancing at the moment.”

Occasionally, daughters or younger sisters from noble households would spot him hidden in the corner, approach with bright eyes, and politely invite the dessert-enjoying young man to join the dance floor.

Without exception, he rejected them—without looking up, without warmth, without even the effort of noble etiquette.

Basic courtesy was already the utmost generosity he could offer himself right now.

No energy left to perform the role of “Gentleman Samael” for your amusement.

Besides… soon enough, when that Wylding girl proposes to me in front of all of you, your illusions will shatter anyway.

He exhaled softly, shoulders slumping slightly.

Samael’s mood was abysmal.

Rejecting Lakazet’s proposal in front of this many people.

If she breaks down crying afterward, sobbing that I deceived her heart, called me a heartless flirt…

Camille would face sanctions and blockades from neighboring Wylding. And with Aetelarma’s political ties, Dalabi’s protection wouldn’t be an option. We’d just have to accept our fate.

Camille’s future under those circumstances…

I can’t refuse.

Even if they are after the Heart, once they’re inside Camille’s borders, I could control them—softly or harshly—to ensure they never reach it.

Is that the only way?

He leaned back against the sofa, closed his eyes.

Through the flickering lights and dancing crowd, Syldra watched Samael from afar.

“Miss, aren’t you eating?”

Rosetta had returned, cheeks puffed like a squirrel, stuffed full of sweet pastries. Most guests were mingling or dancing—no one would notice her indulgence, so no family reputation to uphold.

She bounced over to Syldra, who sat elegantly on a high stool, sipping tea.

“Rosetta, how long have you been stuffing your face? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten we have serious business later.”

Syldra eyed the grease-smeared Rosetta, twitching at the corner of her eye.

“I remember, Miss!” Rosetta mumbled through a mouthful. “But eating won’t ruin your plan, will it?”

“This is so good! You never get treats like this up north, Miss—try some!”

She eagerly offered the tray to Syldra.

Syldra sighed, lightly pinching the bridge of her nose, then waved her off.

“Fine, go ahead.”

“Oh! Then I’ll follow your plan exactly when the time comes!” the maid declared seriously.

After Rosetta skipped away, Syldra scanned the room again.

Perched on the high stool, her vantage point let her see over the bobbing heads of the crowd—and thus, she spotted Samael in the far corner.

Syldra sat at the bar on the left side of the entrance. Samael was diagonally opposite—on a sofa in the far right corner near the podium.

The black-haired youth looked utterly defeated—as if dragged into marriage, soul crushed, resigned to fate.

…… Seeing the man who once led armies against the entire world—the Demon King, arrogant and untouchable—now reduced to such helplessness at what, to Syldra’s standards, was a minor noble gathering… she found it strangely hard not to laugh.

She steadied herself, then refocused on her original mission.

Syldra’s intent in observing the crowd wasn’t mere curiosity. She was searching for any suspicious individuals among the guests or staff—trying to estimate how many might be Wylding’s agents.

She still doubted Berumonde’s claim from earlier:
“Last night, there were so many footsteps and voices downstairs.”

Why hadn’t Berumonde fallen asleep? Syldra didn’t know. But having drawn that out, she had reason to suspect:
Had the Duke of Wylding drugged everyone into early sleep—then used the night to infiltrate loyalists into the guesthouse?

Planting agents into a rival’s banquet venue—then signaling them during the event—was a common noble tactic.

Yet Syldra saw nothing unusual among the guests or staff. So where were these “agents”? She couldn’t say.

But ultimately, she only wanted to gauge how many Wylding had brought—clues to the scale of his plan.

Since she couldn’t find them… she’d just watch the Duke himself.

Watch when he made his move.
Watch when he announced the “alliance between Wylding and Camille.”

She had to act before him—

As Syldra thought this, her target—the thin, wiry Duke of Wylding—finished toasting a guest, glanced around, then turned his back to the entrance and walked toward the podium at the far end of the hall.

Syldra’s gaze snapped to the same spot.

At the darkened end of the hall, barely visible in the dim light, stood a tall, golden-haired girl—Lakazet—waiting by the podium.

“—Excuse me, please let me through.”

Recognizing the direction, Syldra set her teacup down, hopped off the stool.

With slender arms, she began parting the crowd—a red-haired girl weaving through clusters of chatting adults.

“Pardon me—I need to pass, thank you!”
“Could you step aside? Thank you!”
“One moment, please—thank you!”

Her voice, soft yet firm, cut through the noise. Confused nobles turned, watching the Lentiya heiress push forward as if her life depended on reaching that distant point.

…… She had to reach the podium—equipped with amplification magic—before the Duke and Lakazet joined forces.

Syldra pushed past wave after wave of bodies, outpacing the slowly advancing Duke through the sea of people.

Then—

Open space. Crimson carpet beneath her feet. Dim light above.

She took the final steps, stepping onto the podium just as Lakazet’s eyes widened in shock.

A small figure, crowned with fiery red hair, now stood tall enough to be seen by all.

Syldra glanced to the right.

Samael was nowhere in sight.

His seat lay in the blind spot from this angle.

…… Come on, Demon King.

A faint smile tugged at Syldra’s lips.

“Representatives from across the continent—please turn your attention to the podium!”

She shouted with all her strength.