MTO C33

Chapter 33

Lawrence bowed his head in shame.

“It is my failure of instruction, my lord. I will retrain them from the very beginning.”

“Forget it.”

Kaidan was about to leave. His presence only ever froze people with fear anyway. But then he noticed what the maids held in their hands.

Thin wooden skewers, pierced with small pieces of fruit. Something glazed over them, giving off a glossy brown sheen—almost gemlike, less food than ornament.

Every maid had one. The sight struck Kaidan with an ominous premonition.

“What is that?”

He indicated the skewers with a glance. The foremost maid gasped.

“T-this was given to us by the Saint…”

He needed hear no more. Kaidan pushed past the servants immediately, setting out to find Michel. He was already beginning to wonder if today’s relief festival needed to be canceled entirely.

Tracking Michel wasn’t hard. Skewers appeared everywhere—each room marked by that cloying trail. All Kaidan had to do was follow the illicit fruit candy to its source.

Servants smiled as they ate them, but at the Duke’s approach turned white and bowed, trembling, hiding the skewers behind their backs. Each repetition deepened Kaidan’s sour mood.

And at last he reached a hallway outside the kitchens.

“Hey, no cutting in line!”

“I’ve been waiting over an hour!”

The corridor was packed—servants, knights, gardeners, stablehands. Everyone in the castle seemed gathered, jostling in eager lines. No one visibly led, yet anyone daring to skip ahead met instant jeers.

Faces glowed not with boredom but anticipation. Sweet, roasted scents saturated the air until Kaidan’s head throbbed.

Lawrence, panting from trying to keep up, saw the chaos and cried out in horror.

“What in heaven’s name is this?!”

“Ah—Your Grace!”

A servant near the back noticed Kaidan, yelping. At once the laughter and chatter died dead.

Kaidan gazed upon them—all those once noisy, gleeful faces now clam‑shut and wide‑eyed with dread.

It reminded him of yesterday’s incident in the training yard. When boisterous voices had also frozen at his arrival.

He felt like a trespasser in his own castle—Duke of Eglence, owner of every stone, yet unwanted.

Even when he strode to the front, no steward nor soldier raised voice to restore order—all cowed silent by his mere presence.

Inside the kitchen, heat blasted out. Unaware the Duke had come, everyone worked furiously.

Cooks’ knives blurred, slicing fruit, sliding pieces onto sticks. Fresh skewers plunged into a bubbling cauldron.

Slender pale hands dipped and retrieved them, coating the fruit in amber gloss. Dozens gleamed on drying racks.

Amid the chefs bustled a gray‑haired man, thin of build. He darted nimbly, seizing skewers and handing them out.

“Next, please!—oh?”

His purple eyes met Kaidan’s. Michel froze, both hands full of candied fruit sticks, hair swept back with sweat, shirt unbuttoned two holes, an apron of questionable cleanliness tied firmly around him. Nothing about him looked remotely like a Saint.

Kaidan scowled. The already suffocating smell was stronger at Michel’s approach.

In that moment, Michel’s violet eyes sparkled like the candied fruit themselves.

“Brother Kaidan! Perfect timing! Here, take one.”

Before he could refuse, Kaidan found himself holding a skewer. What seemed sizable in Michel’s grasp looked like a toothpick in Kaidan’s.

…Malt syrup.

The stench’s identity finally clicked. Not sugar, but boiling malt syrup. That glaze had produced the shining effect.

Knowing this did little to quench the boil in Kaidan’s chest. Was he not satisfied with parading around as a knight? Now he fancied himself a cook too?

Kaidan longed to seize him by the collar and drag him bodily away. Only discipline—and the many eyes watching—held him back. However furious he was, before the household of Eglence he must still treat this man as a “Saint.”

“…What exactly are you doing here?”

All his patience funneled into those measured words. But his grim expression gave him away.

Thankfully—or infuriatingly—Michel noticed nothing.

“I made snacks! Valois apples are more tart than sweet, you know. Traditionally the recipe is boiled sugar, but since sugar is no longer imported here…”

Indeed: sugar had vanished as a luxury from his kitchens long ago. But what had that to do with the Saint cooking like a peasant?

“So I used malt syrup instead. And everyone seems to love them.”

Michel glanced at the chefs for confirmation. But they cowered, hurriedly hiding half‑cut apples under counters rather than meet Kaidan’s eyes.

“…Anyway! Brother Kaidan, taste one. That one—it’s my apology.”

Michel gazed at the skewer in Kaidan’s hand with deadly solemnity. Kaidan almost laughed in disbelief. An apology? And yet he claimed ownership of fruit already rightful Duke’s—everything in Eglence Castle was his.

“Your effort is noted, but it’s time you dressed properly. New garments await for the festival.”

Now was not the moment to bicker like children. Whatever it took, Michel had to at least look like a Saint. So Kaidan ordered Lawrence to handle him and turned away.

Disappointed at rejection, Michel visibly deflated. Not Kaidan’s concern. He pivoted sharply, thinking if he lingered he might truly lose control.

“Don’t coat them too thickly! Thinly—thinly! And remember to brush your teeth afterwards!”

Michel’s voice rang cheerfully after him, already recovered, still joking with the staff who, somehow, had grown fond of him in mere three days.

Outside, the long line had miraculously vanished. The halls again stood empty. Kaidan left the castle entirely.

It was only as he raised his hand to beckon a passing worker that he noticed—he still carried the stick. Sunlight made the glistening fruit shine ever brighter. Thinking of syrup nauseated him. He loathed sweets.

With no hesitation, Kaidan flung the skewer away.

“What… who is this?!”

Commotion crackled in the courtyard. Checking supplies with porters, Kaidan turned—and froze. Michel emerged down the castle’s central staircase.

He was clothed now in a robe as white as milk, a silver‑fur cloak draped upon it. Gold‑embroidered patterns shimmered. It was, without question, the most expensive order Kaidan had paid for that month.

Ordinary priests wore black or grey. Only the Pope, and a Saint, could don white.

Knights halted their tasks, surrounding him in awe.

“I truly thought an angel was descending from heaven itself!”

“Your Grace, it suits you perfectly. Who could think this is the same man we saw in the training yard yesterday?”

“…Ha, ha.”

Michel gave a weak smile, clearly uncomfortable in the heavy finery. He hitched up a great fold of the hem, lest it drag in dust. White slender shins bared against the cold made Kaidan’s vision swim.

“Saint.”

At his approach, the circle of knights split. Michel beamed. Cloak softly glowing in morning light, he looked brighter than ever.

“Brother Kaidan, thank you for the new clothes. But… I think they’re too big. The fabric keeps dragging on the ground.”

Of course it did—such robes were meant to be dramatic, to proclaim grandeur. Michel knew this. He was simply playing innocent again.

“The weather is cold. Please, into the carriage now.”

Kaidan cut him short. He could not stand more of these feigned words. Practically shoving him inside, Kaidan barked:

“Depart.”

At his command, the knights moved as one. Climbing in after, Kaidan shut the carriage door himself.