Blachnatt, Agnoman, Parbader, Slyner, Echriu, Esparner, Pirbo, Fedlimid, Delgnad, Darknu.
These were the ten noble houses of the Empire of Da Farsade, whose hereditary titles and bloodlines had been passed down for generations.
When the late Emperor Pobgen Ru La Farsade faced consecutive years of famine, he recklessly sold noble titles to wealthy commoners to offset the exorbitant expenses of the imperial court.
Ironically, the more titles he sold, the starker the divide became between these nominal nobles and the true bloodline aristocrats.
The ten houses barred the gates of high society with their own formidable, untouchable rules.
Among them, any man born into one of these ten houses was expected to follow a strict mandate: enrolling in the military academy Ecole Farsade to learn honor and pride.
However, the curriculum at Ecole Farsade, accessible only to direct or even distant descendants of the ten houses, was notoriously grueling.
It was so severe that a common jest claimed any man who graduated from Ecole Farsade could endure even the most ferocious shrew of a wife for a hundred years. Consequently, not everyone from the ten houses could enter, and even fewer managed to complete it.
Should anyone fail to pass the high threshold of Ecole Farsade, they would be barred from commanding private troops, even as the head of one of the ten houses. During the social season, they would not be allowed to attend fox hunts or even set foot in gentlemen’s clubs.
They might barely manage to attend a salon hosted by noblewomen, but only if a personal acquaintance among the noble hostesses risked her own reputation by extending a private invitation.
Yet there was one cadet who had entered Ecole Farsade at the top of his class and consistently earned perfect scores across grammar, mathematics, music, rhetoric, logic, ethics, astronomy, military science, and marksmanship.
“Casar de Blachnatt.”
When the headmaster announced the valedictorian, no not a single person was surprised, not even the young man himself.
As he stood straight and elegant on the podium, slowly inclining his head toward a professor whose eyes met his, the entire audience fell into such a profound hush that they forgot even to breathe.
He was the heir to the Blachnatt house, the sole ducal family among the ten, and the absolute pinnacle of aristocratic society.
Casar de Blachnatt had been a monster among men during his time at the academy, never once showing a single hint of weakness.
In fact, the Crown Prince seemed more human by comparison, a sentiment that truly said it all.
After all, unlike the Crown Prince, who had immediately returned to court upon hearing of His Imperial Majesty’s sudden death from heart failure, even canceling his graduation, Casar had lost his own father, the head of House Blachnatt, just ten days later, yet reportedly stated:
“Rushing will not bring the dead back. I will go after graduation.”
Of course, the Crown Prince’s situation was exceptional, concerning as it did the very survival of the Empire. Normally, a ten-day mourning leave was granted for a father’s death, and with graduation only two weeks away, traveling to his distant estate at that exact moment would have been awkward.
Yet this was the Blachnatt house of all places. Even if the funeral coincided with a state ceremony, who would dare not attend?
Would it not have been stranger if the heir himself missed the funeral, especially when the cause of death was suspected murder?
Though many cadets had much they wanted to say, not a single one dared utter a word.
Naturally, no one in their right mind would risk falling out of favor with the man who, upon graduating, had instantly become both the head of House Blachnatt and the Empire’s sole Duke.
Even without that formidable status or lineage, he possessed an innate presence that overwhelmed everyone he met. Perhaps it was those cold, emotionless crimson eyes.
Or perhaps it was how his muscular build, rather than appearing bulky, gave the lithe, agile impression of a rosette jaguar, another quality that instinctively made others cower before him.
Thus, amidst the hushed awe of the crowd, the man honored with top graduation honors descended from the podium with calm grace, neither rushed nor showy, elegant without the slightest affectation.
Following the graduation ceremony, Casar gave a brief nod to his chauffeur and stepped into the back seat of the waiting automobile.
His steward, Tu’an, who had come to greet him, was visibly anxious. However, Tu’an knew full well that his new master was not the type to rush or worry needlessly ahead of time.
After showing minimal courtesy to Tu’an, his loyal retainer who had served the family for decades, the Duke sat upright in his seat.
Even amid the gentle sway of the carriage, Tu’an felt awed by his master’s unwavering posture and quietly resolved to curb his own impatience.
“The late master’s funeral was properly conducted under the supervision of the bishop dispatched by the Imperial Court. His body was embalmed and laid to rest in the family crypt.”
“Good work.”
“Ah, Your Grace, what should we do about the culprit?”
“I heard the suspect still has not confessed to the crime.”
Though the Duke’s tone held no reproach, Tu’an realized he had spoken too hastily and quickly corrected himself.
“Oh, yes. They say the suspect refuses to speak at all.”
“What does my mother think?”
“Her Grace wishes that, unless a confession is absolutely necessary, we sever the suspect’s limbs, burn the body, and discard it beyond the estate boundaries.”
She likely wanted to execute the culprit immediately, but had been waiting for formal permission from the estate lord who held judicial authority.
One of the immense privileges granted to the ten houses in the Teshia Empire was judicial sovereignty.
Though limited to their own territories and under nominal oversight from the Imperial Correction Bureau, for a house like Blachnatt, whose lands stretched from Conwell to Baltimore and Lindkoem, this authority was practically absolute.
Thus, while the murderer of the late Duke certainly deserved execution, the complication was that without a confession, the suspect’s guilt remained technically unconfirmed.
Yet such was the power of his judicial authority that he could execute her regardless.
Casar reached out and gauged the thickness of the documents Tu’an held. Glancing at the enormous stack, he pressed a hand to his forehead.
Naturally, delaying his return to the estate under the pretext of attending graduation had not helped, but arriving earlier would not have reduced the crushing workload either.
Should he trust the incident report submitted by the Lindkoem Security Force? The report claimed that a twenty-year-old woman, a person of his exact age, had murdered his father.
