"I-It’s fine. Flowers are best when seen in season. If not, well, that can’t be helped. Everything’s better when it follows the natural order of things."
Ione waved her hands frantically, clearly desperate to downplay the matter.
Yet Adrian’s expression subtly hardened at what was, by all accounts, the model response expected of a Northern Grand Duchess.
"If you want to see flowers, then you should see them."
Just when the tension had started to ease, the air grew taut and cold again.
"You are also a rightful master of the Preses domain. If you want flowers, then command them to be brought to you."
"...It’s really not that important to me."
"Who said you had to
desperately
want something to deserve it?"
His voice was so cold it made her scalp prickle.
He was angry.
He didn’t show it outwardly, but the emotion was vivid, almost tangible, seeping into her skin.
Ione bit her lip as Adrian stared down at her with lowered eyes.
"Remember this, Ione. You are no longer a Clarke—you are Ione Preses. This land owes you the reverence you are due."
Each syllable rang out with razor-sharp clarity, so crisp it was as if the words had been honed to a fine edge.
Was his focus right now on her as
Ione
, the person? Or was it on
the Grand Duchess
?
She couldn’t tell, and her eyes fluttered in confusion.
It was the same sentence, yet it held entirely different meanings.
If it was the former, it was a sign of affection toward Ione, the woman.
If it was the latter, it was an insistence that she accept and wield the authority befitting her title.
"Do you understand?"
Adrian was pressing for an answer.
But Ione still didn’t respond. Or rather, she couldn’t.
"Ione."
That name again—don’t say it like that!
How was she supposed to answer now?
Either she became the Grand Duchess who didn’t know her place and acted frivolously, or she refused the Grand Duke’s words and earned his displeasure.
Hadn’t she just made up her mind to keep her distance from both Seton and Adrian?
And now this? The universe had no chill.
"I…"
"You are ‘Preses.’ The only one at the Blessed One’s side. Don’t let anyone look down on you or treat you as less. No one has the right—not even the Emperor."
"…"
"Do you understand me?"
"Your Grace."
"Did you understand what I said?"
The way he pressed again left Ione no room to retreat.
"Yes."
And in that moment, it seemed as though Adrian was… pleased.
His face remained completely expressionless, yet somehow, that’s exactly how it felt.
"It’s an honor to meet you, Your Grace, the Grand Duchess. I am Seton Blythe, Tower Master of the Northern Tower."
Oh no. Please, let me pass out for a moment.
Ione couldn’t hide her strangled expression as Seton bowed deeply in a display of formal courtesy.
She would’ve loved to just collapse backward and pretend to be dead, but Adrian’s imposing presence kept her pinned in place.
Because of him, she had no choice but to sit there and accept Seton’s polite, painstaking greeting with all due grace.
Wasn’t it just earlier that Adrian warned her to uphold the dignity of a Grand Duchess?
Clearly, he didn’t know what had transpired between her and Seton—otherwise, he wouldn’t have arranged this meeting.
“You’re really not helping. Can’t you just treat me the way you usually do? Why start treating me like royalty now?”
Ione, fully aware that Seton didn’t like her, felt miserably out of place.
Her hands, resting neatly in her lap, were drenched with cold sweat.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Seton."
"It seems my previous greeting was lacking."
The barbed comment made Ione flinch slightly, but before she could respond, Seton bowed again.
"Life as a mage has dulled my sensitivity to noble etiquette. I hope you’ll forgive my past behavior…"
"Your tongue is too loose, Seton. Don’t forget—the Grand Duchess is a Preses."
Adrian’s blunt reprimand hit the room like a hammer.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze.
But only for a moment.
"Please forgive my earlier rudeness, Your Grace."
Seton bowed once more—this time with even more exaggerated formality, almost to the point of groveling.
There was only one proper response Ione could give.
"It’s all in the past. What matters more is how we move forward. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Seton?"
"I’m simply grateful for your grace. As for the seal… I’ll proceed after confirming Your Grace’s health condition."
"Ah. Yes, of course."
Their reconciliation was more of a diplomatic push than a heartfelt resolution.
