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TRAS Chapter 119: Polite Animals
🕑 Added 2025-06-10 16:00:06 +0000 UTCAiln’s mind blanked. Mirek was adopted into House ark-Chelon? Then that meant… He pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. “Mirek Blanc is Ashton?”
That was the last name he wanted to hear right now.
Ashton was a puzzle to Ailn—the annoying kind, and one he had zero interest in solving unless it became absolutely necessary.
Honestly, it would’ve been easier if the man were openly malicious. At least then Ailn would’ve had a clearer sense of the threat—and whether he was involved in the conspiracy against Sigurd.
“Bea, why don’t we have the maids show you flowers for a little while?” Ailn asked.
“Okay…” Bea said, glancing around the room. She seemed to sense that this was a conversation for adults.
Ailn momentarily accompanied Bea out of the conservatory. He should have done this earlier.
Camille, meanwhile, had also been dazed by the revelation.
“The future lord of ark-Chelon is a Blanc?” Camille finally uttered. “How could this slip past His Highness, Duke ark-Chelon? How could Varant possibly have allowed—”
“Mirek became Ashton ark-Chelon with Varant’s blessing,” Horace explained to his daughter. “Cassian adopted him, fully aware of his origins.”
He rested a hand on the open page of the book of lineages. “It was done quietly, but not ignorantly. Cassian needed an heir. He saw Mirek for what he was—a clever young man with political acumen, ambition, and no house of his own.”
“It is not this duchy I worry about, father,” Camille said, sounding frustrated. “If he was so talented, then all the more reason it was profoundly reckless of Varant to place him in power.”
“...You’re probably right,” Horace agreed. “But ultimately it was Sigurd’s decision. He believed in Mirek’s worth as a future duke and friend of Varant.”
“Why would Sigurd trust him?” Ailn asked, as he returned. “That’s what we’re confused about.”
“Well…” Horace paused thoughtfully. “At the end of the day, that’s the foundation of politics, isn’t it? Trust. Mirek is your age. Perhaps that influenced Sigurd.”
“Was it not sufficient that…” Camille trailed off. She looked uncomfortable as she broke into a mutter. “Nevermind. It is a foolish question. ”
“Speak your mind, Camile,” Horace said. “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.”
Ailn tilted his head. He stayed silent, watching father and daughter interact, but couldn’t help fiddling with his wrist.
The sentiment was common enough, but… ‘No such thing as a stupid question’ was a pretty specific phrasing. It was a borderline idiom.
His wrist fiddling stopped. There was a more immediate issue right now. And putting in a half-baked effort had gotten him burned just a couple of days ago.
Horace looked troubled. “Camille, is there a reason you feel like you can’t talk to me—”
“It’s nothing, father,” Camille said flatly.
At that, Horace seemed to wilt slightly. Rather than dwell on it, however, he went on. “If someone among the Blancs really is trying to hurt Sigurd, then I can understand why you’d be suspicious of Mirek. But if you trust my words at all, let me be adamant: Mirek would not harm Sigurd. He’s not someone who goes back on debts.”
“...Well, I’ll take it into account, Horace,” Ailn said. “It makes all of our lives a lot easier if that’s the case. We appreciate your help. But we need to head out. Time’s running out.”
“You seem so certain of it,” Horace muttered. He pondered something for a moment. Then he spoke. “There’s someone you can talk to. They may know more than I do.”
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Requesting the will of the emperor was the safest, most politically expedient way to stall the negotiations over The Dragon’s Promise.
“Varant is of the view,” Kylian said, “that this negotiation is forfeit without the explicit sanction of Emperor Caecilius.”
“...You dare waste our time?” Isolde spat, her eyes flickering menacingly. “You let us squabble like fools—knowing all along this parley was doomed from the start?”
That was exactly what Kylian did.
Entrusted with authority, and saddled with responsibility, the good knight was told to exercise his own judgment. And his conclusion was this: the best possible result for this negotiation was that nothing should happen at all. Varant had no ambition beyond averting catastrophe. And it was clear from the start of the negotiations that the three imperial siblings were simply three different heralds of ruin.
Thus, he’d been perfectly content to let them dictate the flow with their pre-existing feuds. Isolde, particularly, seemed used to achieving her ends with sheer force of will.
Rather than attending in good faith, with a material offer of her own, the princess must have believed that these negotiations would be nothing more than a contest of dominance between her and her siblings—a game to see whose roar would most swiftly corner their shared prey.
