Chapter 1

　　Clifton Mayall de Greenfield’s life was, for all intents and purposes, perfect.

　　It began with his birth as the eldest son of the Grand Ducal Greenfield family, a house that had erected countless architectural marvels across the empire. It continued with his graduation at the top of his class from the Royal Military Academy and culminated in a great victory as deputy commander in the war against Palesword. His life was a locomotive on an untarnished track—smooth, straight, and unstoppable.

　　And today was the day he would mark the culmination of that perfect life.

　　As if to celebrate the Greenfield succession ceremony, the sky, which had been stubbornly overcast for days, had cleared to a brilliant, cloudless blue. His father, a soldier as renowned as Clifton himself, had been severely injured in a guerrilla campaign against Palesword and had died far too young. His mother, consumed by grief, had followed him only a few years later. In the wake of their deaths, the title of Grand Duke of Greenfield had remained vacant, bound by a will stipulating it must pass to the eldest son. His uncle had served as regent, but his role was temporary, merely holding the title for the young heir.

　　Clifton had waited for the day he would inherit the glorious family name, silently carrying out his duties. He had lived his life perfectly and nobly, so as not to bring the slightest stain upon the Greenfield name.

　　“Clifton, you have no idea how proud I am of you,” declared Margaret, his only living blood relative and older sister, as she fastidiously brushed a microscopic speck of dust from his shoulder. Her voice trembled with an emotion too vast to conceal, and the corners of her eyes grew red.

　　“It was the only outcome to be expected,” Clifton replied, his tone calm. The words were seemingly modest, but they held no trace of humility.

　　Margaret’s eyes widened.

　　“Don’t say such things. What in this world is ever truly a given? Even Father, in his grave, could not have predicted you would handle everything so flawlessly when he named you heir.”

　　She delicately dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. When she lowered the cloth, her gaze was filled with deep, profound joy. Today was, after all, a joyous day. It was the day her triumphant younger brother would inherit his title, bathed in the congratulations and envy of all. Had she not painstakingly tended the spring garden, where the ceremony would be held, for this very occasion? It was an event of such significance that even the Crown Prince, who was reportedly agonizing over how to replenish an insufficient treasury, had insisted on attending.

　　Margaret regarded the insignia pinned to her brother’s proud chest as a matter of course. As it should be, she thought. Whose succession ceremony is this, after all?

　　“Please see to the guests, Sister,” Clifton requested.

　　At his words, Margaret’s serene smile faltered as an unpleasant memory surfaced, and her brow furrowed.

　　“I didn’t want to bother you while you were so busy, but I took the liberty of not inviting anyone from Bettyhill this time. They are not people who belong in a place like this.”

　　The people of Bettyhill. The ones Margaret so disdained were the nouveau riche who had swiftly amassed fortunes when factories were built along the coast after the laying of the new railway. They had carved out a place for themselves in the upper echelons of society under the new moniker of “bourgeoisie.” Margaret scowled at the mere thought of them, her primary objection being that they undermined the dignity of the aristocracy.

　　In truth, her sensitivity was not unique. No aristocrat would deny that the bourgeoisie were blurring the sacred lines between the nobility and the common folk.

　　Clifton, fastening the button on his tightly fitted cuff, let her words pass without comment. He, too, defined them as nothing more than base, grasping social climbers. His gaze drifted to the window. The grounds were gradually filling with guests, their footsteps moving ceaselessly across the manicured lawn.

　　Margaret sighed, her eyes following his.

　　“Truthfully, this is no time to worry about the bourgeoisie. Soon, that child will be expected to manage all these grand events, and she is still clumsy at the simple act of pouring tea…”

　　At the words “that child,” a silent crack formed in Clifton’s impeccably composed expression. The person Margaret referred to was his fiancée, Merdi, the sole flaw in his otherwise perfect existence.

　　Merdi was the princess of a defeated nation. Her kingdom, Belloc, was rich in resources but slow to develop, making it a target for several neighboring countries. Amidst a tense standoff with the enemy nation of Palesword over Belloc, the Elsmere soldiers, led by Clifton, had finally conquered the kingdom.

　　But the sun of victory cast a new shadow. In a global political climate that favored peace and diplomacy, the war waged by Elsmere was met with sharp criticism. Though this was anticipated, the hostile atmosphere refused to dissipate. In response, the Emperor of Elsmere made a momentous decision, commanding his beloved nephew to marry the princess of the conquered nation.

　　In the end, the burden of the war fell squarely on Clifton’s shoulders.

　　Nevertheless, he tried not to think ill of it. Even as he scorned the bourgeoisie hunched over their ledgers, he acknowledged that the world was, to some extent, changing. Ultimately, it was honor that sustained the aristocracy, a concept that could also be called public sentiment. Noblesse oblige. Even if his inadequate fiancée was a blemish on his perfect life, he would accept it as the duty of a nobleman.

