"I should send a letter to the royal family."
The words left the Duke’s mouth as more than a passing thought.
They were a decision.
The timing, at least, was ideal.
Soon, the capital would be flooded with noble youths coming of age—sons and daughters of powerful houses gathering under the pretense of ceremony, education, and polite introductions. In truth, it was a breeding ground for alliances, rivalries, and future power struggles.
A stage.
And like it or not, his daughter would be stepping onto it.
"I’ll entrust the letter to Alice," the Duke murmured, already envisioning the route south. "She’ll be heading to the central region in a few days anyway."
Then his expression darkened slightly.
"...The problem is the other side."
Alice—Alice Draken.
Even as her father, he had to admit it.
She was far closer to a knight than a noble.
No—closer than most knights.
He had once believed it was merely a phase. That with time, formal education, exposure to court life, and gentle correction, she would soften into a proper noble lady.
Instead, the opposite had happened.
She had sharpened.
Her posture, her words, her conduct—every inch of her screamed ideal knight.
Righteous. Upright. Incorruptible.
Almost frighteningly so.
The Duke exhaled slowly.
"If I searched the oldest records..." he muttered, "I doubt I’d find many who embody the concept of a ’true knight’ as completely as Luciana does."
And as a father—
He was proud.
Genuinely so.
There was no false modesty in admitting that his daughter had grown into someone worthy of admiration. Someone soldiers respected without fear, and commoners trusted without hesitation.
But pride alone could not erase his unease.
’This cannot continue.’
The Duke turned toward the window, gazing out at the snow-dusted training grounds below. Knights were sparring even now, steel clashing in steady rhythms.
Alice belonged there.
Too much.
And that was the problem.
Politics was not fought with swords.
Could Alice—so earnest, so straightforward, so painfully honest—survive the poisonous atmosphere of the central region?
The capital was a nest of smiling vipers.
Nobles who spoke in riddles, who hid daggers behind laughter, who could destroy a household without ever raising their voice.
Especially the entrenched aristocracy—families whose influence had festered in the capital for generations.
Could someone like her endure that?
’She must not only endure,’ the Duke corrected himself grimly.
’She must dominate.’
It wasn’t enough for Alice to simply pass through the capital unscathed.
She had to carve out prestige befitting the Draken name.
No—more than that.
She needed connections. Influence. A place at the center of the empire’s future.
And someday—
She needed to live happily.
Not as a sword forever drawn.
Not as a shield until she broke.
But as a woman.
As a mother of the empire.
The thought made his chest tighten.
"...Do you not even know the most basic courtesy expected of nobility?" the Duke muttered, mimicking a cold, clipped tone. "Get lost. There’s nothing more to say."
In his mind, the image was vivid.
Alice standing tall in the middle of a lavish ballroom.
Nobles recoiling as she dismissed their advances with a single sentence.
No hesitation. No compromise. No interest.
A single stroke—clean and final.
Efficient.
And utterly disastrous.
The Duke rubbed his temple.
"That child..." he sighed, equal parts exasperation and affection. "She’ll scare them all away."
A pause.
Then another thought surfaced.
’Perhaps... that isn’t entirely bad.’
If brute honesty wouldn’t work—
Then she would need something else.
Someone.
Someone who understood the darkness beneath polite smiles.
Someone who could navigate deceit, bargains, and hidden threats.
Someone who could stand beside her—not as a knight, but as a counterweight.
The Duke’s gaze drifted, unbidden, to the memory of a certain unconscious young man and a troublesome vampire bound by an impossible contract.
"...Trouble follows her like a curse," he murmured.
Her greatest weakness was not strength.
Nor arrogance.
Nor even her nature as a demon.
It was politics.
The Duke of Draken recognized it the moment Velra began speaking in earnest—when her words grew blunt, when her threats were too honest, when her truths came without the careful wrapping of half-lies and concessions.
Power, she had in excess.
But politics was not about power.
It was about push and pull.
About knowing when to advance, when to retreat, and—most importantly—when to let others believe they were the ones in control.
She had yet to learn that.
’She’s dangerous,’ the Duke thought, fingers steepled before his face.
’But predictable.’
That made her usable.
"I’ll warn Alice," he muttered to himself, rising from his chair. "But I should speak with Julies as well."
His thoughts drifted naturally to the boy.
Julies Evans.
A strange one.
Not cowed.
Not overeager.
Not intoxicated by recognition or frightened by authority.
The Duke remembered clearly how Julies had stood before him—injured, exhausted, and yet unwavering—speaking his mind without arrogance, without fear.
A boy who understood weight.
"That reminds me..." the Duke murmured.
"Alice Draken—the duchess—was mentioned."
Not in whispers.
Not in casual passing.
But openly.
Even before Count Frost.
That alone carried significance.
Whether Alice had intended to challenge his position outright or had merely maneuvered to defuse a crisis in the moment remained unclear. But intention mattered less than perception.
And perception was everything.
If that page—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, possessed of judgment rivaling even seasoned nobles—stood at Alice’s side...
"At the very least," the Duke said quietly, "she won’t be dismissed among her peers."
That was no small thing.
Central society was a battlefield without swords.
One misstep, and a noble’s reputation could be gutted beyond recovery.
But Alice would not walk into it alone.
Julies would be there.
The man was steady. Reliable.
A wall that refused to crack even under siege.
Any major crisis would stop at him.
And Alice herself—
As clever as the child was, as stubborn, as fierce—
this experience would not break her.
It would temper her.
A bitter medicine, perhaps, but a necessary one.
The Duke felt his shoulders ease, just slightly.
He turned back toward his desk.
The mountain of work awaiting him was merciless.
Arranging carriages.
Selecting which nobles would accompany Alice—and which would be conveniently excluded.
Drafting letters to the capital, each word measured, weighed, and sharpened like a blade.
Ink stained his fingers as he picked up the pen again, still faintly uncomfortable with it despite decades of rule.
"...Looks like today’s sword practice is canceled," he muttered.
A shame.
Steel was simpler than ink.
But this, too, was a battlefield.
And this time, the stakes were higher than territory or pride.
It was for his daughter’s successful debut into the heart of central society.
And for the continued peace of the North.
Duke Draken straightened in his chair, expression firm, resolve settled.
Awkward pen in hand, he began to write—
each stroke carving the future into being.