Unlike Britain, which was brimming with a festive atmosphere ahead of the coronation, Avalon was on edge, with tension running high among everyone from nobles to commoners.
The joy over a Fay-born taking up the sword was fleeting.
The nobles who had witnessed the icy relationship between Duke Fay and Morgana in the temple instinctively sensed danger.
The wielder of the sacred sword is at odds with the House of Fay.
This fact alone sharpened Avalon’s focus entirely toward Britain.
The news that Morgana was preparing for a marriage ceremony with Guinevere was also spreading across Avalon faster than ever before.
Kellive sat in his office with a hardened expression, only his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest.
Raon, standing quietly in front of him and watching, smiled faintly and asked, “Why such a grim expression? You look like you’re about to kill someone.”
The moment the question ended, Kellive flashed a grin.
“Hardly. I haven’t killed anyone yet.”
“‘Yet’ implies you plan too soon. In that case, may I leave early? Getting involved in a murder case sounds exhausting.”
Raon fluttered his lips slightly, his eyes looking even more delicate. Had it been anyone else, they might have been dismissed on the spot, but Kellive was not so easily swayed.
“No. You have to stay, Raon. What use is an advisor who leaves?”
“‘Stay’? When the reliable and thick-headed Gawain is alive and well, wide awake? That’s overstepping.”
“Gawain is at the Earl of Ruddle’s estate, dealing with Lady Isolde’s funeral arrangements.”
“Ah.”
At the mention of the Earl of Ruddle, Raon fell silent.
Had it been an ordinary death, there would have been plenty of time to hold the funeral. But Isolde, for some reason, had stopped breathing yet remained as though in deep slumber—unchanged, as if still alive, save for a slight pallor.
Because of this, investigations required delaying the funeral, but the grief-stricken Earl of Ruddle, having lost his daughter, was beyond reason and difficult to persuade.
Just thinking about it gave him a headache, so Raon swallowed his reply, wearing his usual fragile, fading smile.
Since he hadn’t expected an answer in the first place, Kellive laced his fingers together and rested them on the desk.
Then, with an almost affectionate kindness, he asked Raon’s opinion.
“What if we crash the wedding?”
“No. Do you have a death wish?”
“Then, when the high priest asks if I approve of this marriage, what if I say no?”
“Should I start preparing for exile now?”
Kellive was serious.
The Guinevere he had met at the temple had been quite favorable—no, downright aggressive—toward Morgana.
He had doubted the marriage would actually proceed, but rumors were already spreading across Avalon that Guinevere was pushing forward with the ceremony as boldly as she had made her first impression.
He had thought keeping an eye on just one blond mercenary would be enough, but it seemed there was an ambush lying in wait elsewhere.
Kellive narrowed his eyes and muttered to Raon, “Too popular.”
“Your Highness, that’s an illness.”
“Not me. I’m talking about Morgana. I’m well aware I’m an object of terror.”
“How admirable. You even understand the feelings of your subordinates.”
Raon smiled, his eyes glistening as if dewdrops would roll down if touched.
Casually setting down the documents he was holding onto the desk, he continued, “That being said, if Morgana truly goes through with this marriage in Britain, the Avalon you cherish is as good as doomed.”
“The word ‘doomed’ isn’t very pleasant to hear.”
“But it’s the truth.”
Nobles who had already decided to buy titles in Britain were converting all their assets into gold, causing gold prices in Avalon to skyrocket daily.
Everyone assumed that once Morgana married, she would immediately move to unify the continent.
Raon, seemingly having investigated this out of concern, silently handed over the documents in Kellive’s stead.
“So I’ve prepared a few ways to stop the wedding. The first is Your Highness’s charm offensive.”
“Morgana likes things that look like gold or jewels.”
“Right. Then, next proposal—”
Raon let his words flow in one ear and out the other as he continued,
“Currently, the noble faction in Britain is experiencing internal division. It seems accepting a foreign-born illegitimate child was too much for them.”
“How ungrateful. Fools who kick away opportunities handed to them don’t deserve a voice.”
Kellive’s tone, which had been dismissive while listening to Raon’s report, grew slightly calmer. He tapped his fingers briefly, then after a short pause, spoke again.
“Good. Let’s make them a better offer.”
“What, are you going to abdicate?”
“If necessary. But from what I saw at the temple, she didn’t seem interested in the throne.”
“Right. I heard she outright refused to take the crown in Britain as well.”
