MTO C34

Chapter 34

Inside the carriage, Michel was struggling mightily to keep the hem of his robe hitched up out of the way. Kaidan, fuming to his very scalp, yanked it down with rough force.

“Ah!”

“Once we arrive in the square you will not lay a hand on your robes again. Surely you know they are meant to trail on the ground?”

“…What? But then they’ll get dirty.”

Michel answered as if Kaidan had said something nonsensical. For a moment, even Kaidan had no reply. Truth be told, when he himself first received such ceremonial attire he too had thought it impractical, cumbersome, nothing but decoration.

“Well, at least they’ll keep me warm enough not to catch a cold.”

Even without Kaidan’s answer, Michel quickly decided upon the robe’s “usefulness.” Stroking the fur cloak draped on his shoulders, he began humming cheerfully. Pale lips curved into a long, content arc.

Kaidan, in contrast, only looked at him with profound displeasure.

What exactly is he playing at?

Just this dawn Kaidan had been sure he had uncovered every last scheme of the orphan‑master, but the more he saw of him the less certain he become—something still eluded him.

Think of it: if Michel’s true aim was to exploit his sainthood and drain the Eglence treasury dry, then all he need do was treat the Duke meekly, flatter his moods, and behave with dignified wisdom like any other famous saint in history.

Instead, over these past days Michel acted like a man deliberately contriving to irritate him—half‑trained knight, fumbling cook, or simpleton without a thought in his head.

And stranger still—others liked him for it. David, the knights, even the castle servants—all relaxed, laughing, amiably circling around him.

Kaidan no longer understood what was happening in his own household. At times it felt as if the whole world were conspiring to make a fool of him.

“…What now?”

Michel, catching Kaidan’s steady glare, blinked and stiffened, lifting a fist ever so slightly as if prepared to strike back in defense. Unexpectedly quick—that, at least, was a surprising trait.

A rat, when cornered, could bite.

Kaidan flicked his brows as if to dismiss it all.

“You’ve memorized the prayer, haven’t you?”

“Wh-what? Ah, yes, yes of course. Wow, what a fine looking tree out there—ha, ha, ha…”

The awkward deflection was painfully obvious. Suspicious, yes—but Kaidan pressed no further. Let the fool prattle on. In time his secrets would spill of their own accord. Michel must believe right now that his lies would fool everyone. But he would not fool Kaidan.

Kaidan had spent long years honing the eyes to distinguish truth from falsehood. Even should Michel equal the greatest actor in three continents, Kaidan would read the lie the moment it touched his lips.

From early morning the town square was already swelling with humanity—not a sight one usually saw in the dead of winter. The townsfolk of Valois stamped their feet against the biting wind yet stayed fixed in place by tense expectation.

“What could they be handing out? My grain jars are already empty since yesterday.”

“Bah, if we get even a bowl of oat gruel, it’ll be fortune enough.”

“But this is a new lord’s festival. Haven’t the taxes been much lighter since he came?”

“Hmph. He’s still his father’s son. Have you learned nothing?”

It had been decades since the ducal storehouses last opened to the public. Naturally, the announcement of relief touched both excitement and suspicion. How many promises had collapsed into betrayal before?

And this new lord—they knew him only as the son of that iron‑fisted tyrant. He had lived far from the North for long years, making him half a stranger in his own land. How could one like that care for northern commoners’ lives? More than that—rumor painted him a war‑mad butcher without blood nor tears. Some citizens had celebrated his father’s death only to lose sleep again, plagued by whispers that the son was worse. Some even prepared to flee Valois in dread of fresh storms of cruelty.

But then strange changes came. Taxes lightened, once unbearable, now feather‑soft. The streets grew safer at last.

And in that unfamiliar improvement, the people found not joy but new fear. If he returned so much stolen, what then would he demand in price?

Still—even scorched fields sprout tender shoots in spring.

“If it’s only gruel, why did you bother coming?”

“Ah, do you think I came to beg? No. If he dares behave like his father, I came to shout back to his face!”

“Hah! Big words, when you barely dare piss in sight of the castle.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Absent from the square, even a duke was fodder for mockery. Once they had feared to whisper his very name—yet here they spoke freely of the young Eglence Duke as common gossip.

“But tell me—is it true that the orphanage head became a Saint?”

“Impossible. Must merely be some man of the same name.”

“Yet Jack swore the fellow had become completely different. There are eyewitnesses who say they saw him fly!”

“You’re a fool to believe drunkards’ fancies.”

The people had not come merely for food; they came to see the Saint—said to have been born under their same sky.

When first the notice was pinned on the square’s board, its golden letters blazing under the Eglence seal, shock had stormed the town. The name matched that of the notorious orphanage head. Coupled with tavern rumors of him flying through the heavens, it could no longer be laughed off. Old saintly tales too often spoke of sky‑borne miracles.

Still, it was hard to reconcile the words “Saint” with that man: a priest hopelessly drunk, a gambler reviled, who beat hapless children. Valois orphans looked pitiable as mange‑mutts, and parents scolded wayward sons with threats to send them to that place.

So then—was he truly chosen? Or was some new holy man, merely sharing his name, the one born instead?

“Look! The Eglence Knights are here!”

Heads craned as a carriage bearing the golden eagle of Eglence rolled in, banners snapping.

“What will he look like, this new lord? What of the ‘saint’?” No breath moved save craning necks.

At last the carriage door opened.

Gasps.

Some staggered back. Could it be possible? Before their eyes stood the spitting image of the late Duke—alive, walking, mighty. Had he returned from death to torment them anew?

But no—this was something stranger.

Where disease had wasted the old tyrant, this man was young vigor personified—a phoenix echo of the former in his prime. His gaze, sharp as the black eagle of his house, his build armored like an impregnable fortress, his face handsomely wrought yet cold as carved steel. No mercy could ever be expected of such an image.

The people’s muttered unease thickened—until the second figure emerged.

The Saint.

“By the heavens—it is Michel!”

The name spread at once like flame through dry grass. The orphanage master himself—yet transformed.

He did not wear his hateful black cassock now. He stepped down robed in resplendent white cloth rare beyond noble circles. Gold embroidery shimmered across hems. Over his shoulders a cloak of silver fur glowed soft as warmth itself, banishing the cold by sight alone.

His gray hair, once dull, now shone like threads of silver. His violet eyes caught the winter light with shifting hues, lips crimsoned like blooming roses.

It was no bitter priest nor beggar who appeared.

But rather—the very image of an angel descended from heaven.