AceGreen
patreon
TRAS Chapter 118: The Gren Estate
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 14:03:01 +0000 UTC“This still strikes me as dubious,” Camille said, as she led Ailn—carrying Bea—through the Gren estate’s terraced pathways and flowering archways. “However, for all your faults as a duke, I have yet to know you to be a liar.”
Then, under her breath, she added, "…Discounting your unexplained absence this morning, of course.”
“Can I take that as you joining our mission to save Sigurd’s life?” Ailn asked.
“You can take it as a knight following her liege’s orders,” Camille said flatly. “I am escorting you to my father, as you asked.”
Ailn had come to the Gren estate to learn more about what happened to the Blancs.
Camille herself wouldn’t know any more than Ailn. She was a little too young to have been part of that incident—twelve, not even a squire in the Azure Knights. The other knights, meanwhile… well, Ailn couldn’t exactly waltz into the Great Hall right now and ask them.
That’s why Ailn decided to pay a visit to Camille’s father: Viscount Horace Gren. On account of owning numerous adamantine mines, he was a key figure in The Miners’ Guild—and, through his marriage to Ennieux, a strong ally of Varant. He was even House ark-Chelon’s close confidante, despite backing Calum Trading House’s rival guild.
If there really were secret Blanc survivors from seven years ago, it would be stranger if Horace didn’t know.
The Gren estate was rather green compared to most of Calum. Perched atop a hill, its manor overlooked a series of terraced gardens which climbed the slope; the absence of gates spoke to the faith Calum’s nobles had in the security of their city.
Perhaps sick of all the city’s stone and metal, Viscount Horace Gren seemed to have filled every inch of his home with flowers—of more than one kind. Even at a glance, Ailn noticed that there were quite a few beautiful maids, all engaged in some form of gardening, and all of whom seemed to perk up at the sight of Camille.
“Lady Gren!” A maid approached from around the corner of a perfectly manicured hedge, gliding across the marble terrace with a winsome smile that bloomed a touch too wide. “We had heard you would be visiting again this day. Oh, milord will be so pleased!”
Her eyes crinkled with unsettling familiarity. “I have taken the liberty of refreshing your chambers, Lady Gren. I do hope you’ll find comfort, however brief your stay, and so I have adorned the manor with goldenvows—”
“...My favorite flower,” Camille said uncomfortably. “If I recall correctly, you only began to work here a few years ago, Miss Garland?”
“Oh, none of the maids could have missed your father’s doting words. I daresay we know your tastes as well as kin!” the maid explained breathlessly, seemingly unaware of how creepy she sounded.
As if on cue, all the maids trimming hedges, watering flower beds, arranging bouquets—or even mixing compost—seemed to slow their activities, and tilt their ears.
“We will not be staying the night,” Camille said, managing a polite smile. “And for many years now I have found the scent of goldenvows unbearably strong.”
The maid visibly deflated. Then, glancing at Ailn as an afterthought, she barely mustered a dejected “Ah, forgive my rudeness Duke eum-Creid,” before shambling away.
“Looks like the young mistress is quite popular back home,” Ailn said, casting Camille a sidelong glance.
“It is not me they hope to impress,” Camille muttered, irritation creeping into her voice despite her perfectly kept smile.
A number of maids tried to flatter Camille, eager to attend to her needs—tea, dinner, rooms to rest, or even just a cookie for Bea.
But Camille always dismissed them somewhat stiffly, no matter their petal-sweet chatter and daisy-bright grins. The more the maids approached, the steelier Camille’s smile become. By the time they all reached the manor proper, the slim curve of Camille’s lips had sharpened into the edge of a shear, all too ready to snap a stem.
“The next time the pretty ladies give food…” Bea tapped Camille’s pauldron. “Can we… say yes…? A-Aristurtle needs to eat…”
“Oh, I… Of course, I hadn’t even been thinking,” Camille’s smile faltered. “Next time—”
"She's a small child, Camille," a deep voice said, as Horace descended a curved stone staircase that wound down from an upper terrace. He was holding a plate of breads with cheese on top, drizzled with honey, and as he drew near he popped a piece into Bea's mouth. "You need to be more attentive. Who is she?"
