"That is correct."
Looking into Blake's eyes, Ophelia lowered her head, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks.
"Back then, I had very few friends in the palace—especially no peers my own age. And because my bloodline was considered 'impure,' no one was willing to associate with me. It was during that time that Brother Celtic and I grew close. He often came to the palace with his father, and sometimes he would stay to chat with me. To be honest, Father did discuss arranging a betrothal between us with Lord Celtic's father back then. He even asked for my opinion... but..."
Ophelia frowned slightly, then let out a bitter laugh.
"At the time, my mind was completely occupied with proving my worth to others and protecting my mother. Just dealing with those two things had already drained every ounce of my energy. Besides, can you imagine what a twelve-year-old girl knows about love? So I never gave Father a definite answer. But things changed as I grew older. I was no longer that naive little girl—I had earned my own status, my own strength, and my own life. And after that... well, I think you know what happened next. As a princess with no claim to the throne, I could not afford to become too closely allied with the military. Celtic was his father's only son and pride—he was destined to become a Legion Commander someday. If any rumors of an alliance between us had spread, it would have thrown the entire kingdom into upheaval and disaster. That is why I ultimately rejected Father's proposal. By then, he had also seen how complicated the political situation had become, so he did not oppose my decision."
Ophelia twirled the teacup in her hands, then lifted it to her lips and took a small sip of black tea.
"Besides, I never felt any romantic affection for Celtic. In fact, once I had achieved the status I desired, I cut off all contact with him. After all, he belonged to the military faction—I simply could not afford to be seen associating with him too often. And I have never regretted that decision. I had already sacrificed so much to protect my mother; what was one more loss? Even if it did mean letting Celtic down..."
"I see."
Staring at Ophelia, sensing the resolve and conviction in her eyes, Blake nodded. Then he stood up, smiling faintly as he glanced toward the door.
"So you really do not intend to attend the banquet?"
"And how exactly do you plan to introduce me, my lord?"
In response to Blake's question, Ophelia tilted her head playfully, looking at him with an amused glint in her eyes.
"Are you going to reveal my true identity? Do you intend to scare all these nobles to death right here in this castle?"
"To be honest, that does sound like an excellent idea."
Blake snapped his fingers, nodding in obvious approval. But then he shrugged his shoulders in disappointment.
"What a shame. I was rather looking forward to hearing all those juicy secrets they would have whispered behind my back."
"Oh? Are you the kind of man who takes pleasure in coveting other people's wives?"
There was a hint of mockery—or perhaps sarcasm—hidden in Ophelia's sapphire-blue eyes.
"For men, there is no greater satisfaction than possessing something that belongs to another. It is the nature of conquest."
"In that case, it seems the only way to escape your clutches is to remain unmarried for the rest of my life. How terrifying. And I must say, I cannot condone your interest in destroying other men's families. It is a fatal blow to their hearts."
"It is not their hearts that are condemned—it is their incompetence."
Blake curled his lips, clearly dismissing Ophelia's words with disdain.
"If a man's wife is willing to leave him for another, it only proves he is not worthy of her. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Speaking of which, I suddenly recall that you have quite a few women around you, my lord."
Ophelia's words were clearly loaded with meaning.
"I do hope you do not end up becoming one of those 'incompetent men' you speak of."
"That is precisely why I keep working so hard."
Blake adjusted his clothing. Today, he was not wearing his usual noble attire, but a tailored tuxedo specially prepared for the banquet. The stiff collar and exquisite craftsmanship exuded an air of upper-class elegance, and the sleek fit accentuated his tall, lean figure, making him look surprisingly sharp. Of course, the outfit was not without its flaws—most notably, the sword still hanging at his waist, which he had no intention of removing. This was hardly considered proper etiquette, and Ophelia had dropped several hints about it, but Blake had clearly paid no heed. Knowing his stubborn nature, Ophelia had no choice but to resign herself to it.
"Well then, Miss Ophelia, I shall take my leave. As for our distinguished guest... she is in your capable hands."
"You have my word, my lord."
Having received Ophelia's assurance, Blake nodded, then turned and left the room.
As he stepped back into the corridor, Blake's expression remained as relaxed and carefree as ever. But Charlotte, who had been following closely behind him, wore a look of hesitation on her face.
"Master, are you certain it is wise not to tell her? I believe you should at least prepare Miss Ophelia for what is to come..."
"This is her burden to bear, not ours, Charlotte."
Blake shook his head.
"This is not something we can interfere with. So let us not discuss it any further. She has fought hard to get where she is today—she deserves the right to face the consequences on her own terms. Therefore..."
Blake paused, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper filled with notes. He scanned the contents quickly, then tossed it casually into the nearby fireplace, which was crackling merrily, chasing away the chill of the night. The crisp white paper fluttered into the flames, vanishing into bright red embers in an instant.
"It ends here."
Blake paused for a moment, then strode toward the end of the corridor.
