Viscount Glenwell’s ornate carriage, trimmed with gold and bearing the black raven crest, was like a gilded beast barging into the primeval jungle, rudely crushing the lively, harmonious atmosphere at the Raven Castle construction site.
Before the dust had settled, the arrogant knight at the forefront had already pulled his horse to a stop in front of the castle’s main hall, impatiently tapping his gleaming armguards with his riding crop as he shouted at Ansel, the captain of the guards who had hurried over at the news:
“What are you dawdling for?! Viscount Glenwell himself has arrived! Why aren’t you reporting this at once?”
Ansel’s brows knitted tightly as he struggled to keep his anger in check.
He recognized that crest, and could already guess the visitor’s intent.
In a low voice, he whispered to a young guard at his side, “Go inform the Young Lady, and tell her… trouble has arrived.”
When Irene entered the somewhat plain reception room, accompanied by the maid Layla, Viscount Glenwell had already claimed the seat of honor like a proud rooster.
He was not tall, but years of luxury had left him somewhat bloated. His well-maintained face was etched with lines of arrogance and criticism, and his finely tailored, deep-purple velvet robe—covered in elaborate embroidery—stood in stark contrast to the simple surroundings of Raven Castle.
He toyed with a large ruby ring in his hand, not even bothering to lift his eyelids until Irene approached.
“Irene Raven?” The Viscount finally looked up, his cloudy gaze sweeping over Irene’s young face with undisguised condescension. “So young—no wonder your actions are so… lacking in consideration.”
Irene nodded slightly in accordance with noble etiquette. “Viscount Glenwell, welcome to the Raven Domain. May I ask what guidance brings you here?”
The anger she had been suppressing over the Windmill Village villagers’ ordeal was bubbling in her chest—especially seeing before her the very lord who had ignored his people during the church’s rampage, now sitting here so righteously.
The Viscount snorted, dropping all pretense and getting straight to the point: “Guidance? Hmph! Miss Irene, I am here to reclaim the property you have unlawfully detained!”
He slapped the armrest sharply, his voice rising with aggressive force. “Those villagers from Windmill Village are subjects of my Glenwell Domain—they are my property! Who gave you the nerve to shelter them without permission? This is outright plunder! A serious violation of the Kingdom’s noble code!”
“Plunder?” Irene’s voice grew cold as her golden eyes bore into him. “Viscount Glenwell, when the Church’s minions ran rampant in your Windmill Village, sending innocent villagers to the stake, where were you? When your subjects’ homes were destroyed, when they were left homeless and struggling on the brink of death, where was their so-called ‘master’? Did you ever so much as lift a finger to protect your people, or offer the slightest relief as a lord should?!”
Irene’s words landed with the force of a whip, each syllable lashing across the Viscount’s face.
Viscount Glenwell’s expression instantly turned ugly, his face alternating between blue and white.
He avoided Irene’s gaze, his eyes flickering as he tried to argue back with little conviction:
“T-The Church acts according to its own logic! Those sent to the stake must have been heretics who blasphemed against the gods! As for the disaster victims… Hmph, the Kingdom has its own laws, its own relief channels! It’s not your place to meddle, little girl! Now, hand over my people at once! Or I’ll take this to the Noble Assembly in the capital, accuse you of seizing another’s property and disrupting noble harmony! Even if it goes to the capital, even if the Marquis hears of it, I am in the right!”
He clung stubbornly to the notion of “property.”
Irene’s heart sank.
As shameless as Viscount Glenwell was, he wasn’t wrong.
According to the kingdom’s traditional laws and entrenched noble customs, the residents of a domain were indeed considered part of the lord’s property.
Even if this went before the king, the unspoken rule of preserving the nobility’s collective interests meant the verdict would likely favor Glenwell. As for the Marquis?
This Viscount’s political ideals had always clashed with her mother’s.
If she forcibly detained the villagers, not only would she be in the wrong, but she would also bring great political risk to the Raven Domain.
The king probably wouldn’t make a fuss over such a “small matter” in a remote domain, but what would the other nobles think? Would the Church seize the opportunity to cause trouble?
Could she really hand over those villagers—who had only just rekindled hope and saw the Raven Domain as a new beginning—back to this man, who saw them as nothing but grass, and might punish them even more cruelly out of spite or to cover up his own negligence?
Irene’s nails dug deep into her palm. She couldn’t do it!
As Irene wrestled with herself, her face shifting between anger and hesitation, nearly cornered by this shameless “property argument” and the mounting political pressure, the door to the reception room was gently knocked.
Miss Clarette, the treasurer, entered carrying a silver tray with two steaming cups of tea. Her expression was as calm and precise as ever, as if she hadn’t noticed the tense atmosphere in the room.
“Young Lady, Viscount Glenwell, please have some tea.” She placed the cups on the small table in front of each of them, her movements precise and unhurried.
As she set down Irene’s cup, Clarette leaned in, using her body to shield the movement, and whispered a few swift, inaudible words in Irene’s ear, so only she could hear.
Irene’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly, and then the fury and turmoil in her eyes, which had threatened to burst forth, were suddenly doused like red-hot iron plunged into ice water. In their place flashed a hint of disbelief, and then, deep in her golden eyes, a barely perceptible glint of cunning!
She picked up her teacup, using the rising steam to hide her shifting expression, and took a gentle sip. By the time she set the cup down, her face had assumed a look of reluctant resignation.
“Viscount Glenwell,” Irene’s voice was calm again, even tinged with a weary sense of ‘acceptance.’ “You are correct. The Kingdom’s laws do indeed state as much. The villagers of Windmill Village, by law, do belong to your domain.”
Viscount Glenwell’s face instantly blossomed with a victor’s smug grin, his chin lifted even higher. “Hmph! At least you know your place! That’s how it should have been from the start!”
“However,” Irene’s tone shifted, still calm, “with so many people gathered together, having just endured a long journey and much fear, their emotions and condition are unstable. It’s already late; if we force them to depart now, all sorts of problems might arise on the road. That would be trouble for you as well, my lord.”
“How about… letting them rest in the Raven Domain for one more night? You too must be weary from your travels. Why not stay at the castle tonight? Tomorrow morning, I will personally arrange for them to be handed over to you ‘safe and sound.’ What do you say?”