Chapter 70: The One Moving Forward, The One Left Behind (1)

-Clatter, Clatter.-

The sun was just beginning to peek over the mountains at this early hour. The sound of two sets of hooves approached the southern gate of the Roselle estate. Dalton and Viela had arrived slightly later than planned, having spent extra time strategizing their approach.

Like a hero making a grand entrance at a victory ceremony, Dalton rode in with his back straight and chin lifted at an arrogant angle.

Viela, in contrast, had a subdued expression more fitting for the quiet morning, riding with a demeanor far calmer than her companion’s.

“A so-called duke who hasn’t even built himself a proper castle and still lives in a mere estate—what a disgraceful sight.”

The world revered him.

A hero who had saved the kingdom, a duke of great prestige.

His arrogance had swelled so high it seemed like it might pierce the heavens, clouding his judgment so thoroughly that he would never grasp the true meaning behind Roselle’s estate.

Viela, at least, seemed to have some understanding, which was why she chose to remain silent in response to Dalton’s remark.

“Halt. This is the estate of Duke Roselle.”

As they neared the southern gate, a guard stepped forward and raised his palm in a stopping gesture.

Dalton pulled the reins to halt his horse and, still mounted, spoke to the guard.

“Do you not recognize me, you foolish wretch? I see they even let blind men stand guard here.”

The pinnacle of arrogance.

Dalton regarded the guard with absolute disdain.

His own domain was a full three days’ ride from here. Expecting an estate guard—who rarely traveled beyond the property—to recognize the face of a duke from such a distance was absurd.

These were not personal guards assigned to accompany nobles to social gatherings.

Nor was it likely that this estate’s sentries had attended any of the capital’s ceremonies, whether the farewell before the expedition or the hero’s return.

For an ordinary guard, recognizing Dalton’s face at a glance was nearly impossible.

“State your name.”

“Ha, just as I expected—like master, like servant.”

Muttering to himself so the guard wouldn’t hear, Dalton swept his cloak aside and unsheathed the sword at his waist.

Engraved upon its blade was the mark of the hero’s party.

A sword personally bestowed upon him by King Briccal.

“Do you not recognize this?”

Dalton held the blade high, ensuring the engraved symbols were in clear view, his expression smug with triumph.

The guard studied the sword closely.

The royal crest alongside the mark of the hero’s party.

Though the hero’s emblem had faded from prominence since Emilia had been branded a traitor, there had been a time when knights and guards alike had painted the symbol onto their shields and helmets, following the trend.

But even with this recognition, the guard could not be sure whether this man was truly Dalton or perhaps Gleon instead.

Just then, Viela let out a quiet sigh and nudged her horse forward.

“This is Duke Dalton. I am Countess Viela.”

“Ah, I see.”

Only then did the guard lower his posture in a respectful bow.

Unlike Dalton, Viela had attended Lady Cillia’s birthday banquet, and the guard had seen her before.

Dalton, however, had never once stepped foot on this estate.

Dalton clicked his tongue in irritation and sheathed his sword.

Viela shot him a look of disgust.

She had already seen that sword more times than she cared to count on the way here.

It would have been enough to simply state his identity, yet he insisted on flaunting the sword like a badge of honor.

He looked utterly pathetic in her eyes.

But she kept her expression neutral.

What right did she have to criticize?

She, too, was no different from this shameless excuse of a man.

Viela urged her horse toward the gate and spoke.

“We are here to see Duke Roselle.”

“Do you have a meeting seal?”

A meeting seal was akin to an official invitation issued by the host, signifying a prearranged audience.

“We do not. We have urgent matters to discuss.”

“Hmm. However, the duke is currently away on urgent business.”

“…What?”

Viela turned to Dalton in surprise.

But Dalton’s lips twisted into a smug grin.

“So, Duke Roselle is not here, you say?”

“That is correct.”

“Hah! And when is he expected to return?”

“He left no specific time of return.”

“Is that so?”

Dalton cast his gaze past the iron gate.

His eyes fixated on the third floor of the mansion, where Roselle’s office was likely situated.

Then, he spurred his horse forward.

“Open the gate. We shall wait for Duke Roselle in the guest wing.”

But the guard did not immediately comply.

According to protocol, no one was permitted entry without an official meeting seal unless the head of the household had expressly permitted it.

“What are you waiting for? Do you intend to make me sleep outside like some commoner?”

“However, without a meeting seal—”

Dalton’s eyes flared with irritation.

“…Summon your steward at once! Before I snap your neck myself.”

This was Roselle’s domain.

Even among dukes, threatening a noble house’s personal guard with execution was sheer madness.

But as the saying went, power reveals a man’s true nature.

Having spent too long reveling in his unchecked authority, Dalton had become nothing more than a senseless brute, prioritizing his own fury over rationality.

The guard scowled, displeased by such an outrageous threat, but nonetheless turned to a subordinate.

