Chapter 2: Constantine Connarivis

“Lord Karl Cassas von Brauchitsch, Viscount. We welcome your visit.”

Before the smile of commercial charm had fully faded from the Viscount’s face, an old man well over sixty had stepped into his view. A perfectly neat butler’s uniform precisely signified the old man’s position. He spoke the welcoming formalities slowly, his voice as sluggish and lifeless as his movements.

Yet probably no one facing him would mistake him for some frail elder about to expire. His black attire was unbelievably smooth and crisp, showing not a single crease despite his slightly hunched posture. The only flaw was on his left side, where an empty sleeve was folded flat to his side. However, this physical imperfection seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. From his slow, lifeless frame, an intricate pressure emanated ceaselessly.

“My apologies… I am deeply honored by your condescension in coming…”

Born of merchant stock, the Viscount knew nothing of martial skills and could not discern the meaning behind the aged man’s footsteps, which were as precise as if measured by a ruler and carved by a knife. Yet this did not hinder his extreme deference. The corner of his eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. He pressed his right hand to his chest as he bowed deeply, answering in a low voice. His courtesy seemed to surpass that typically exchanged between nobles, even reaching the standard used when greeting an elder.

Distant lands on the Eastern Continent had a saying: “The servants of the Chancellor of Affairs, even a gatekeeper, hold status equivalent to a Baron.”

This saying might not hold true in the Western Continent, yet it contained a kernel of truth. Furthermore, the old man before him was certainly no mere gatekeeper. To prepare for this task, the Viscount had long ago used his own networks to investigate the key figures around the Duke, focusing intensely on this seemingly decrepit yet strangely intimidating old man.

‘The Duke’s old Steward.’ But that was merely a nominal title. Anyone familiar with the Griffin Knight Order would know that the old man dressed as a servant standing before the Viscount was once the Vice-Commander of the Griffin Knight Order—the second in command within the Order, subordinate only to the former Duke.

Although his intelligence channels weren’t completely unobstructed, the sketchy information he’d gathered was sufficient for him to see part of this former Chief of the Guard’s illustrious military record. In fact, even this small part merited the Viscount’s earnest respect. Even now, as the Duke’s estate manager, rumors suggested this old man still held significant influence over the Duke’s decisions.

“Ahem…” An unnatural cough made Karl Cassas startle.

Courtesy did not necessarily win goodwill. As the Viscount straightened up from his bow, he noted the Old Steward’s expression hardening even further. That cough definitely hadn’t been due to a physical ailment. Only when the old man shifted his body slightly to one side and glanced meaningfully did the transfixed Viscount notice the figure beyond him…

It wasn’t that the person was deliberately lurking behind; he had been standing in a perfectly conspicuous spot all along. From the very beginning, the Viscount’s attention had been completely captured by the Old Steward, leaving none to spare… no, it was that he had seen the youth but the sight left absolutely no impression. Compared to the old man’s formidable aura, the presence of this nearby youth seemed incredibly fleeting.

He seemed a rather ordinary boy. His face held a touch of sickly paleness, as if he were used to being active at night, and unmistakable dark circles hung beneath both eyes. Apart from his clothing, which looked somewhat unusual in style, there was nothing remarkable about him. Because of this, just moments earlier Karl Cassas had instinctively taken this nearly five-foot-tall, rather slender fellow for a sleep-deprived young servant, unfortunate enough to be perpetually at his master’s beck and call.

Of course, imagining the youth as a servant was partly due to the setting. If judging purely by looks, the Imperial Viscount might well believe this boy was just the sort of base-born runt from the dregs of Alley Nine, surviving solely by pimping and thieving. Naturally, this rude thought only flashed momentarily in the Viscount’s mind—someone like that appearing within the household of a high Imperial official, an Imperial Duke, would be as unbelievable as finding the Goddess Meli in a brothel.

Now, however, after a closer look, the Viscount began mentally cursing his own stupidity.

He should have known right away this youth wasn’t an ordinary servant. The boy stood beside the Old Steward with a nonchalance bordering on casualness, head unbowed—in fact, he didn’t move at all.