Instead, all she had done was—to Varant’s benefit—stage a lively sideshow. The intense emotions that had earlier filled the Great Hall exhausted themselves like kindling in a hearth.
“...My only discourtesy was that I dared not interrupt,” Kylian said, voice flat. “Varant was never granted the floor.”
“Varant will beg on the floor like the mongrel it is,” Isolde murmured, her voice laced with contempt.
“The imperial kin will embarrass ourselves no further,” Evgeni interjected.
His voice was calm, yet the threat underlying his manifestation of the roar was like the ringing keen of an eagle. He’d evidently had enough of Isolde. She clicked her tongue and angrily looked away.
“Sir Kylian,” Evgeni started, “I hope you’ll understand the emperor’s silence is a tacit mandate to his kin. We are here, not he. And your demand for his participation is an insult disguised as deference.”
Evgeni steepled his fingers. “It is the height of arrogance… to suggest the imperial father’s voice must carry to this very hall which your duke has deemed unworthy to tread.”
“A ring lost for three hundred years will naturally take more than three days to find its proper master,” Kylian said coolly. “I would sooner risk the emperor’s ire than rashly surrender what is his by right.”
The third prince did not respond. Perhaps he recognized the inherent pragmatism in Kylian’s stance. Still, his fingers began to fold in on themselves in frustration.
The line between obstructionism and prudence was thin.
While Kylian doubted the three imperial siblings were acting in defiance of their father, he still lacked the information needed to make a sound judgment. Dangerous as it was to continue holding The Dragon’s Promise, the welfare of the empire at large was still the foundation of Varant’s.
Why did the emperor show so little interest? He hadn’t so much as sent an envoy expressing his will. It was as if he had washed his hands of the whole ordeal—tantamount to declaring he cared not who claimed his succession.
The turtle-shaped echo stone in the middle of the table chimed.
Rather than waiting with bated breath, those at the table merely exchanged glances, as if curious what irritating sounds might come out of the turtle next. Ashton pressed the dial, which chimed before playing its next message.
‘Uh… wow, how do you even respond to that? Wait, Bea, don’t touch that! You’re gonna send a message!’
‘When Cant… makes me stressed… It’s good to nap.’
Putting on a rather forced smile, Ashton addressed the table. “Well. I daresay now would be an opportune moment for the relevant parties to retreat to the perimeter chambers, and convene for individual audiences.” Then he added, “Perhaps ‘Bea’ and Duke eum-Creid are still discussing strategy.”
He turned to Isolde. “There are sofas as well, if you feel you may need that nap.”
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The perimeter chambers provided negotiating parties with the privacy needed to settle details unfit for public ears. If the Great Hall’s auditorium existed to keep them honest, then the perimeter chambers were the tacit admission that diplomacy, at times, required a touch of guile.
They consisted of a series of rooms beneath the Great Hall’s tiered seating—four, named after the empire’s great ducal houses: eum-Creid, ark-Chelon, sil-Kytsune, and mer-Sereia.
Appropriately, Kylian waited in the one designated eum-Creid. From the looks Isolde and Evgeni were giving each other as they withdrew to the chambers, he guessed they were having a discussion of their own.
Severus took the initiative speaking to Kylian first. Millie at his side, he gave his frank thoughts on the emperor.
“My father is no longer of this world, Sir Kylian,” Severus said bluntly.
“...I’m sorry?” Kylian blinked. “Are you saying the emperor is deceased?”
“Ah, no,” Severus fell back languidly into a silken divan, drawing Millie into his arms as she lightly fell into his lap. “I mean to say, my father drifts through a waking dream. His grip on reality has… loosened considerably.”
“His mind has become quite enfeebled, hasn’t it?” Millie murmured into Severus’s ears.
“The Radoschtian Empire is the hoard of dragons, their treasure which stretches across an entire continent,” Severus said. “But Radoscht is their roost, and their cradle—a city of indulgence which lulls the greatest among them into a stupor.”
It was a surprisingly poetic thought from the crown prince.
“Yes, the emperor has lost that thing which grounds us all—true love,” Severus said, his voice almost sickeningly tender as he nuzzled his face into Millie’s neck.
“I only wish—that kindness could save his soul,” Millie said, her voice suddenly pleading. Still sitting on the crown prince’s lap, her hands clasped together and her eyes clamped shut as if she were in the midst of prayer. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Love is… the greatest gift we can receive.”
“State your case to Varant, Severus,” Kylian sighed.