"Now then—it is time to put our plan into motion."
It was a cold night.
Summer had long since faded, and the chill of autumn had begun to seep into the air—a feeling that was even more pronounced deep in the mountains. A crisp, almost icy wind howled through the forest, swirling around the trees. But despite the biting cold outside, the interior of Duskwood Castle was bathed in warm, golden light. Bright lanterns glowed from every window, casting a cozy, inviting glow over the entire structure. From a distance, it looked almost like a beacon of warmth in the darkness.
The grand hall, which was normally used to receive guests, had been transformed into a scene of elegance and splendor. Nobles dressed in their finest formal attire mingled freely, chatting and laughing as they sampled the forest's unique fruit wines and delicacies. Some had received formal invitations, while others had arrived unannounced—but the majority were local nobles from the surrounding regions. All of them had heard tales of Blake's exploits, or witnessed his achievements firsthand. They were filled with curiosity and questions about this young noble who had risen to power so suddenly. When he had personally invited them to his castle, they could hardly refuse the chance to see for themselves what all the fuss was about.
Of course, there were other, less spoken-of reasons for their attendance. With the Sith Empire's threat still looming on the border, the entire kingdom was gripped by tension. The nobles were eager to use this banquet as an excuse to relax—to escape, if only for a single night, from the worries of war and territorial disputes. To simply chat, laugh, and enjoy themselves—this was the life they truly desired.
It was for this reason that when Blake stepped into the hall and appeared before the assembled guests, many fell silent. They turned their gaze toward their host, smiling and bowing respectfully.
"Welcome to Duskwood Forest, everyone."
In that moment, Blake carried himself with perfect gentlemanly poise. His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, neither too stern nor too casual—exuding all the qualities one would expect of a nobleman. If Ophelia had been present, she would no doubt have had a few choice words to say about that.
"I trust you have all had the chance to explore my lands and my city. I imagine it has been quite a novel experience for you all."
Blake paused, then raised his right hand, lifting his wineglass high.
"But I shall not bore you with long speeches. I hope you will all enjoy this banquet, and spend a pleasant evening in good company. May the Divine watch over us—*to Westria*!"
"*To Westria*!"
At these words, the guests nodded in unison, raising their own glasses in toast. Of course, compared to other nobles, Blake's speech was remarkably short—but this was no bad thing. After all, for a man as young as he was, launching into a lengthy oration in front of so many elder nobles would have only served to irritate them. This simple, straightforward address, on the other hand, spoke volumes.
As Blake's voice faded, Charlotte clapped her hands twice. At the signal, the maids stepped forward in unison, carrying trays laden with delicious food and fine wine. The nobles dispersed, gathering in small groups to discuss topics that interested them.
From his position in the hall, Blake could easily distinguish the different factions among the guests. For this banquet, he had extended special invitations to the House of Byrd and the House of Zack. The House of Byrd had sent Viscount Wen as their representative once again, while the House of Zack—their patriarch being otherwise occupied—had dispatched a delegate of their own. And this delegate was someone Blake knew all too well: none other than Della, the assassin who had attempted to murder him during his journey to escort the young Zack heir. Now, Della had shed his assassin's garb and donned the fine clothing of a nobleman. At a glance, he looked every bit the part.
Surrounding these two men were the lesser nobles sworn to the House of Byrd and the House of Zack. They all knew full well that the relationship between these two great houses and Blake was far from ordinary, and they were eager to curry favor with him—hoping to gain some advantage from their association. At the same time, they were carefully observing the attitude of the two great houses toward Blake. If the Byrds and Zacks showed him deference, they would happily follow suit. But if the great houses were merely using this young noble as a pawn, they would adjust their own stance accordingly. In short, this banquet was a chance for them to gauge their position within the power structure of the region, and to plan their future alliances.
It was for this reason that most of the nobles now clustered around Viscount Wen and Della, commenting on Duskwood Forest and Elysium City while trying to pry useful information from the two delegates. As for the young lord himself? They would hold off on approaching him until they had a clearer sense of where he stood. After all, they had all heard tales of the fate that befell nobles who acted too rashly in Blake's presence—even if they had not witnessed it firsthand.
It did not take Blake long to spot Celtic standing alone at a table in the corner of the hall, drinking in silence. He smiled, then turned and made his way toward the older man.
"I must admit, I did not expect to find you drinking alone in a corner, Envoy Sir."
Hearing Blake's voice, Celtic looked up quickly. His eyes darted instinctively toward Blake's back, but he did not see the figure he had been hoping for. The old Legion Commander quickly masked his disappointment, forcing a smile to his face.
"This is not 'drinking alone,' Blake. Fine wine is meant to be savored in quiet contemplation—not amid the noise and chaos of a crowded hall. Perhaps you should try it sometime. I think it would do you some good."
"I appreciate the suggestion."
Blake casually picked up a glass of fruit wine, watching as the liquid shimmered and glowed in the light.
