Chapter 3

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 3

Chapter Title: How to Survive as the Wife of the Monster Duke

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At that moment, the merchant leader's face subtly changed.

Anyone else might have just thought he was smiling, but Ilrin knew better.

She had seen maids back at the viscount's house change their attitudes in that peculiar way countless times.

It was mostly the new ones.

Once they realized her position in the mansion and started subtly looking down on her, they showed that odd shift.

But the merchant leader was the opposite.

His reaction had grown more serious.

Confirming it, Ilrin spoke again.

"House Biplten doesn't trade with many places. It's also somewhere everyone avoids mingling with."

Instead of the letter stamped with House Biplten's crest, she handed him the one she had written herself.

"It'd be hard to believe that the leader of a merchant group delivering goods to such a House Biplten—when it's not even summer—has no ties to them."

Heading to Biplten Territory, where biting winds made approach difficult even in summer, in this weather was practically a sure bet.

Ilrin continued.

"You must be at least friendly with House Biplten, or perhaps even loyal. If so, you have a duty to deliver my letter."

"Why is that?"

The merchant leader asked back.

He no longer denied it.

"As always, if no one steps up to be the bride this time either, I'll enter House Biplten directly—no bride contest needed."

Ilrin said it softly.

"Then at the very least, I'll end up as the lady of the house... or staying as a guest."

She tilted her head slightly.

"Is that still not reason enough to deliver my letter?"

"...Understood."

The merchant leader finally bowed his head.

"I'll deliver it as soon as possible."

"Feel free to check the letter if you need to."

It wasn't some saccharine love letter no one else should see, after all.

Ilrin thought.

The merchant leader shook his head.

"No need. But..."

He looked genuinely curious.

"How did you know?"

He meant the connection between Biplten and his merchant group.

Ilrin politely sidestepped the question.

"More than that, I'm eager to hear the duke's reply soon."

No one would believe her even if she said it came from a precognitive dream anyway.

Exactly one week later.

A letter stamped with House Biplten's crest had arrived.

Even reaching Boro Territory, near the capital, took three days.

So how had they gone all the way to Biplten at the northern edge and returned in just a week? It was baffling.

The letter was polite, but it came off as rather indifferent.

Come if you want to.

We're not waiting with bated breath.

Was she reading too much into it?

Ilrin set the letter aside and peered through the window beyond the mansion's walls.

An unfamiliar carriage was visible.

But no noble house crest to identify whose it was.

She glanced back at the letter.

No risk of boarding the wrong one, then.

What she'd been waiting for had come; no reason to delay further.

Ilrin rose from her seat.

"What is it now?"

Viscount Arlen, whom she was seeing again after a week, naturally offered no welcome.

He seemed extremely displeased by her repeated visits.

Ilrin quietly regarded her father.

Had he ever been a good father when she was little?

Not in the slightest.

He cared more about the house's image than his family.

Instead of pitying his deranged wife, he raged that mud had been splashed on Viscount Arlen's good name.

He wasn't the type to leave even a farewell behind before departing.

She had no memory of ever being loved by her father.

"I've decided on a marriage prospect."

"What?"

Viscount Arlen was, of course, surprised.

Marriage was a noble house's cause for celebration, after all.

The alliances it brought determined what face they showed the world.

"Which house?"

"The north."

That was all Ilrin said.

Viscount Arlen openly clicked his tongue.

The north's largest territory, Boro, already had a lady of the house.

The lesser territories around it were trivial families with far less prestige than Viscount Arlen's.

Better to keep it under wraps.

Viscount Arlen gestured dismissively.

A signal to leave.

Proclaiming the marriage wouldn't benefit them anyway.

It would only drag the family name further into the dirt.

"Well then."

She hadn't expected a proper goodbye anyway.

Ilrin turned to go.

"Ilrin."

The viscount called her name then.

She paused.

It had been over a decade since her father last called her by name.

"Yes."

Her voice came out softer than she intended, unbidden.

Their eyes met, and Viscount Arlen asked.

"Have you ever dreamed of me?"

"..."

Ilrin let out a wry chuckle.

Any faint hope evaporated.

"No."

Viscount Arlen did not call for her again.

No one emerged from Viscount Arlen's residence to see her off.

Yes, now her father and mother would live as if she no longer existed.

The servants below them would do the same.

Ilrin did not glance back even once at the mansion receding through the carriage window.

There would be no returning.

"Biplten..."

Ilrin gazed out the carriage.

The carriage swiftly left the capital behind and raced north.

The coachman, a sword engraved with House Biplten's crest at its hilt strapped to his side, silently picked up speed without a word.

The road was well-paved for now, without too much jolting, but she doubted it would hold until Biplten.