As if his deliberation had concluded, Kellive straightened up and pulled out a sheet of parchment.
Raon, watching this, blinked in confusion and asked, “Then what will you use for bargaining?”
“You said Britain opposes her. Avalon is different.”
“Huh?”
“Here, we’d welcome Morgana just for coming.”
No one in Avalon would dislike her visit.
Her mere presence in Avalon would be an honor. Because she was originally meant to belong to Britain, expectations had already been lowered.
Rather than wasting fortunes to establish roots in Britain, countless people here would prefer her to be favorable toward Avalon simply.
This was Avalon’s desperate stance—unlike Britain, which was already sated.
Kellive gazed at the letter tenderly, as if looking at Morgana herself.
“Just her presence would be enough. In fact, it’d be even better.”
💫
At the residence of the Earl of Orne, nobles of the faction had gathered openly.
They sat with an air of arrogance, dropping subtle remarks.
“An Avalon-born becoming king of Britain? That’s no different from Britain becoming a vassal state.”
“Indeed, the name ‘Britain’ alone means nothing. Moreover, with His Highness Mordred being so young, wouldn’t it be easier for us to maneuver things?”
“Exactly. The direct lineage of Britain ensures legitimacy.”
It was the perfect opportunity to nitpick and stir dissent.
Who in their right mind would entrust Britain to someone untrained in diplomatic skills?
Even in the capital, opinions appeared evenly divided.
Momentum was building behind solutions that could uphold both the oracle and the stability of domestic affairs.
Before them, maids quietly set down teacups with a soft clink.
The Earl of Orne, too, lifted his cup with a satisfied expression, inhaling its aroma—only to immediately grimace in displeasure.
“What is this? Why has ordinary tea been served?”
Among Britain’s nobility, where extravagance knew no bounds, plain tea had long fallen out of favor.
Every household served medicinal tea from Tir na Nog for their guests—a mark of discernment.
Any noble house worth its salt had long since made it a point to serve such tea when hosting, sparing no expense.
Yet today, of all days, with so many heads of houses gathered, they were given common tea?
“Ah… Lord Orne, this is rather…”
The faces of those who had been conversing smugly moments ago now flickered with awkwardness.
The thought that they were being slighted crossed their minds, but since it was the Earl of Orne himself, they held their tongues—though their expressions betrayed them plainly.
The Earl swiftly called for the butler.
“Butler, what is the meaning of this? I distinctly recall ordering the finest purchase well in advance.”
“Well, you see…”
The butler hesitated, then bowed his head and spoke carefully.
“Invitations for the VIP list were issued yesterday… but the House of Orne was not included.”
“What nonsense is this? I gave explicit instructions to prepare amply!”
“Yes. By your orders, we anticipated ranking within the top five this month at the very least. Why were we excluded… I cannot say.”
Humiliated openly before so many nobles, the Earl’s face flushed crimson.
Clenching his teeth to suppress his fury, he forced out a reply.
“Send word to Tir na Nog at once. Find out if this was an oversight.”
💫
“Lady Morgana. This painter is currently the most renowned in the capital. Perfect for your wedding portrait.”
Cecilia earnestly explained while showing an oil painting unfamiliar to Morgana.
To Morgana, all paintings looked much the same.
But Sobella, who had entered the princess’s palace as a maid alongside her, seemed to disagree.
Trembling with nervousness, Sobella hesitantly pointed to another painting.
“Th-this artist has recently surged in popularity and was even appointed as the court painter of Vien—showing immense p-potential!”
Though they had once spoken casually when sharing quarters, now all the former maids of the princess’s palace addressed Morgana with formal honorifics.
Feeling that distance, Morgana couldn’t help but feel a pang of bitterness.
“Just speak comfortably, Sobella.”
“H-how could I dare?!”
Unable to bear Sobella’s flustered explanation, Cecilia pressed down on her head, forcing her into a bow.
“My apologies, Lady Morgana. I’ll re-educate her before bringing her back.”
“No, that’s not what I meant—!”
Before Morgana could stop her, Cecilia had already dragged Sobella away.
Did I say something wrong?
Awkward, Morgana fiddled with the ends of her hair. The unfamiliar behavior of those once close to her left her with an odd feeling.
“Is this the bitterness those in power feel…?”
Just as she was staring pensively out the window—
Poof!
A letter materialized before her eyes.
Right on its front, stamped boldly, was the royal seal of Avalon.
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