Chapter 39

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 39

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

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Before Ilrin and Aden entered the viscountess's room.

Viscount Arlen felt something off.

In his eyes, he saw Den holding Ilrin's hand.

The man in the black, impeccably tailored uniform—Den.

With his neat black hair and icy cerulean eyes like frozen frost, his skin so pale it bordered on ghostly, he seemed like someone from another realm entirely.

He was clearly the same man he'd seen earlier that day.

He had to be from the Esid Merchant Group, yet there was no emblem anywhere on his clothes.

Maybe it was on the sword?

As Viscount Arlen pondered with uncharacteristic sharpness, he caught something even stranger.

It was the way Den was escorting Ilrin.

Even someone as oblivious as him could tell.

Den was attending to Ilrin with the utmost devotion.

'No, is "attending" the right word?'

Viscount Arlen was utterly confused by the relationship between Ilrin and the man.

It was obvious even to him—every little thing Den did screamed care, as if the slightest discomfort on her part might shatter her.

He handled her like a priceless treasure on the verge of breaking.

This wasn't the deference of a subordinate to a superior, nor the loyalty of a vassal to their lord.

It was something far more personal.

Could it be?

Viscount Arlen recalled Ilrin mentioning her marriage prospects lay to the north.

Was that why no rumors had leaked from any northern houses?

Ilrin marrying a merchant?

Viscount Arlen clicked his tongue.

How could she even consider wedding someone so lowly?

He shook his head.

Ilrin's reputation was that of an eccentric noble lady who'd fled because she couldn't stomach life in a mere viscountcy, after all.

"Lowborn blood is lowborn blood, it seems."

He thought back to the viscountess who had come to him all those years ago.

It had been a fleeting dalliance, a momentary fancy.

In truth, the money her family offered had been sweeter than any "information."

One day, the woman had shown up and declared,

"I will bear your child."

It wasn't a vow or a promise to make it happen.

She wasn't speaking of some future possibility—she claimed she'd already seen the future where she birthed his child, spouting utter nonsense.

Back then, he'd only been drawn to her audacity, finding the bold woman alluring. He hadn't believed a word.

Yet the child had been born, just as she said.

Both that mother and the child she'd borne were nothing but ill omens.

He glanced once more at the spot where Ilrin and Den had passed.

Then he clicked his tongue again and turned away.

He had no desire to watch his wife die.

Surely she'd ramble on with her ominous drivel about the "future," just like always.

Once he'd stepped aside to avoid interrupting her reunion with her runaway daughter, he could claim she'd simply drifted off to sleep peacefully.

In the meantime, the viscount racked his brains to preserve his image.

There was no hesitation in his retreating footsteps.

Viscountess Arlen's funeral was held with great pomp.

As if fulfilling the viscount's unspoken wish, representatives from several northern houses he'd only briefly crossed paths with came to pay their respects.

Of course, none of them deigned to visit Arlen Territory in person.

Instead, it was their vassals or prominent retainers who came on behalf of the houses they served.

Some grumbled inwardly about having to visit such an insignificant backwater, only to rationalize it as their lord's boundless magnanimity before plastering on haughty expressions.

"……."

Ilrin's vision was shrouded by a black veil.

The bright world was overlaid with monochrome, dim and subdued.

Even knowing it was just the veil, the heaviness in her heart wouldn't lift.

Still, Aden remained steadfast by her side.

In this achromatic world, he alone shone with vibrant, radiant color.

She gripped his hand tightly.

Their stay under the relentless sun had stretched on longer than intended.

The Esid Merchant Group had sent people under the pretext of showing respect to Viscount Arlen, their new trading partner.

In reality, though, the main goal was dispatching servants to attend to Ilrin and Aden.

Milo had sprung into action the moment he heard the news of the viscountess's passing.

He unpacked all the luggage meant for Winter Lands and dispatched maids to serve the ducal couple at the viscount's estate.

"Our deepest condolences."

Viscount Arlen was swamped receiving greetings.

Guests drifted near the coffin but mostly paid quiet respects before moving on.

No one who might have been close to her in life showed up.

Not a single person who looked like an acquaintance attended the funeral.

The guests whispered among themselves that not even family had come.

Even if she'd long been estranged from her birth family, it was only natural for tongues to wag when not one relative appeared at a funeral.

"Ah……."

But Viscount Arlen—so obsessed with his image—went somber at this topic alone, turning his head away.

He swallowed every flimsy excuse and simply fell silent.

"That man's consistent even on a day like this."

Standing guard by Ilrin were Aden, with Etra and Ijis watching their backs.

Someone wedged their way in.

Ijis smoothly shifted to block the stranger.

But Ilrin stopped him.

"It's fine, Ijis."

She looked up at the woman whose face was veiled in black, just like hers.

The woman leaned on a cane, but her posture was so straight its necessity seemed questionable.

Ijis halted at Ilrin's word and stepped back.

Laughter echoed from beneath the veil.

