"Ian, my little one. Ahem."
The tutor coughed, glancing at Ian. The illegitimate son, recipient of this letter, was illiterate, so he'd undoubtedly asked soone else to read it to him. The most natural choice was the tutor.
Ian, bright-eyed, rested his chin on his hand. "Please, continue, Teacher."
"Are you well? Mother is comfortable thanks to Count Derga. I'm happy every day, free from work. You too, study diligently with a grateful heart towards the Count. Young Master Chel is your half-brother, but rember you must serve him. Consider it an honor to be a symbol of peace. Above all, build a strong relationship with the Heavenly Race. You and the Young Master are the hope for generations to co."
The tutor, reciting the letter, glanced at Ian again.
"And I have a favor to ask."
Here it was. The crux of the matter.
"I hear the Heavenly Race chews sothing called Gurut leaves instead of smoking. Mother would like to try it. Could you secretly obtain so seeds for when you return next year for your birthday?"
Gurut leaves were a stimulant used by the Heavenly Race. They chewed them, or rolled and smoked the dried leaves. A secret of the Heavenly Race, the exact plant and its preparation remained unknown. One thing was certain: they always carried a leaf into battle.
"Also, the flower in the pot you cherished has blood. Once you cross the border, I won't be able to see you anymore."
"...Hmm."
"The last line reads: If this letter reaches you, write back a line from the song Mother often sang to you. I love you always, my son."
Ian suspected the dried flower petals in his pocket were his mother's true gift. And the last paragraph was the real ssage. A clever ploy. By requesting the code, she ensured the Count would deliver the letter and expect a reply.
'Mother used the letter as a cover to smuggle in Gurut leaves...'
Puzzling was Derga's approach. Why this convoluted thod to manipulate him? Simply threatening his mother's life, as before, would have ensured his obedience. There was no need for this charade.
"Master Ian?"
"Yes, Teacher. Thank you. Please keep the contents of this letter a secret."
"Of course."
Derga undoubtedly had ulterior motives. Ian resolved to uncover them.
The tutor took out a clean parchnt. "Will you write a reply today?"
"No. I have much to say and need to organize my thoughts. I'll ask you next ti."
"I see. Your mother will be waiting."
Pressuring him, was she? Even if he wanted to write back, he didn't know the lyrics.
'If I write the wrong lyrics, Mother will panic. She'll think sothing happened to .'
The shackles that bound him also protected him. What if his mother, misunderstanding, chose to end her life? He couldn't predict Derga's reaction.
'Worst case scenario, I could be confined until the peace ceremony.'
eting her directly seed the best course of action. Fortunately, tomorrow was the luncheon with Lord Molin. He could use this opportunity to venture outside the mansion and discern Derga's intentions.
"Ah, Lord Molin."
"It's been a week, Count Derga."
As prearranged, Molin arrived at the mansion with his aides. Two young, vigorous-looking n, clearly juniors Molin was ntoring in the central administration.
"It's a pleasure to et you, Count."
"We sincerely appreciate the luncheon invitation."
The n, introducing themselves as Mac and Degor, kissed Countess Mary's hand. She smiled gracefully, presenting her son, Chel.
"I hope you have a pleasant ti."
"Ah, is this Young Master Chel? Then this must be...?"
There was no mistaking Ian. He had the radiant golden hair Molin had heard about. This was re formality.
"I am Ian."
"A pleasure. I've been eager to et you."
"Call Mac, Young Master."
Chel looked displeased to be addressed with the sa title as Ian. But what could he do? He couldn't sulk in front of the adults and Ian. He simply stuck close to his mother as they walked to the garden.
"As expected of the Bratz estate. The garden is magnificent."
"Such praise from soone from the capital. I must be fortunate today."
A subtle exchange, asuring each other's status. Not malicious, just a habitual, aristocratic dance.
"Master, the appetizers are ready."
"Very well."
At the butler's signal, servants wheeled in trolleys.
"What aperitif would you prefer?"
"The day is bright, so I'll have sherry."
"And Young Master Ian?"
At Mac's kind inquiry, Ian almost instinctively requested the sa. Sherry was a white grape wine. He was a bit young for alcohol. He smiled brightly and asked for fruit juice.
"You look much better than last week."
Molin smiled kindly as he wiped his hands. Though bound as a pawn in the peace treaty, Ian radiated youthful vitality.
"Perhaps it's the anticipation of today."
"Haha, is that so?"
"Actually, I had many questions about the capital. Last ti, we only talked about , which was a bit disappointing. Isn't that right, Father?"
At Ian's smooth words, Derga coughed, stroking his beard. anwhile, the servants set out the aperitifs and a simple salad.
"Indeed. What are you curious about? Life in the capital is much the sa as anywhere else. It's good I brought Mac and Degor today. An old man like isn't familiar with the affairs of the young."
Ian started with trivial questions: what students in the capital studied, how they spent their leisure ti, if they'd ever seen a real mage. At the ntion of mages, Molin, Mac, and Degor's eyes lit up.