“It—is a tale too elaborate for the time we have,” Camille said, hesitating a moment. She seemed a little confused by her father’s gentle display toward Bea.
Horace exhaled sharply, then turned to Ailn and gave a short bow. “Duke eum-Creid. An honor.”
“Call me Ailn,” Ailn said as Horace led them into the manor. “Horace, you’ve been a close ally of Varant for a long time—since my mother Celine was the head. We’re short on time, so I’ll cut to the chase.”
He handed the chronicle of ark-Chelon’s noble families to Horace, its pages open to the Blanc family tree. “Horace, as one of ark-Chelon’s most prominent nobles, can you tell me if any members of this family survived? We think one of them may be trying to kill Sigurd.”
___________________________
Theoretically, the echo of an animal’s roar across the way—rustling through the treeline, creeping out from the depths of a dark cave, crashing down from the sky—should inspire fear.
Yet as Kylian listened to Isolde’s repeated wrathful utterances into the echo stone, he wondered if this echo might simply reduce to a whimper.
“Listen carefully, Duke eum-Creid. You will answer me,” Isolde murmured into the turtle-shaped communication artifact. Perhaps unsure of how well her voice would carry, she leaned forward, her face hovering right next to the turtle’s mythril head—almost as if she expected the turtle itself to whisper back. “Meet me and I will cordially remind you of your place. But slight me further, and I will teach you what you are.”
Isolde let the silence linger. Typically this silence would have been heavy—would have left her prey suffocating under its weight, the very timbre of their breaths begging for release.
But of course, Ailn was not actually listening at the moment. He would get this message, presumably, within a quarter of an hour. Isolde’s jaw tightened.
Her successive use of the dragon’s roar certainly tampered with the minds of those in the Great Hall—sans her siblings—and yet the emotional and physiological effect had lost a little of its edge.
Still, it was like taking blows to the head. There was not a single soul in the Great Hall that didn’t resent Ailn at that moment.
“You’ve mistaken patience for weakness,” Isolde said quietly. The volume of her voice had almost dropped to an intimate whisper, the harmony underneath distorting into something inhuman. “You fancy yourself a titan. You are wild game, Ailn. You will learn. And you will submit. Or you will break.”
If the turtle were a real creature, then it surely would have submitted by now—withdrawn its head into its shell perhaps, and began to quiver. But alas, it was a thing of metal. It merely lay there, stoic and fearless.
After a few moments, Isolde released the dial, clearly dissatisfied.
“...Not quite the same, is it?” Ashton asked, dryly.
Severus just started laughing. And when Millie delicately fluttered her hand against his chest in mock reprimand, Isolde’s fury boiled all the worse.
Though Kylian couldn’t help but note, that anger seemed to fixate on the echo stone resting on the table—which meant, it was directed at Ailn.
If he were to be precise, it seemed as if Severus provoked a peculiar reaction in Isolde—as if his very presence were an insult to her innate sense of superiority. He was likely the only individual in the empire who could imagine himself her greater. Given his complete lack of success as a leader or statesman, his confidence was clearly completely unfounded. But perhaps that was what made it so acerbic to Isolde.
If the second princess’s calling were to assert herself as master, and educate her lessers, then that would make Severus the one dunce who simply couldn’t learn. Naturally immune to the dragon’s roar, and higher in line for the throne, what could Isolde do except murder him outright?
Rather, Kylian was amazed that she hadn’t already.
“Severus. Shut your mouth,” Isolde spat.
Amused, Severus simply acted as if he were the warden of his own words, ‘locking’ his mouth up with an invisible key. Millie, beside him, began to giggle.
That was curious in its own right. Peering closer, Kylian realized there was sweat upon her brow. There were layers to her act. Obviously none at the table believed her a true fool—but the nonchalance beneath was just as performative.
Whatever protection Severus afforded her wouldn’t prevent the toll of the dragon’s roar on her psyche. Yet Millie acted as unfazed as if she were among the imperial siblings—rather, she put tremendous effort into appearing so.