Furthermore, probably no servant in this world dressed like that… Cassas could swear he’d never seen such bizarre attire. It wasn’t the formal dress expected of a noble, nor did it resemble any garb worn by warriors or Spellcasters in his memory. The long robe-like garment, yet with a front panel and huge lapels, layered over an inner vest like Hunting Attire, and wide-legged trousers tucked into tall boots—it all resembled the sort of shock-value costume worn by avant-garde performers who sometimes came to Hayton from afar, seeking patronage from nobles with limited artistic appreciation…

“Greetings, Lord Karl Cassas von Brauchitsch, Viscount. I am Constantine di Friedrich Connarivis…”

Karl Cassas clenched his fist. The Viscount felt almost dizzy from such a major blunder. The fellow he had nearly mistaken for a pimp or thief was none other than the Duke’s son, Constantine di Friedrich Connarivis… one of the key figures involved in this very visit.

“Welcome, Lord Viscount. Father is expecting you…” The boy nodded woodenly at the Viscount. As etiquette went, this was rather insufficient. Yet that was the full extent of the Duke’s heir’s welcome. The boy immediately shifted his gaze back to the Old Steward. Thus, the group turned and headed towards the main entrance of the mansion.

It didn’t seem the boy bore any particular resentment for the Viscount’s slight—a coin flipped soundlessly in Cassas’s palm. The slight awkwardness on the youth’s face seemed confirmation of this assessment… more accurately, perhaps the boy simply had little experience in social interactions.

…

Constantine di Friedrich Connarivis… Constantine, meaning ‘steadfast in belief’… Eldest son of George di Friedrich Connarivis, Duke. Currently thirteen years and three months old.

Karl Cassas once again mentally reviewed the intelligence he’d gathered. Reminding himself of the mission parameters was helpful and, more importantly, a good way to relieve stress—the estate of an Imperial Duke, even a vacation residence, was on a scale beyond common imagining. Its multiple staircases and corridors were already enough to make a Viscount, who was also a noble but could never own such a grand mansion, feel dizzy. Though he maintained his smile and followed the Old Steward, boredom was already creeping into his mind.

Perhaps the initial oversight couldn’t be attributed entirely to Karl Cassas. In the pitifully scant intelligence he’d procured about the Duke’s heir, not only was there no portrait, even the youth’s life over the past decade remained a complete blank. Only one phrase held true: This Duke’s heir is a particularly enigmatic figure. The Duke seems to have kept him sequestered within an estate at Midheim.

‘Secluded’ might sound somewhat rude, but it fit the facts. Even residents living around the Midheim estate had no impression whatsoever of the Duke’s lawful heir. Thus, the tiny bits of information intelligence gatherers managed to glean existed as mere rumors floating within various legends. ‘Perhaps this Duke has acquired some draconic habits?’ A ridiculous idea flitted through Karl Cassas’s mind—in those tales, evil dragons imprisoned human princesses within high towers or caves.

Banishing this foolish notion, the Viscount forced himself to look once more at the strange boy walking ahead.

No matter how much he squinted to focus, the boy of around four feet remained nearly impossible to fixate in his mind… On closer inspection, the skin beneath that pallid complexion might be called delicate. But combined with his utterly unremarkable features, it created a nebulous presence. His high and straight nose bridge and eyebrow ridge likely inherited the classical aristocratic lines of his parents, suggesting strong bone structure. However, combined with those utterly dull, almost lifeless eyes and the faint dark circles, those small advantages were completely submerged in an overwhelming plainness.

Compared to the overly thin lips and not particularly prominent nose, perhaps only his hair color bore any resemblance to the concept of nobility. Silver-white hair, reflecting the light of the hall, revealed faint golden undertones—the so-called ‘platinum’ color considered indispensable for the perfect noble appearance. If only it were properly styled…

Currently, the fine, soft strands largely hung down, though some rebel filaments stubbornly defied gravity, creating an odd, twisted arrangement. The tangled mess reminded the Viscount of the nests his own canaries built during breeding season—perhaps sharing some similarity with the landscape atop the boy’s head. Smooth strands mingled chaotically with others.

‘All members of the Connarivis family are born to command thousands! They come into the world already awarded military rank!’ Viscount Cassas visibly could no longer agree with this adage.

In fact, Constantine’s dull eyes and somewhat crippled gait also made their journey noticeably slower than expected. This brought other rumors to the Viscount’s mind.

The consensus held that the Duke kept his son concealed so strictly mainly because the boy’s mind was underdeveloped—the Viscount’s most capable intelligence officer had bribed a newly hired servant on the estate. Among the snippets of gossip obtained was one stating this child hadn’t spoken until the age of four, and his primary hobbies were either sitting somewhere staring blankly into space or performing incomprehensible movements.