“My case?” Severus asked, surprise seeming to flicker across his face. “The Dragon’s Promise is mine by right…”
Then after a beat he added, “After the eventual passing of the imperial father, Emperor Caecilius.”
“Then…” Kylian’s brow furrowed.
“Had you chosen to grant me the ring, I would have merely returned with it to Radoscht, to present it to the emperor,” Severus said with a shrug.
“Severus?!” Millie’s eyes shot wide open. “This is not what we spoke of…!”
“What is mine will come to me, as is the natural order,” Severus said, not a hint of doubt in his voice. He regarded Millie with a calm smile. “I told you I will have the ring. I merely wish to see how it fares in hands less destined—and less capable.”
“It could be… decades before your father passes,” Millie said, smiling back as pleasantly as she could, while speaking through gritted teeth.
“And our love will burn no less bright, when I offer it to you,” Severus said, kissing the back of her hand.
“You plan to—” Kylian paused, unsure if he was hearing correctly, “Offer the imperial heirloom as an engagement ring?” He glanced at Millie, who was visibly seething. “To Lady Moonlace?”
“Yes, just as Emperor Claude did to Noué Areygni,” Severus said, blissfully mistaking Millie’s dilating pupils for the throes of love. “My lovely Millie deserves no less. But unlike Claude, whose conquest of Noué’s heart ended in failure…” He planted a kiss on Millie’s forehead, right upon a throbbing vein. “I have already succeeded.”
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The list of Blanc survivors now revealed, Ailn finally felt as if they were getting somewhere. The most important questions still remained: where was Sigurd going to die? And when?
They had the foot in the door they needed to investigate those questions. Horace had even directed them to a member of the White Knights who might be able to tell them more about the Blancs.
Worried about the problems that might arise if they were seen loafing around the barracks, Ailn waited with Bea and Camille at a fountain near the marketplace for that knight to arrive. There was ample space to sit, the fountain was loud, and the people were louder. It was a good place for a reasonably discreet meeting.
“I just want to ask again, Camille,” Ailn said slowly. “Are you sure you can trust her? If you didn’t even know she used to be a part of—”
“Yes, we can trust her! For God’s sake, how many times will you ask?” Camille snapped. “For all her insufferability, she is an honorable knight! If she were not, then she would never be able to best my sword—”
“I’ve bested your sword and you treat me like I sell snake oil,” Ailn said, raising a brow. “And… that’s hardly the worst counterexample I can conjure.”
“Uncle Ailn…” Bea tugged at the sleeve of his trench coat, tilting her head. “Why do you… like making people mad?” She held Aristurtle up to his face. “Aristurtle says… people in nature are… polite animals.”
Then she flipped the stuffed turtle around so it faced her, looking skeptically into its eyes. “But… Russew said society puts people in jail with social contacts. Did Uncle Ailn… go to jail because he was impolite?”
Ailn frowned. Since when did he go to jail?
“Or did jail make him impolite…?” Bea continued, as her face wrinkled in thought. “But animals don’t go to jail… they get put in zoos…”
Bea was thoroughly perplexed by this chicken or egg problem.
“Her imagination is rather… vibrant,” Camille said, seeming quite struck by Bea’s elaborate form of play. “I have never heard a babe’s babble that was so—structured?”
“Well, it’s not exactly just babble…” Ailn said. Then he gestured toward Bea with a nod. “Hold her while I talk to Dame Alera.”
“Can she not sit on her own?” Camille asked.
Ailn glanced around the crowded market. “Bea is a child that escapes easily if you don’t watch her.” He shrugged. “Anyway, people are gonna ask questions if I keep holding her.”
Actually, his arms were just getting tired. He handed Bea—who was still engaging in discourse with her stuffed animals—to Camille.
“Wha—and I’m simply to suffer those questions, instead?!” Camille balked, her hands beginning to shake. She had clearly never held a child before.
…It would be alright. Bea had already reached an age where she wasn’t that fragile. Though it definitely looked uncomfortable, the way her legs awkwardly dangled off of Camille’s arms.
Sure enough, the moment a certain female knight arrived, she scoffed at Camille’s childhandling.
“Do you truly only know how to carry a sword, Dame Camille?” Alera rolled her eyes at the sight. “You must never have had a younger sibling—making you the babe of your family. So much is suddenly clear.”
So began their meeting with Dame Alera—once a knight of the Blancs, and a member of the very order the Azure Knights had bested in combat seven years ago: the Argent Guard.
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