“Yes, well,” Ashton sighed, rising from the roundtable, his chair gliding back soundlessly and his demeanor once again unruffled. “If Sir Kylian shall truly act in Duke eum-Creid’s stead, then the time is ripe for him to state his terms—what Varant seeks to gain, and by what measure House eum-Creid will judge those who lay claim to The Dragon’s Promise.”
The energy in the hall had naturally shifted. Earlier, Ashton had endured the imperial siblings’ abuse in silence. Now, he took charge in a manner just as quiet, effortlessly grasping authority as if it had, by mere happenstance, drifted his way.
Evgeni was the swiftest to speak. “...Name Varant’s price, Sir Kylian. I assure you—of all my kin, I command the greatest means.”
“Deny me the ring and I shall make certain Varant suffers,” Isolde snapped. “I am being magnanimous when I offer coin to obtain what is my birthright.”
All eyes turned toward Severus. But he said nothing—shrugging with an indifferent smile.
“Severus!” Millie punched him on the shoulder and hissed. “Severus… say something before you lose your chance.”
“Millie, it’s rude to interrupt a show,” Severus laughed.
Both of his siblings stared at him incredulously. But with Severus content to smirk and say nothing of substance, the weight of the chamber shifted toward the knight who held temporary stewardship of The Dragon’s Promise.
“You’ve heard their offers,” Ashton said, clasping his hands. “Now let us hear Varant’s answer.”
“Varant is of the view that…” Kylian hesitated. “This negotiation is forfeit without the explicit sanction of Emperor Caecilius.”
No one spoke. The Great Hall itself seemed to stiffen with held breath.
___________________________
As Ailn and the others were led to the conservatory, his echo stone suddenly gave off a chime.
He gave Horace an apologetic glance—but the viscount was deep in thought, holding and staring at the chronicle even as he walked. The sight of the Blanc family tree had reduced him to silence, as if words spoken rashly would cause a reckoning.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Ailn considered whether he should take the message now or later.
“You gotta answer…” Bea said, her brow wrinkling as if she couldn’t understand why Ailn would be so rude. Then she pressed the button for him.
‘Listen carefully, Duke eum-Creid. You will answer me. Meet me and I will cordially remind you of your place. But slight me further, and I will teach you what you are.
You’ve mistaken patience for weakness. You fancy yourself a titan. You are wild game, Ailn. You will learn. And you will submit. Or you will break.’
“Uh… wow, how do you even respond to that?” Ailn wondered aloud. “Wait, Bea, don’t touch that! You’re gonna send a message!”
“When Cant… makes me stressed…” Bea spoke helpfully into the echo stone, even as Ailn gently, frantically pulled her paw off the dial. “It’s good to nap.”
He stopped her in time, right?
Whatever the case, they’d arrived at the conservatory, where a waiting maid held the door open.
“Thank you,” Horace said absentmindedly, offering her nothing more than a soft smile and nod.
A small gesture, but it was enough to bring a tint of red to the maid’s cheeks. If Horace noticed, though, he didn’t say anything.
After they’d made their way inside, the maid led them to a set of garden chairs with a matching table—all wrought iron, shaped with ornate floral motifs. The maid affectionately set snacks upon the table, prompting Camille to arch a brow.
“Jam tarts?” Camille uttered.
“Do you not enjoy these anymore?” Horace asked, tilting his head, momentarily interrupted from his thoughts.
“No, I…” Camille held her temple. Then, she simply courteously addressed the maid, “Thank you. It was very kind of you to prepare these.”
“Of course, Lady Gren, we’re well aware these were your favorite snacks as a chi—” the maid started, her voice unsettlingly motherly.
Ailn noted that she was roughly Camille’s age. He was starting to see why Camille hated her childhood home.
“Yes, as a child,” Camille interrupted. “Perhaps Bea will enjoy them.”
But Bea, sat in a garden chair large enough for herself and her stuffed friends, shook her head. She’d apparently learned her lesson. “Cant says… if everyone ate too much sugar… then society would collapse.”
She spoke grimly, and the way she stared at the maid setting the snacks almost seemed to suggest Bea found her at fault.
The maid seemed not to mind, however. And just before she departed, a piece of cloth began fluttering through the air, landing squarely a few feet before Horace.