Such as placing his hands on the ground to push his body up, lower it, then push up again repeatedly… Or clasping his hands behind his back and squatting, leaping frog-like around a tree. Moreover, he reportedly stood daily in one spot with his legs splayed apart until utter exhaustion forced him to stop.

Also, he supposedly suffered chronic, severe headaches that even divine grace couldn’t eradicate. Perhaps this was one reason behind his perpetually pale complexion.

“But undoubtedly, he’s still very suitable for that plan…”

A mocking smirk twisted the Viscount’s lips. Yet he quickly shook his head, expelling this thought—their party had reached its destination. A heavy, carved wooden door stood open at the end of the corridor. An intricately carved ivory screen blocked the view beyond.

The Duke possessed more than mere martial prowess, it seemed; he also understood how to enjoy life in the grandest style. Stepping through the doorway, the Viscount acknowledged this.

The room, though not colossal, was exceptionally lavish. The ceiling featured sculpted coffers lit from within and a magnificent magic crystal chandelier. Dark brown oak wood wainscoting gleamed mirror-like, set with delicate golden lacquer designs along deep ridges. Velvet curtains the same shade as the walls covered the windows.

The floor lay under an inch-thick brown woolen carpet woven by Elves from the Thor Grasslands far to the south. To tread upon it felt like walking on thick summer grass, evoking an urge to lie down. In one corner stood a bronze heating furnace. Unknown incense smoldered within it, releasing trickles of blue smoke that filled the chamber with a uniquely refreshing fragrance.

And then, Karl Cassas saw his target for this journey… His Excellency the Imperial Governor, Marshal of the Western Armies… Or rather, George di Friedrich Connarivis.

The man, over six feet tall, emerged through a different doorway with heavy, purposeful footsteps. He strode directly towards the mahogany desk placed in the center of the reception room, seemingly ignoring the Imperial Viscount entirely. Only after seating himself did the Duke lift his head, casually waving a hand in what might have constituted a customary gesture of noble welcome… or something similar?

The Assistant Deputy Minister for Foreign Affairs respectfully bowed, not dwelling on whether the gesture was proper. As he bent forward, he subtly narrowed his eyes, cautiously observing the Duke seated behind the imposing rosewood desk. Inside his head, he rapidly reorganized the pertinent information he held.

This was their first meeting, yet the Viscount had to admit the Duke’s impression perfectly matched the intelligence file he’d constructed—a sharply angular face, typical of a professional soldier. The ravages of time had etched wrinkles across his broad forehead. However, half an inch of neatly trimmed beard softened the lines of his chin. His faintly golden hair, combed impeccably, completed a measure of elegance. Combined with his monochromatic spectacles, this lent an overall impression of refinement to his countenance.

But all this elegance was brutally contradicted by the broad scar slicing from near his temple, across the cheekbone, past the eye corner, and running down to vanish beside his mouth. It appeared to be the result of a blunt-edged weapon. Long healed into a deep crimson-purple groove, the snake-like scar climbed one side of his face. Deep within its crevice, discolored tissue seemed to pulse faintly, eternally weeping phantom blood—or like the elongated pupil of an otherworldly Extraplanar creature, eternally and malevolently glaring at anyone who laid eyes on it.

Clerics wielding divine power could heal grave wounds, provided treatment arrived in time… Thus, only crude Mercenaries or savages of the Wasteland wore scars like trophies. Most Nobles considered such a scar a humiliation, something to be meticulously hidden away, regardless of whether it came from a mighty Orc, or even the strikes of the most noble and graceful Elf…

The Duke clearly harbored no such intentions. Indeed, he didn’t need to trouble himself about appearances at all.

This scar, earned while leading the Griffins against an Orc horde ten times his force—one hundred and twenty thousand strong—at Gagechi Ridge, ultimately crowning him triumphant? Undoubtedly, it represented a more potent testament to his valor than any medal.

“… Lord Viscount, welcome.”

The Duke waved his hand once more, his deep, resonant voice imbued with magnetism. Yet its slight inflection suggested the welcome extended wasn’t entirely heartfelt.

“Good day, Your Grace, George di Friedrich Connarivis, Duke. I bear His Imperial Majesty Godfrey Gordon Ralphe the Seventh’s exalted edict dispatched from Falkensere Palace to Your Grace…” Drawing a deep breath, the Viscount drew out a scroll emblazoned with the Imperial Insignia from his coat and began to unfurl it slowly.