"You've married a fine man."

The same words the viscountess had spoken.

Aden's eyes widened slightly as he pieced together her identity.

He was curious about the answer, but even the Winter Duke lacked the power to peer through that thick veil.

"Grandmother."

Ilrin's voice supplied the truth.

"If you're wondering about my name, call me Berta."

Ilrin's maternal grandmother, Berta, stared straight at Aden.

Aden bowed deeply and politely.

"A pleasure to meet you."

Berta burst into laughter.

The clear, hearty sound rang softly around the three of them, utterly out of place in the funeral hall.

"Just as I expected—a far cry from the rumors, a fine young man."

She looked genuinely pleased.

It had been ages since Ilrin had seen her grandmother this happy—perhaps the first time ever.

They'd never been particularly close to begin with.

Her grandmother had moved far away when Ilrin was little, without even saying where.

'Where are you going?'

Child Ilrin had asked, and Berta had replied in her typical fashion.

'You'll know if you need to.'

Even as a child, Ilrin had vaguely grasped her meaning.

If it was important, precognition would reveal it.

Like now.

This time, Grandmother had come to her.

Ilrin gazed quietly at the coffin.

The viscountess lay there more composed in death than in life, her silver hair oiled to a glossy sheen and cascading down.

Berta approached the coffin and looked down at her closed-eyed daughter.

"You saw it too, didn't you, Grandmother?"

Her mother's death.

Ilrin didn't press further.

Berta nodded.

"Yes. These things always come into clear view, unbidden."

She leaned down and kissed her daughter's forehead, now chilled.

Then she slowly turned away from the coffin.

"Lately, I'd only seen good things."

Berta's gaze flicked between Ilrin and Aden.

Ilrin blinked, not grasping at first, then covered her mouth with her hand.

No way... in the world, no way?

Berta laughed again.

"No need to look so shocked. It wasn't that embarrassing, dear."

The truth was already out.

Ilrin grabbed Aden's arm and buried her face in it.

Berta patted her shoulder.

"At least you won't be lonely."

She spoke as if consoling her.

"You've heard it plenty, but you really have married a fine man."

The black veil felt stifling; Berta shook her head slightly and lifted the fabric.

Aden's eyes met hers head-on.

Purple irises far deeper than Ilrin's regarded him with clear intent.

"The Winter Duke."

The words rang with certainty, soft but unmistakable.

In the noisy funeral hall, it should have been drowned out.

Yet Ijis and Etra reacted.

Ilrin, right there in front, missed it and tilted her veiled head, but the other three hadn't.

Their ears caught it clearly.

She was staring straight into Aden's eyes as she spoke.

Aden realized Berta knew not just of their marriage, but Biplten—and his true identity.

"……."

He glanced at Ilrin once, then held up an index finger to Berta.

Of course, he pressed it to his lips in a polite gesture, bowing gracefully all the while.

A courteous request to keep it secret—one that bordered on endearing.

"No."

Berta faltered at her new grandson-in-law's sudden charm offensive.

She let out an incredulous laugh, then turned to Ilrin.

"You've married a sly one."

Despite the words, her face beamed.

Berta looked at Ilrin with feigned concern.

"He doesn't pull that on everyone else, does he?"

"No way."

Ilrin shook her head.

You've already seen it all through dreams, yet you tease.

Even after so long apart, her grandmother felt closer than ever in this moment.

Aden, meanwhile, was deadly serious.

"Absolutely not."

His stern expression was far more fitting of the Winter Duke.

Berta burst out laughing.

"That icy look—your nickname's well-earned."

Aden found himself thinking, uncharacteristically, that he needed to tread carefully around Ilrin's maternal family.

It wasn't hostile wariness.

He'd gladly yield to Ilrin a thousand times.

He'd pave a path of flowers beneath her feet if only she'd walk atop him.

But not before others.

Even family were still others.

He had no desire to always be the one yielding.

He needed to be the unshakeable pillar Ilrin could always lean on.

"……."

In that sense, her maternal side—especially Berta before him—was no pushover.

How could he possibly overcome someone who pierced through everything with her precognitive sight?

"Your grief must weigh heavily on you, Lady Arlen."

Someone approached their group then.

Ilrin vaguely recalled passing her once and noting her face.

Ah, the daughter of Baron Beteen.

Fortunately, Ilrin's sharp mind supplied the name at once.

Berta swiftly lowered her veil, concealing her face once more.

Aden merely stood guard behind Ilrin.

Unknown adversary, after all.

Ijis and Etra eyed the daughter of Baron Beteen warily.

She showed no sign of hostility, let alone combat prowess.

So the pair naturally allowed her to pass up to Ilrin.

Still, they positioned themselves precisely in her blind spots.

"Thank you for your concern."

Ilrin's expression was hidden behind the dark veil.

But she observed full etiquette in her thanks.

Just then, the daughter of Baron Beteen's gaze darted abruptly to Aden, standing behind her.

"And this gentleman is...?"