“Go and fetch Steward Gellion at once.”

A short while later, another guard returned, relaying an order.

“You may enter.”

“Well then, I suppose we have no choice.”

With a loud creak, the gates swung open.

Dalton scoffed in derision at the guards, snorting as he urged his horse into the estate’s garden.

“Duke Dalton, I am Steward Gellion.”

About halfway between the mansion’s entrance and the gate, Gellion stepped forward to greet Dalton.

“You should educate your guards better. To think they failed to recognize someone as renowned as myself—does this estate truly hire such ignorant sentries?”

Those were Dalton’s very first words upon dismounting his horse.

A statement as rude as it was insufferable—words he would never dare utter in front of Duke Roselle himself.

Gellion chuckled lightly.

“Is that so? I shall reprimand them thoroughly. Think nothing of it.”

Of course, he had no such intention.

Satisfied with the smooth response, Dalton smirked and extended his hand for a handshake.

“Hah, I knew we’d understand each other.”

“That aside, what brings you here unannounced?”

Gellion was well aware that Dalton and Roselle had no amicable ties. He also knew that his master held no goodwill toward the man.

However, it would be improper to turn away a noble who had traveled such a distance. That was the only reason he had allowed Dalton entry.

At Gellion’s inquiry, Dalton shrugged.

“Well, I figured it was time we exchanged pleasantries. After all, we are both ‘dukes,’ aren’t we?”

“Ho ho, I see. Welcome, then.”

“But it seems the duke is absent?”

“Had there been prior notice, a courier would have been dispatched. However, he left on urgent official business three days ago.”

“Tsk, what a shame. What do you think, Viela?”

Gellion observed Dalton with keen eyes.

Most of the kingdom’s influential figures—except for the retired Southern Count—had attended Lady Cillia’s banquet.

Even Berci, Count Gleon’s father, had been present.

Dalton, however, had not.

He had ignored the invitation altogether.

And yet, now he had come here, claiming it was simply for greetings?

It was evident he had ulterior motives.

“Since you’ve traveled so far, I shall escort you to the guest quarters. You should rest first and recover from your journey.”

“Ah, good. I could certainly use a comfortable place to rest after such a tiresome trip.”

Led by the household staff, Dalton and Viela made their way toward the guest quarters.

Under no circumstances could they be allowed inside the main mansion.

Dalton and Viela were the very people who had betrayed Emilia.

To uphold the vow made to Duvel, Gellion had to ensure the two remained confined to the guest wing.

Lowering his voice, Gellion instructed the deputy steward, Beldahan.

“Increase security around the mansion and post guards at the guest quarters’ entrances. Tell them it is for the guests’ safety.”

“Understood.”

“And if Duke Dalton or Countess Viela attempts to leave the guest quarters, report to me immediately.”

“Yes, Steward.”

Beldahan bowed and stepped away.

Gellion narrowed his eyes as he watched Dalton walk off into the distance.

Until his master returned, maintaining the estate’s security was entirely his responsibility.

“What exactly do you plan to do now?”

That was the first thing Viela asked after entering Dalton’s room, having finished unpacking her minimal luggage.

Dalton stood by the window, watching the mansion intently.

“You said his office is in the center of the third floor, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And inside the bookshelf’s hidden compartment is the Record Object. You know how to open it?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.”

“What do you mean, ‘perfect’?”

“Roselle isn’t here, and all we need to do is steal the Record Object and slip away unnoticed. Simple, isn’t it?”

Even though news of the heresy had already been revealed, Dalton still clung to the delusion that he could use the Record Object to cover up the truth.

With Briccal in a coma, there was no one left to tell him otherwise.

He had mocked the guards for being blind fools, but in reality, it was he who was truly blind.

Viela let out a quiet sigh, ensuring Dalton wouldn’t hear it.

“So when are you planning to do this?”

“Obviously at dawn, when security is at its weakest. We move quickly and quietly, and no one will be able to stop us.”

He and Viela had once been part of the kingdom’s strongest party of heroes.

If they moved under the cover of darkness, no ordinary soldier would be able to track them.

“Dawn… Got it. See you then.”

Viela turned to leave.

But just as she reached the door, Dalton called out to her.

“Hey, Viela.”

“What?”

Dalton’s eyes sharpened, exuding a menacing aura.

He pointed first at her, then at himself, speaking in a weighty tone.

“You and I—we’re on the same ship now. You understand what that means, right?”

Of course, she did.

She wasn’t an idiot.

To secure their own survival and future, they had destroyed their former comrade’s life.

And now, on this ship of sinners, she sat in the finest seat.

With a grim expression, Viela closed her eyes briefly before nodding.

Then, without another word, she left Dalton’s room.

And she headed straight for the mansion.

To the back entrance—one that wasn’t visible from the guest quarters.

A path she had already memorized during Lady Cillia’s banquet.

“I need to speak with Emilia… quietly.”