From a Broken Engagement to the Northern Grand Duke's Son-in-Law

Count Dragunov’s death didn’t end the war immediately.

His soldiers fought with desperate fury until the bitter end. Even as they fell, they wept tears of blood and hurled curses at me with their dying breaths.

The battle raged on, each moment stretching like an eternity, until finally—inevitably—House Berg claimed victory.

The enemy’s mercenaries did arrive eventually, but their stay proved brief. The moment they confirmed their employer’s death, they scattered like leaves in a windstorm.

With no coin left to pay them and no hope of reversing the tide, they vanished into the countryside, leaving us masters of the field.

“Damn,” one of my knights breathed, collapsing onto the blood-soaked earth. “We actually survived.”

“All thanks to the young master,” another replied.

My soldiers and knights dropped where they stood, exhaustion finally claiming them now that victory was ours. They sat among the corpses without complaint.

Under normal circumstances, I would have ordered them to finish clearing the battlefield before resting, but not today. Lancelot needed a healer, and he needed one now.

“Are you all right?” I asked, approaching where he lay propped against a broken wagon wheel.

He managed a bitter laugh. “Feel like I’m about to die.”

“Your mouth still works, I see.”

“Isn’t that my charm?”

Despite his pale complexion, Lancelot grinned.

My second brother had been treating him throughout the battle, and the emergency care showed. He looked marginally better than death warmed over.

Still, he needed proper healing, and soon.

“Where’s the healer?” I asked.

“Called for one. By the way—” Lancelot’s grin widened. “You looked a bit impressive out there.”

“Impressive, my ass.” I snorted and reached for my cigarettes, only to find empty pockets. “Ugh.”

My tongue clicked against my teeth in annoyance.

A moment later, something small struck my chest—a piece of candy, tossed by my second brother.

I caught it and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“What do you think? I’m telling you to quit smoking.”

“This is because of my Aura deficiency,” I protested.

“What kind of pathetic excuse is that? By your logic, every chain smoker would be Master-level.”

…He really had me there.

I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth, vanilla flooding my senses.

“Not bad,” I admitted grudgingly.

“Don’t rely on cigarettes so much,” my brother said, his tone more serious now. “Haven’t you seen plenty die from overdoing it?”

“Yeah…”

I nodded, though the truth was more complicated.

Cigarettes did help with Aura recovery, but the effect varied wildly between individuals, and every puff burned away precious life force.

It was gambling with death to squeeze out more power—but then again, tobacco had never been good for anyone.

The moment you light your first cigarette, your life begins its slow flicker toward darkness.

If I wanted to live long, I wouldn’t have started in the first place.

I rolled the candy around my tongue and waited.

Father appeared in the distance, a healer hurrying beside him.

“Where’s the patient?” the healer called out.

I raised my hand, and within moments, several healers surrounded Lancelot, loading him onto a stretcher with practiced efficiency.

“Go get some rest,” I called to his retreating form. “You’ve suffered enough.”

“Won’t you call me ‘sir’?” he managed weakly.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Fine. Sir, go get some rest.”

Lancelot’s grin was barely visible, but it was there. “Yes. See you later, Captain.”

* * *

Time crawled by before the healers emerged from their tent, wiping sweat from their brows and pulling down their masks with visible relief.

“He’s past the critical stage,” the senior healer announced.

Relief flooded through me. “How bad was it?”

“All the muscles in his upper body were severed, but with proper rest—several months—he should recover completely.”

Several months.

I wondered if that was even possible, but Lancelot had always been built like an ox. 

If anyone could manage it, he could.

“Is he conscious?”

“Just woke up.”

I nodded my thanks and ducked into the tent.

Lancelot lay on a narrow cot, his smile hazy but genuine. “You came?”

“How do you feel?”

“Well enough, I guess. More importantly, have you dealt with the problems in the House?”

Right. He’d been snatched under Berg’s banners before the High Elder’s rebellion, assigned to that task by me, and had suffered for it. The poor fool didn’t even know how it had ended.

I met his curious gaze with what I hoped was a sympathetic expression. “It’s resolved. The High Elder is dead, and the Acting Head lost her left arm.”

“Thank the gods—wait.” Lancelot started to nod, then jerked upright, eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

Ugh. Lie down before you tear something open.

“I said the High Elder is dead.”

“Not that part!”

“The Acting Head’s left arm was severed?”

“My God…!” Lancelot’s voice cracked with disbelief. “How can you say that like you’re commenting on the weather?”

What a dramatic response.

I sighed and gestured for him to settle back. “First, lie down. I’ll explain everything slowly.”