Ione had hoped something else might follow, but Adrian quickly took Seton with him and left.
She sat there in a daze for a beat, then suddenly cupped her flushed cheeks.
Something wasn’t right…
“Wait a second… was that him trying to lift my spirits?”
What… what even is this?
If she just quietly acted like a proper Grand Duchess, would he continue being this nice to her?
The unexpected shift left her overwhelmed with joy and confusion.
"Phew…"
Hand on her chest to calm her pounding heart, she let out a long sigh.
No getting carried away. No excitement.
"I’m fine."
Sigh.
"Let’s just live like this."
Sigh.
"It’s only three years, anyway."
She muttered that last part under her breath, forgetting one important thing:
Someone always overhears when you say things like that to yourself.
Catherine, who had just entered with Ione’s meal, froze stiff at her mistress’s words.
"Only three years…?"
"Your Grace, it’s time to eat."
Startled by the voice, Ione lifted her head to see Catherine wheeling in a tray.
Maybe it was the lingering excitement, but even though the food looked delicious, she had no appetite.
Oddly enough, Catherine was far more insistent than usual about the meal. Ione ended up eating more than she typically did.
And as a result, she felt uncomfortably full and couldn’t fall asleep.
After rolling around in bed for a while, she finally sat up and moved to her desk.
"No point lying down if I can’t sleep."
She began jotting down things that weren’t in the original story.
Count Harbert.
Three hundred million in private funds.
The Northern seal.
"The seal…"
A strange look passed over Ione’s face.
"All Northerners receive a seal."
"It holds the king’s energy and masks the human scent."
"As long as you have the seal, you’ll be safe."
Then how… how did the female lead, a Northerner, get caught by monsters?
Tap, tap.
Ione tapped the desk rhythmically, then sighed softly.
"Obviously to meet the male lead."
She wasn’t even the tragic ex-wife—who’d neglect to give our heroine a seal?
Maybe some terrifying monster had snatched her up despite it. Or perhaps she’d just been standing so close, even the monsters couldn’t ignore her.
They did say the seal wasn’t foolproof.
"Ugh…"
Whatever. I’ve got my own problems. Worrying about the heroine is the most useless thing I could do
.
Maybe it was just psychological, but ever since she was told she couldn’t receive the seal yet, her forehead felt oddly bare.
She rubbed it absentmindedly, then shivered as a chill crept up her spine.
Pulling the hot pack Catherine had prepared close to her chest, she finally started to feel a little warmer.
"Um, Mr. Benson?"
"Did Her Grace collapse again?"
The moment Benson saw Catherine in his office late at night, he jumped to his feet, grabbing his medical bag on instinct.
But Catherine quickly stopped him before he could rush out.
"No, no—Her Grace is fine. Please calm down. I actually came for something… personal."
"Ah, I see. Well, have a seat then."
Relieved, Benson motioned her to sit. But Catherine’s face remained grim.
"What’s wrong?"
"Well…"
"Hmm?"
Seeing her hesitate, Benson tried lightening the mood, joking the way he often did with younger maids.
But her expression didn’t budge.
That’s when Benson realized—this was serious.
Wiping the smile from his face, he spoke gently.
"It’s okay. Everything you say here is confidential."
Only then did Catherine speak.
"What kind of illnesses would cause someone to be… terminally ill?"
"Terminal?"
Benson, who had been picturing something mild like stress or warts, was completely thrown.
"What do you mean, terminal?"
Instead of asking who she was talking about, he quickly scanned her face.
No visible signs of illness—so someone close to her, then?
"What are the symptoms? It’s not uncommon for serious illnesses to be misdiagnosed. It’s best to get a full picture."
"She just… seems really sick."
"What makes you say that?"
Though the answer was vague enough to be frustrating, Benson remained patient.
"If it’s someone I know, it might be easier to guess. Like Sir Alec last month—bad case of food poisoning. Or Citray, who has magic overload syndrome."
"…Like Her Grace."
"What?"
Did I hear that right?
Benson blinked in disbelief.
"She’s rail-thin and always fainting. And… she said she has about three years left."
Catherine’s eyes welled with tears as she looked at him.