"I'm particularly curious about what you typically eat in the capital."
"The capital isn't particularly abundant. Special products from the territories go directly to the Imperial Palace. Moreover, there's little farmland in the central region."
"So there's no other way than relying on rchants for distribution."
"Correct. Therefore, famine in the capital stems not from barren land, but from empty wallets. Regulating supply and demand is one of the Imperial Palace's roles."
Unlike Chel, who rely rolled his eyes, pretending to know everything, Ian responded thoughtfully, leading the conversation. Mac and Degor exchanged aningful glances.
'For a commoner bastard, he's quite astute, as you said.'
His insightful observations and unusual focus were remarkable for his age. Ian casually cut into his steak.
"Food is fundantal, so the supply should always be plentiful. It would be wonderful to discover new food sources."
A casual remark, like talking about the weather. Yet, it captured everyone's attention. Derga and the Countess wondered why he was so talkative today, while the guests seed intrigued.
Especially Lord Molin.
"New food sources. I'm curious about your insights, Master Ian."
"It's nothing special. What we consider inedible might prove to be a valuable ingredient."
"Ahaha. Could such a dream co true?"
"One never knows. The starving eat indiscriminately to survive. Careful observation might lead to valuable discoveries."
He wasn't ready to reveal the Gurut leaves just yet. He intended to keep silent until the right opportunity, but he decided to drop a hint. Mac, as if struck by a thought, added,
"Speaking of which, I hear they make stew from seafood shells in the slums. Surprisingly delicious, they say. Have you ever tried it, Master Ian?"
A pointed question, laced with subtle hostility, amidst the otherwise cordial conversation. Ian, who had lived in the slums, in poverty.
'Quite sharp, I see.'
Ian suppressed a chuckle.
The central governnt and the border regions were in a constant power struggle. The Imperial Palace had tacitly approved sending Ian instead of Chel.
But what if Ian's abilities were questioned after he crossed over to the Heavenly Race? What if it resulted in a loss for Variel? It would give the central governnt leverage to pressure the border regions.
The question's intent was clear:
'Ian, are you from the slums?'
Forcing him to confirm his carefully concealed origins. Three central officials had heard it; there could be no stronger testimony.
"Ian? Lord Mac is asking you a question."
The Countess urged him, smiling, oblivious to the political undertones. Chel, too, seed unaware.
"I don't think he would have-"
"Chel!"
Derga sharply rebuked Chel as he stamred, about to blurt sothing out. Clang. Startled, Chel dropped his fork. Derga, expressionless, reprimanded his son.
"Lord Mac asked Ian a question. It's impolite to interrupt. Be careful."
A clear order to be silent.
Chel, crestfallen, clamped his mouth shut. Countess Mary took his hand under the tablecloth, her gaze sharp as she looked at her husband. As if to say, why scold him so harshly for such a small mistake? Her son was already disheartened by his blunder last week!
"I have never tried it."
"Is that so?"
Ian set down his knife, answering firmly.
For now, obedience to Count Derga was the best course of action.
"I grew up outside the mansion, but my father always cared for warmly. No matter what anyone says, I am proud to be of Bratz blood."
"Indeed, indeed."
A comical situation, everyone pretending not to recognize the lie.
Molin smiled, imnsely satisfied. Impressed by how Ian had parried the unexpected attack.
"Therefore, I haven't tried it, but I would like to if given the opportunity."
Derga frowned but remained silent. Ian's response was impeccable, the flow of conversation natural.
"Is that so?"
"Truly, what distinction is there between foods from nature? If it can alleviate hunger, it is a blessing in itself. And it's considered a delicacy, isn't it?"
Molin felt a sense of déjà vu. He'd heard this argunt before...
"You speak just like His Highness the Prince."
Degor scratched the itch.
'The Prince? Which one?'
By Ian's ti, the current Emperor was generations removed. And weren't there many princes? They usually had more than ten children.
In other words, even the Emperor Ian didn't know which prince from over a century ago Degor was referring to.
"His Highness the Second Prince Gale. He said so quite casually during a conversation with nobles about street food. Haha."
Though silent in his presence, they must have gossiped about him behind his back. An Imperial Prince, lacking decorum.
Second Prince Gale. The na sounded incredibly familiar...
"The two of you would get along well."
"How could Ian dare to presu such a thing?"
"Not at all. I think it's an admirable sentint."
Degor waved his hand dismissively at Derga's polite deflection.
He was sincere. In a ti when tens of thousands starved to death each year, what did street food matter? Survival ca first.
"Reputation is a powerful thing. Even street food has value, hence its consumption."
"Indeed. But reality is harsher. Even commoners look down on food eaten by the poor."
As Mac and Degor lanted, the Countess interjected,
"Even if new crops are discovered, widespread adoption would take ti, wouldn't it?"
Not a bad topic, but the context was wrong. Ian instinctively shook his head.
"No, Mother. Distribution isn't the issue."
"Oh? Do you have a different perspective, Master Ian?"
Molin's tone was probing. Ian smiled, as if to say, why pretend ignorance?
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