Though worded delicately to protect the late Duke’s honor, the report implied his father had been killed by a commoner woman with whom he had been having an affair.
“Put it on hold.”
With those brief words, the young Duke closed his eyes tightly. Though his posture remained impeccable, his face bore deep fatigue, and Tu’an swallowed all the pending reports he had prepared to deliver.
There was no need to rush. Now that the new master had assumed his position, everything would soon return to order.
It had been about a month since Casar sent Lakan, the deputy officer of the Blachnatt Regiment, ahead to Lindkoem. That afternoon, after finally clearing his backlog, Casar sat down to have his first meal together with his mother.
“My Lord Duke, you must be very busy. I have been worried about whether you are eating properly.”
The Duke greeted her with a nod. Even without a deep bow, his innate grace made the gesture feel formal.
“Thanks to your concern.”
His mother smiled contentedly at his dignified tone and conduct, which remained unchanged whether he addressed her or anyone else. She felt immensely proud of her flawless son, born with all the makings of a true Blachnatt Duke.
Whenever this pride swelled within her, however, she also felt conflicted. Her husband had passed away just days before witnessing their son graduate at the top of his class from Ecole Farsade, bringing immense honor to the family.
Ultimately, the unresolved case stuck in her throat like a thorn, making it difficult even to swallow her food.
“You still have not obtained a confession, have you?”
The Duke’s leisurely hand, slicing a piece of tender veal, paused momentarily. Casar offered a measured smile in response to the mention of the suspect, his father’s alleged mistress and murderer.
“A reinvestigation is underway.”
“Do you believe she is innocent?”
“I am not sure.”
Faced with Casar’s indifference, the Duchess fell silent. Since the outside world only knew it was murder and nothing more, she alone grew anxious at his unnerving calm.
Had she not long known that his composure stemmed not from laziness but from calculated purpose, she might have rushed off to Lindkoem immediately.
As if reading her thoughts, Casar spoke first.
“I plan to go there myself soon to interrogate her.”
“My Lord, in person?”
“Yes.”
Of course. Her son would never let such a matter slide. He must have uncovered some vital new evidence during the investigation.
A faint smile touched the Duchess’s lips.
“I trust you will handle this wisely, in a way that upholds our house’s honor and dignity.”
Casar disembarked at Lindkoem Station, the eastern terminus of the Farsade Transcontinental Railway, and entered the vehicle brought by Deputy Officer Lakan, who was waiting to meet him.
Was this not once the capital of the old Ebern Kingdom?
In early summer, Lindkoem overflowed with surging greenery. Along the broad avenues, fallen blossoms from the towering chestnut trees drifted in the wind like scattered confetti, decorating the streets.
Gazing out the window at this vibrant spectacle of life, Casar turned his attention back to the pile of petitions he had postponed reading.
Their contents were remarkably similar: “Scathach could not have done it,” “Scathach is a kind nurse,” “Scathach, Scathach.” Clearly, she was well-regarded, as the petitions had piled high. Because she had been raised in a convent, dozens of letters came even from local nuns.
Casar flipped through the tedious, formulaic appeals, until his hand suddenly stilled.
It was a letter from a physician named Loegal. Unlike the others, it insisted on meeting the lord in person. The writer claimed he had gone all the way to the Duke’s manor in Conwell but was denied an audience by the Duchess, leaving him unable to deliver his message.
Casar’s long, slender fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of the car’s back seat.
“They found a drug that induces heart failure in the suspect’s bag.”
Though his eyes remained fixed outside the window, his question had a clear target. Lakan, who had been silently driving after briefing him on the case, straightened abruptly at the query.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Was the same drug detected in the body?”
“No, but the suspect was reported fleeing toward the convent, a firearm was found in her room, and she returned to the crime scene afterward. Considering all of that, and given that the late Duke’s cause of death was excessive bleeding from a gunshot wound, she became the prime suspect.”
Casar’s crimson eyes, previously fixed on the physician’s letter, slowly shifted toward Lakan.
“Who was the informant?”
“The report did not list a name. It only described him as a man of average build with orange hair and brown eyes. The Security Force said they treated it as an emergency and deployed immediately without recording his name; the description was added later. They are tracking him now, but with so few clues, it is proving difficult.”
This was getting absurd.
Casar sighed briefly, his eyes sharpening slightly, before asking another question.
“Was there any sign that the suspect’s firearm had been fired?”
“That is… the Security Force reported the weapon went missing while they were securing evidence.”
Casar clicked his tongue quietly. The evidence gathered so far was far from sufficient to convict her, unless it was not a murder at all, but merely an affair gone wrong.
Yet there were too many anomalies.
A nurse from Lindkoem. A drug that triggered cardiac arrest. A father who had never kept a mistress in his life. A physician’s letter that felt odd, resembling less a plea and more a warning. An informant who had vanished without a trace.
There were simply too many suspicious elements to ignore.
“Where does this nurse work again?”
“At a private clinic near the Lindkoem forest.”
“A private clinic. Who is the director?”
“Loegal.”
Confirming that the physician’s name matched the signature on the letter, Casar gave a faint, almost derisive smile, twisting one corner of his lips.
“Turn the car around.”
The clinic they arrived at was the very same one where, four years earlier, he had brought an unnamed little girl wounded by his own artillery shrapnel.
Not only was the interior unchanged, almost startlingly so, but the physician who had once discreetly allowed a mere commoner girl to receive daily visits from the young noble was just as Casar remembered him.
“Good day, my Lord.”
Loegal bowed respectfully. Seeing the boy he once knew now grown into a towering, imposing man filled the doctor with quiet relief.
After all, the fact that this man had become the new lord with full judicial authority was undeniably good news for Scathach, who was surely the Duke’s first love from boyhood.