But then he faltered momentarily. Protocol demanded that a subject hearing an Imperial proclamation show reverence by kneeling—even a Governor-Duke should acknowledge the sovereign with one knee to the ground… Yet the man sitting before him remained unmoved, seated firmly without stirring.

“Well? Proceed.” An annoyed voice followed the awkward pause… The Duke seemed unbothered, as if his behavior complied perfectly with ceremony.

“Ahem… Forgive my lapse.” The Viscount cleared his throat with difficulty, summoning his composure. Taking another deep breath, he intoned as solemnly as possible: “By His Majesty Godfrey Gordon Ralphe the Seventh, Phoenix Emperor: On the Fourteenth Day of the Fourth Month, Anno Luminis Seven Hundred Ninety-One, it is decreed that George di Friedrich Connarivis, Duke, doth betroth his heir, Constantine di Friedrich Connarivis, unto Her Imperial Highness Princess Miyari Galanord Ralphe. This decree takes immediate effect!”

It was undeniably unprecedented for the Duke to withhold proper reverence… but what could be done? The Western Frontier Governor was no groveling Imperial bureaucrat, no common citizen bowing in fear before Imperial authority. Military men seem possessed of an innate aversion toward politics and symbols of authority; their only passion lies with their armies and defense lines. Politics, to them, are solely the playthings of the emperor and his advisors—an arena they instinctively despise.

And this Duke proved a prime example of that type. According to reports, he refused entry to Turrad and Hud Provinces to officials dispatched by the Senate. Worse still, he had once delivered punches even to the former Chancellor—in the King’s very presence! Merely two strikes perhaps… yet they cost the Chancellor four teeth. Faced with such shocking insolence, Emperor the Seventh could only laugh it off.

Compared to such incidents, this was a mere trifle… Besides, the news the Viscount brought was hardly favorable.

“In this season teeming with Barbarian raids, I must abandon my soldiers—young lions howling for blood—and journey a thousand miles back to Hayton… all for such a trivial matter?”

Several seconds of ominous silence hung before the Duke spoke. No trace of reverence, joy, or similar emotion colored his voice; his posture remained unaltered. His tone held an edge of scorn, sounding like a neighboring uncle complaining about his wife’s cooking. Yet in that instant, Karl Cassas felt a peculiar, scorching pressure ignite within the room, seeming to raise the very air temperature about them. The Deputy Foreign Minister even instinctively hunched his shoulders defensively.

“The First Princess… that ‘Sacred White Lily’?”

The oppressive aura vanished as abruptly as it appeared. Clasping his hands together, the Duke rested his chin upon them. That posture concealed half his expression while his voice regained its level monotone. No discernible fluctuation betrayed him, but the Viscount, thanks to his merchant ancestry’s sharp eye, caught a minuscule twitch of his brow and a fleeting glint hidden behind the reflections in the Duke’s lenses.

The current situation was far from ideal, yet compared to the worst-case scenario he had imagined, it was infinitely better already… The Deputy Foreign Minister struggled to make his smile appear more courtly and sincere, while internally he sighed.

The First Princess’s fame extended far too brightly, reaching even second-generation Nobles dwelling within distant garrisons. Placing such an esteemed figure within a cold, political transaction seemed almost barbaric. And yet, Karl Cassas knew well that perfection remained unattainable in such matters. Even revered pieces of art spanning millennia possessed flaws… how much more so a transaction orchestrated solely by human minds? Precisely why he stood here now, tasked precisely with repairing, adjusting—compensating for those inevitable shortcomings inherent where humans are involved.

“Father.” Before the Deputy Foreign Minister could contemplate unleashing his diplomatic charm upon this tense impasse, the boy Constantine spoke quietly into the silence. He said nothing more. However, his even paler complexion and trembling wrist clasped to his forehead spoke volumes.

“Another attack? Very well. The coming matters require no further involvement from you… Go and rest.” The sternness lifted imperceptibly from the Duke’s voice, replaced by gentleness. It echoed the rare indulgence of a strict father towards a stricken child. “When you feel restored, inform Walter to arrange an outing to Hayton City… Go where your whims take you. You are here, after all—it would be a shame to stay perpetually cloistered within these estate walls.”

Constantine nodded obediently, yet his gaze remained blank. Like an automaton, he bent stiffly into another formal bow before shuffling backward out the door with that strangely awkward, dragging gait.

“That poor, unfortunate boy… he likely cannot grasp the destiny lying ahead of him…” The Viscount’s eyes followed Constantine’s lean figure receding. Pity washed over him like an unexpected wave…