“But that’s—” He grabbed his chest as pain shot through him. “Agh!”

“That’s what you get for thrashing around like a fish. Look at those bandages… I’ll need to call the healer back.”

“Urgh…! You have to tell me what happened later,” he insisted through gritted teeth.

“I will, so shut up and stay still.”

I stepped outside and flagged down one of the nearby healers.

They rushed in to restitch Lancelot’s wounds, the senior healer’s patience clearly wearing thin.

“If you tear these open again,” the healer warned, tapping the fresh bandages, “I’m pouring goblin blood on them.”

“Ack! Yes, sir,” Lancelot replied meekly.

After the healers left, I made a note in my pad about that goblin blood threat. 

Interesting torture method. I should remember that.

Lancelot laughed hollowly. “Anyone watching would think you’re an inquisitor.”

“Information comes naturally through torture.”

“How enlightening of you to share that wisdom.”

It was true, though.

I shrugged at his dubious expression.

“We can discuss interrogation techniques later. Are you coming back with us?”

“With my body like this? I can’t travel immediately.”

“Fair enough.”

The surgery had gone well and he was recovering nicely, but these were injuries requiring months of bed rest. Meanwhile, the High Elder position sat vacant, and House Praha was probably in chaos.

I didn’t have months to spare here.

I need to absorb the First Elder faction’s forces too.

To face House Artezia, I had to eliminate internal enemies first. That meant returning home as quickly as possible.

“Understood. Take care of yourself.” I stood and gave his chest a light tap.

“Ow!” he yelped, though his improved color suggested he was indeed recovering. 

The fellow was built like a fortress, if nothing else.

“I’m leaving.”

Leaving behind a chuckle, I headed for the tent flap, ignoring his protests about wanting to hear the full story. 

Some things could wait.

“Beautiful day,” I murmured, stepping into the sunshine with a smile and breathing deeply of the clear air.

* * *

Meanwhile, at House Artezia, the servants trembled in terror.

“M-Master,” a young maid stammered, her entire body shaking. Her face had gone chalk-white, and before her sat a blood-stained basket reeking of decay.

“Eat,” the Duke commanded.

His expression hadn’t changed—this wasn’t his first such order.

The maid stared at the basket with horror-filled eyes.

Disappearances had been occurring for days now, and each morning brought a new basket filled with rotting meat.

She knew what would happen if she refused. Experience had taught them all that lesson.

When had things become like this? Months ago, House Artezia had been frightening but manageable.

Stay on the Duke’s good side, keep the Lady happy, and everyone could live well enough. Pretty maids could even become the young master’s concubines and enjoy comfortable lives.

But now?

The young master had been missing for ages, the Lady remained in seclusion preparing for her marriage to a marquis, and His Grace had descended into madness.

Life here had become a waking nightmare.

“Are you planning to eat or not?” the Duke asked.

The maid squeezed her eyes shut and reached for the basket.

Just as her fingers touched the rim—

“Your Grace.” The head butler appeared, letter in hand.

The Duke’s eyebrow rose. “Has it arrived?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The butler bowed and made a subtle gesture where the Duke couldn’t see—a slight wave of dismissal.

Somehow, the maid understood and fled the room, leaving only the two men behind.

The Duke threw himself into his leather chair with a heavy thud.

“Well? What news?”

“House Berg has won the war.”

“This quickly?”

“Yes. I’m told Louis Berg played the decisive role.”

“Louis Berg...” The Duke’s frown deepened. “That little scoundrel has grown considerably.”

He skimmed the letter detailing the victory and the key players involved.

“I expected Berg to win, but this speed...” The Duke clicked his tongue. “Too fast.”

“Shall we send mercenaries?” the butler asked.

“No. That would only raise suspicions. Leave it alone for now.”

The Duke tossed the letter aside. Further involvement would give the Imperial Family ammunition against him—a risk he couldn’t afford.

He drummed his fingers against the armrest, mind racing.

First, I need to secure House Dragunov’s inheritance.

He’d hoped the two Houses would destroy each other, but this outcome would have to suffice. At least he could still profit from the situation.

The Duke rose and issued his orders.

“Go immediately and establish a connection between Hera and House Dragunov. We’ll need proper justification to seize their assets.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The butler bowed and departed. The Duke watched him go, a twisted smile playing across his lips.

Things had moved faster than expected, but perhaps accelerating the timeline wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

“Civil war will break out soon,” he murmured to the empty room.

And through that war, he would become the Empire’s true master.

His eyes gleamed with anticipation. The time for his ascension was drawing near.