MTO C32

Chapter 32

Perhaps this man only wished to pretend at being a Saint now that the title had been given to him. Kaidan could already detect the cracks.

Even from the very first report, there had been hints of deception. David had written that on the first day, Michel had still reached instinctively for the whip—unable to rid himself of old habits. No matter how he polished his manner and altered his speech, the stench of corruption could not so easily be scrubbed away. Inevitably, given time, his nature would reveal itself.

As if to prove Kaidan right, the second letter had followed swiftly after the first. Written in hastier, harsher strokes, it trembled with David’s agitation:

“Saint Michel carries a debt of thirty thousand habits. I failed to uncover this at first. Forgive my poor investigation—it is my fault.”

David, to his credit, did not excuse Michel—nor did he outright condemn him. Kaidan thought no apology was needed at all. The truth was plain: belated though it was, David had unveiled the depraved dealings of that sordid orphanage headmaster.

So that was why Michel had been bumbling about like an idiot—it was desperation. He had been cornered, crushed beneath a burden so immense that death might have seemed the only option.

And yet, miraculously, he did not die. He returned. The sly man seized that chance as only the cunning could: claiming all memory lost, behaving now as if he had been transformed into a paragon of goodness.

Why? Because money. Enormous sums were needed.

Michel aimed to counterfeit sainthood to gather pity and charity. He could not settle for deceiving commoners—no, he needed even the Duke of Eglence deceived. Only then would the coffers open to him.

For the moment, Kaidan’s hands were tied. Whether he despised it or not, Michel had been proclaimed a Saint. For the sake of appearances, Kaidan was compelled to guard him from scandal, even to rescue him from his debt. Indeed, had Michel not played the fool and faked amnesia, Kaidan might have cleared his obligations outright.

But the man had feigned ignorance; he spun tales without changing face, while calculating not for a quick favor but for lasting advantage. Safer, after all, to become a “true saint” and command reverence everywhere than to wrangle as a fraud in negotiation.

Perhaps Michel even suspected Kaidan might wish to dispose of him soon. He was cunning enough to perceive dangers others missed.

But Kaidan had no intention of dancing to his tune. To parley with men who never show their true face was the gravest risk of all. More than that, the mere thought of watching Michel’s feigned smiles and hollow piety made his blood boil.

So Kaidan had poured him wine, cup after cup, eager to watch him drown in hypocrisy until his nature slipped free of its mask.

“One drink.”

“Thank you, but I don’t… I don’t drink.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“Well… bad for my health… and, I’m a priest?”

How laughable that excuse. And still he yielded. Kaidan had to restrain the sneer pushing at his lips.

To Michel’s credit, the man held his liquor. Even after an entire bottle of brandy, he never faltered in performance. He even dared to extend blessings upon Kaidan, as if holy power were his to grant.

That night, Kaidan had washed his face raw, scrubbing at the places that hand had touched until crimson.

Scheming, calculating. A mask of piety hiding greedy hunger. Just like his father. Every inflection, every smile, soaked in contrivance.

And then… Michel had dared say to him—

“Brother Kaidan, you resemble your father.”

Fury crashed down like a hallucination. For once, Kaidan saw nothing but red. How many years had he striven to break free of that shadow?

And this rat of a man thought to flatter with such words?

That very night Kaidan had stormed to the library and torn from the walls the family portrait he had all but forgotten existed. He burned it in the flames. Even remembering it now ground his teeth.

Yet in calmer light—he understood. Michel had dropped the words as nothing more than desperate leverage. “The late Duke was a merciful man,” the orphanage headmaster had said before being struck by lightning. In other words: be merciful like your father, open your purse.

And David’s reports confirmed: creditors had indeed come even to the orphanage’s door. Michel’s calm mask hid a chest in ashes. It was desperation that had led him to grasp at Kaidan’s father’s shadow.

Always and ever—it came back to money.

Kaidan would tolerate him for a while longer. Michel was still a convenient piece in the larger game. But if Michel thought he could weave his false miracle forever, Kaidan would cut the string without remorse. To bear inconvenience was easier than to choke on hypocrisy.

So unless Michel came clean with his own mouth, he would find no helping hand from Kaidan.

Not in this lifetime. Nor in any other.

The letter crumpled into a ball in Kaidan’s fist. He tossed it into the hearth and watched flames reduce it to ash.

The night slipped away—the dawn of the Relief Festival broke anew.

“Is everything packed?”

“Yes, my lord. Everything prepared. You can depart at once.”

Walking Eglence Castle with his chief steward Lawrence, Kaidan inspected preparations for the day. For today held significance beyond the norm.

It was Kaidan’s first public appearance before the people of Valois since inheriting the Dukedom.

And the hearts of those people leaned not toward him.

The late Duke had cared nothing for his fief. To him, his folk were lazy, pitiful vermin to be beaten down and drained for taxes, fattening his storehouses. Many had fled, abandoning their homes at the cost of exile. Those who remained suffered grinding labor, empty stomachs, wretched despair.

When Kaidan returned from his years of wandering and wars to take up his title, he was appalled. He had seen shattered villages before—but Valois was as ruined as any battlefield.

So his very first edicts had been to shut down the ducal luxuries, to redirect every coin into repairing lives. He worked day and night. But what his father had destroyed over decades could not be reborn overnight.

Above all, the hearts of his people—their trust—could not be mended quickly.

There was no hero anymore. The father had been a tyrant. The son had abandoned them once, fleeing instead of fighting. And now he returned only to claim the title. How could they believe him any different?

But Kaidan would show them. He refused to be that same man.

And in that struggle, the “Saint” was convenient theater. If the people saw a chosen of God standing among them, they would believe heaven watched Valois again. And perhaps, by association, they would soften toward House Eglence, whose courtyard had birthed him.

The festival could not fail.

“The Saint…” Kaidan began, then halted. From the stairwell below came the sound of women’s chatter and laughter.

He stopped.

For Eglence Castle, grand seat of the north, had always been silent as a tomb. That was his father’s legacy too—the staff had long since learned that silence was the only shield against random wrath.

Yet in recent days, strangely… it was noisier. Merely one new presence, and already the mood had shifted.

Kaidan descended quietly. He saw a cluster of handmaids gossiping, faces alight. Women who never dared raise eyes to him before.

“What is this ruckus?!”

Lawrence, mistaking his silence, stormed forward to chide them. The women froze pale, like sheep before the butcher.

Kaidan stepped in.

“Enough.”

The steward fell silent. But the maids shrank like prisoners, trembling as if Kaidan’s hand might reach for his blade.

He opened his mouth to ease them—but closed it again. He knew not what words to offer, not without making it worse.

Commanding, threatening, ordering—this he had mastered. Consolation for the meek? He had no gift there. To cut down raging beasts on the field was far easier to him than to soothe frightened hearts of the living.