　　“Do you know her fingers are still covered in scars?” Margaret continued, her voice laced with disdain. “I have taught her embroidery for five years, and she shows no improvement whatsoever. As a result, she is the only one who cannot remove her gloves, even in the sweltering heat of summer.”

　　She clicked her tongue at the thought of Merdi. It had been five years since Merdi had come to Elsmere for her education under the guise of “bridal lessons.” But that clumsy girl showed no signs of becoming a lady. Her only asset was a pretty face, and she couldn’t even use that properly, choosing instead to hide in her bedroom with books or tend to the sheep in the stables on her days off.

　　“It is a disloyal thing to say,” Margaret lamented, fanning herself, “but I pray that realization dawns on His Majesty and he annuls this engagement. Once the succession ceremony is over, we must begin preparing for the wedding, and the mere thought of it makes my eyes fly open at night.”

　　Clifton maintained a heavy silence. He could scoff at the mention of the bourgeoisie, but Merdi was someone he couldn’t so easily dismiss. When he thought of his fiancée, who had lived a life so completely alien to his own, a vexing headache would begin to throb, making it impossible for him to respond with his usual indifference.

　　Merdi Langlen. A blemish on his pristine reputation. Her very existence was a fissure in the solid road of his life, a fissure that not even the armed soldiers of an enemy nation had managed to create.

　　“All the guests have arrived,” a maid announced with a cautious knock.

　　At the sound, his momentarily sharp gaze softened. Clifton gently placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder, his voice placating.

　　“It is not polite to keep our guests waiting.”

　　Right. Margaret ceased her sighing and led the way out of the mansion, with Clifton following close behind. As he walked, the brilliant sunlight cascaded over his golden hair, scattering into a beautiful, radiant light.

　　The succession ceremony was perfect, unfolding just as he had expected. The smiling guests, the spring leaves swaying under the azure sky, even the Crown Prince who had prepared a personal congratulatory speech, everything was flawless.

　　Clifton had already erased the thought of his fiancée, which had been a dull, spreading ache in the back of his mind. The sight of her hesitantly tugging at his sleeve before he ascended the dais had briefly unsettled him, but…

　　“I have something to tell you after the ceremony…”

　　Clifton knew Merdi harbored feelings for him. Anyone could see it in the shy blush that colored her cheeks. But for some reason, that same girl had approached him first, her eyes grave, to request a private conversation. As he drifted deeper into thought, Clifton realized his public smile was faltering and quickly composed his expression. He could not afford a single misstep at his own succession ceremony, especially not because of a girl like her. Today, of all days, had to be perfect.

　　He forced the bothersome image from his mind and focused on the ceremony.

　　The applause went on for a long time. The blue sky slowly yielded to the hues of sunset, and the empty garden, now cleared of guests, was bathed in crimson light. Margaret, having seen off the last guest, had long since disappeared on the arm of a maid, complaining of a headache from the day’s tension.

　　Clifton was tired as well. Due to the event’s significance, a large number of guests attended, and the stream of congratulations was endless. Even Clifton, who was an expert at maintaining a smile, found himself unconsciously fiddling with the buttons of his cuffs—a nervous habit that surfaced only when he was truly fatigued.

　　Just as he was about to head to his bedroom to rest, he remembered his duties were not over yet. He still had to meet his fiancée, the one who had something to say. A bothersome task to face in his exhausted state. He undid the top button of his dress shirt, freeing his throat from its starched prison. She had vanished before the celebratory banquet had even concluded, but finding her wouldn’t be difficult; her haunts were few and predictable.

　　As Clifton prepared to set off, he spotted her standing at the end of a garden path. When their eyes met, she flinched instinctively, but this time, Clifton strode toward her. As he loomed over her, Merdi’s head tilted up, her gaze traveling up his frame, a good head taller than her own.

　　“Say it,” he commanded. “Whatever it is you have to say.”

　　His voice was dry, devoid of warmth. It was a simple prompt, but a myriad of emotions—hesitation, tension, anxiety, impatience—flickered across her face before she could answer. Finally, swallowing a sigh, she opened her mouth.

　　“Major Greenfield… no, it’s Your Grace now… There is something I must tell you.”

　　Yes, that’s why you requested this conversation. Clifton’s eyes swept over his fiancée as she stated the obvious. Her face was still young and gentle, almost belying her age, but she looked different today. Perhaps it was the uncharacteristic intensity in her eyes, or the fact that her gaze, which usually darted away from his, no longer held a trace of shyness.

　　Whatever it was, it was not a pleasant feeling. It was an anxiety born of the unknown. He wanted this conversation over before it could stain a day that shone with the honor he had so carefully built. Before some unforeseen event could mar this perfect day.

　　“I…” she began.

　　But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than his fiancée shook the very ground beneath his feet.

　　“…I wish to annul our engagement, Your Grace.”

　　A single strand of Clifton’s neatly combed hair came loose in the faint breeze.

　　Huh.

　　And just like that, his perfect day was ruined.