Ilrin wrapped herself once more in the thickest garments she'd brought from the mansion.

In Biplten, even corpses frozen by the cold were hard to find.

Winter clothes from the capital—which prided itself on mild winters—wouldn't cut it.

"The coachman doesn't look bundled up."

Perhaps because he was from Biplten.

Ilrin surveyed the carriage interior.

The seats were plush, upholstered in fine black microfiber velvet.

The walls were similarly lined in velvet stuffed with soft padding, likely to block drafts.

What stood out more than the decoration was how meticulously the windows were sealed against cold air seeping in.

"What is this?"

Ilrin examined the fabric draped over the opposite seat.

It gleamed like silk but had a slightly cottony texture—blue cloth.

The luxurious silver-edged fabric was startlingly warm to the touch.

Heat seemed to emanate from the fabric itself.

A specialty from Biplten?

A noble lady attuned to dress fashions wouldn't encounter unfamiliar fabrics.

Even without socializing, Ilrin had hosted guests in the viscountess's stead many times, despite the viscountess's mania.

She had encountered plenty of clothing, but nothing like this.

Was it okay to touch?

If it were too precious, they wouldn't have left it out in the open.

There was no storage case for it, either.

Meant to drape over yourself when cold?

Ilrin cautiously unfolded the cloth.

Sky blue, but it reflected a mystical purple sheen in the outside light.

It looked more like a veil for the head than a lap blanket.

Thin enough to see through.

Ilrin carefully placed it atop her head.

Her vision tinted faintly blue, while a warm sensation spread down to her neck.

"Wow."

Ilrin marveled.

If this were commonplace in Biplten, their attire might differ from the capital's right from the fabric up.

I'm really heading somewhere entirely different.

So isolated it could pass for the Biplten Duchy rather than mere territory, with scant imperial exchange.

Could she adapt?

And survive?

Unfamiliar land. Even within the empire, no one punished the Duke of Biplten for flouting imperial law.

For all intents, it was House Biplten's own realm.

No one she knew there.

Even if she navigated the initial rites unscathed, falling from the Duke of Biplten's good graces... who knew what might happen.

Besides, the Duke of Biplten.

Don't meet his eyes.

The tale of the first noble to lock eyes with the Duke of Biplten dying rigid was dismissed as rumor.

But when that noble's knights were later found similarly stiffened, warped curiosity about the duke dried up overnight.

Who would court death by rigor mortis out of idle curiosity?

Never meet his eyes.

House Biplten was even recruiting brides, despite the stain on their honor.

They probably wouldn't stiffen a bride to death, but one never knew with people.

Ilrin adjusted the blue veil on her head.

No clue how swift their route was, but her legs were already trembling.

"It's okay."

Ilrin soothed herself.

Her dreams hadn't foretold her death yet.

The world outside the window had turned white.

The carriage, of somewhat peculiar design, pressed on northward.

Evidently built for blizzard travel: the coachman's perch was enclosed, and the horses were armored in protective gear.

"Wow..."

Hard to believe it was nearing late summer.

It didn't feel like heading north so much as flipping the calendar backward—a fantastical snowstorm swirled past the window.

White flakes streaked by the carriage in wild, jagged white lines.

And the interior temperature plunged dangerously.

Breath visible from one's mouth in late summer!

"Hoo."

She rubbed her hands furiously and breathed warm air onto them.

Her hands seemed to thaw briefly where the white vapor touched, only to freeze harder moments later.

Ilrin exhaled again and swiftly tucked her hands beneath the blue cloth.

Inside the cloth alone remained warm.

Bump!

The carriage jolted without cease.

Fight the cold or sleep.

Even dozing, she woke moments later.

The cold was too brutal for proper rest.

Her toes ached fiercely from it.

Ilrin rubbed her legs with the warm hands she'd drawn from under the cloth.

Deep in the blizzard, yet the carriage's speed kept building.

No landmarks to mark time, and the sun was lost to blizzard and clouds.

They passed cave-like formations now and then.

What seemed mountain paths were snow-buried tunnels dug beneath.

"!"

The carriage lurched violently.

Ilrin gripped the shuddering wall tight.

It rocked as if to tip sideways but never slowed.

What's happening?

She peered toward the window, sightless through the storm.

"...!"

She clamped a hand over her mouth, too stunned to scream.

From outside, crimson things were swarming.

The blizzard whipped around them undeterred.

Those lifeforms catching the carriage at terrifying speed bounded on four legs.

Monsters?

Ilrin knew little of monsters.

But what creature could charge through an impenetrable blizzard at that velocity? Even the capital's knights wouldn't know.

"I'll speed up!"

The coachman's shout was half-swallowed by the rattling.

The rest drowned in the monsters' screeching leaps.