“Oops! I seem to have dropped a handkerchief—” the maid said, poised to retrieve it in a matter that was rather suggestive.
Before she could, Camille loudly trudged over, boots clinking, kneeled to ground herself and handed the maid the napkin.
“Please. Leave us to our discourse,” Camille said. Her voice grew firm. “This matter is not for your ears. Go. Now.”
The maid paled and retreated, and through this entire interaction Horace hardly seemed to have noticed.
Finally, the viscount spoke.
“If I’m being honest, Ailn, I find it difficult to take you at your word. You claim a Blanc is attempting to murder your brother—yet you refuse to disclose the source of your information,” Horace said, sounding troubled. He hesitated. “And yet…”
Horace set the open book on the table. His grimace deepened, eyes shadowed with strain as he drew his finger along the bottom of the family tree. “I’ll reveal this truth to you, as you are Varant’s current duke—and rightfully privy. Sigurd spared the entire youngest generation of the Blancs.”
Astrid. Ciel. Therèze. Mirek. Gerhardt.
“A whole generation?” Ailn asked.
“Yes, as well as those spouses who lacked the divine blessing…” Horace said, pointing to two names on the line above. Godfrey, and then Edith.
Camille sucked in a sharp breath. “...What? I’ve never heard of this.”
Frankly, Ailn’s message from his future self had been too cryptic for him to place any real confidence in his interpretation. Going from a blank sheet of paper to accusing the Blancs of murdering Sigurd was a stretch, to say the least.
His only evidence that any of them even survived was Ciel’s use of the divine blessing—and even then, he couldn’t be certain the eum-Creids and the Blancs were truly the only families in the empire who possessed it.
But if there were this many members of the family left, then revenge really was a plausible motive.
“Papa… spared?” Bea asked softly, tilting her head. She looked troubled, as if she were on the verge of realization.
Ailn flinched.
“It means your father helped a lot of people live,” Camille said, kneeling down in front of Bea. She smiled softly, as she spoke the misleading but gentle truth. “These people are alive today because of him.”
Horace stared at Bea. The shock didn’t display on his face so much as it momentarily stilled his expression.
“Do you know their whereabouts, Horace? Anything about what happened to them after?” Ailn asked.
“I know Sigurd offered Varant’s support for all of them for quite some time,” Horace explained, unable to stop the slight tremble in his hand as it rested upon the book. “But most of them disappeared on their own terms.”
“Edith, Alaric’s wife, emerged from the ordeal a broken woman,” Horace continued. “Last I heard, she had set out for mer-Sereia.” Then he pointed to the name Godfrey. “Godfrey… was a failure of a merchant who’d managed to marry into the Blancs, only to find their coffers were emptier than his.”
His grimace deepened, and took on a note of sadness. “He and Marcella… had mutually tricked each other. There seemed to be little more than contempt between them. And yet…”
“They still had a child together,” Ailn said, noting the name “Ciel.” Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Bea, sat in the garden chair with her stuffed friends. She wasn’t old enough to read, was she?
“That’s right,” Horace said. “Godfrey vanished to God knows where—left the empire aboard a ship. His daughter continues to live under the auspices of Varant.”
Godfrey had up and left his daughter. Given everything else Ailn just heard about the man, that tracked.
“As far as I’m aware, Ciel still lives in V—”
“I’m actually not super interested in her,” Ailn said, trying to brush past it.
“Mama?” Bea perked up at the sound of her mother’s name.
But Ailn ignored her. If ever, now was probably the worst time for Bea to learn how her parents had met.
“...What?” Camille whispered.
Camille and Horace both, however, had not failed to take notice. The full weight of the situation—and the origin of the child sitting with her stuffed animals—was hitting them all at once. Yet they carried on as naturally as they could.
“Anyone else still supported by Varant?” Ailn asked.
“...Not quite,” Horace said, hesitantly. “One of the boys was—but now, he is quite independent.”
He drew a long breath, seeming to question the wisdom of revealing what he was about to.
“That boy, Mirek, was adopted into House ark-Chelon.”
Comments
Ace Green
thank you for always reading! :)
Arthefom
Thank you for the new chapter