"But it is a great pity that Miss Ophelia cannot attend this banquet. As her lord, I cannot help but feel a little guilty. After all, she was the one who organized this entire event—and now she cannot even be here to enjoy it. It is truly regrettable."
"Oh..."
At the mention of Ophelia's name, the old man's expression flickered. His brow twitched slightly, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, then hesitated.
"So... where is she now?"
"She is resting. She has been feeling unwell lately. Perhaps I should consider giving her a few days off?"
Blake smiled as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the elderly man before him—as if testing the waters.
"It never hurts to be kind to one's subordinates, Blake."
The old man quickly composed himself, his face returning to its usual calm expression.
"Well, if there is nothing else, I think I shall find another quiet spot to enjoy my wine. I must say, this castle has a very peaceful atmosphere. I envy you for having such a fine domain, Blake."
"Thank you for the compliment."
As Blake watched Celtic walk away, the smile on his face shifted subtly. He set down his wineglass, shrugging his shoulders. It was then that a familiar voice sounded behind him.
"Lord Blake! What are you doing standing over here all by yourself?"
"Just having a chat."
Blake turned around to find Viscount Wen's cheerful, smiling face. He seemed to have finally managed to escape the crowd of nobles who had been pestering him, and now stood alone.
"Is something the matter, Viscount Wen? Do you have any complaints about the banquet?"
"No complaints at all! I think it is a wonderful event."
In response to Blake's question, the viscount shook his head vigorously. His eyes flickered toward Celtic's retreating figure, lingering on the old man's broad, imposing back for a moment before returning to Blake.
"Lord Blake, may I ask what you and Commander Celtic were discussing?"
"Curious, are you?"
"Of course I am!"
The viscount nodded with a laugh, then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"To be honest, almost every noble in this hall is dying to know what you two were talking about. After all, Commander Celtic is one of the three great Legion Commanders of the kingdom... men of our station rarely get the chance to even *see* him, let alone speak to him. The fact that he is here in Duskwood Forest... well..." Viscount Wen's expression suddenly turned serious, and he leaned even closer, his voice barely audible. "Lord Blake, if I may be so bold—what exactly did Commander Celtic come here for? Is it something to do with the royal family?"
"It is just a minor matter concerning the royal family."
Blake dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, stepping back to put some distance between himself and the viscount.
"Nothing to worry about, Viscount Wen. You have my word on that."
"Very well."
Seeing that Blake was not going to elaborate, Viscount Wen did not press the issue. Instead, he winked playfully and changed the subject.
"Say, Lord Blake—have you not noticed something rather odd?"
"Odd?"
Blake glanced around the hall, his eyes sweeping over the lively crowd of guests.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, usually, at a banquet like this, the host is swarmed by guests eager to curry favor with him. But have you not noticed that none of these nobles are making any attempt to approach you?"
"Oh? And what do you think that means?"
"I think you know exactly what it means, my lord."
Wen gestured toward the crowd with a mischievous grin.
"Take a good look. Most of these nobles have brought their wives and daughters with them tonight. That is not exactly common, is it? I suspect most of them originally planned to use this banquet as a chance to ingratiate themselves with you—and to marry off their daughters to a young, powerful lord like yourself. Unfortunately for them, you have rather cruelly dashed their hopes."
"I assure you, I have done nothing of the sort, Viscount Wen."
At this, Blake raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful smile on his lips.
"This is hardly my fault."
"Of course it is your fault, my lord! Have you not noticed just how beautiful your maids are? To be honest, I envy you more than I can say. I am truly curious—where on earth did you find so many lovely young women? Even the House of Byrd would struggle to match such a retinue... compared to your 'army of beauties,' these nobles' daughters pale in comparison. They would never dare to present themselves to you now." Viscount Wen paused, then ventured a tentative question. "Say, Lord Blake—if it is not too much to ask—would you perhaps consider... no, never mind. It is nothing."
Though Blake's expression had not changed in the slightest, the viscount had caught a faint hint of coldness in his eyes, and quickly clamped his mouth shut.
"One should learn to be content with what one has, Viscount Wen."
Blake set down his wineglass, his smile remaining fixed in place.
"I trust you understand that."
"Of course... perfectly."
Wen forced a bitter smile, nodding his head vigorously. He was about to change the subject once more when a sharp, raspy voice cut through the air beside them.
"I must say, I am appalled. To think that the great House of Byrd would grovel so shamelessly before a mere provincial lord! Have you no pride left? Do you not care about disgracing your noble lineage?"
At the sound of this voice, both men frowned. They turned to see a gaunt, hunched old man leaning heavily on a cane, standing beside the banquet table. His small, beady eyes were narrowed to slits, and his gaze was fixed on Blake with undisguised disdain and contempt.
"I do not know which backwater you crawled out of, boy, but you are far from being a true nobleman. Do not delude yourself into thinking that hosting a few childish dinner parties makes you one of us. You still have much to learn, little one."