AceGreen
patreon
TRAS Chapter 103: The Signet
🕑 Added 2025-05-04 15:09:37 +0000 UTCSigurd grimaced, as he made his way through the barracks, toward a chamber most knights now avoided—partly out of superstition, partly to spare themselves the weight of old memories.
It was Aldous’s old office. The knight commander scowled, remember how all of his personal effects had been unceremoniously tossed inside after Ailn became the duke.
The former high marshal’s corruption and downfall had shocked Sigurd. That was the truth. The whole inquisition had unfolded in his absence, much to his gall. He’d left Varant’s internal affairs so thoroughly in Aldous’s hands that they saw fit to carry on without him—and like a wound left to fester, the infection had taken hold.
Perhaps Sigurd had sensed it… the darkness that had swayed Aldous’s soul. Yet he’d ignored it. And before he knew it, the high marshal was too far gone for redemption. Varant’s mightiest sword arm was swiftly severed.
“To think that all these years, Sir Aldous was Sophie’s father…” Sigurd muttered. “How could we not have seen it?”
In retrospect, it was obvious. There had never been anyone else it could have been. But his mother’s iniquities were the last thing Sigurd wanted to ruminate on, especially after her death. A pang of bitterness cut through his chest, and the image of his own father—wallowing in his impotence—refused to leave Sigurd’s mind.
Doing his best to distract himself, Sigurd pressed on with his task. Soon enough, he found the small case he’d been searching for and unlocked it with the key he always kept on his person.
Then he opened the case and retrieved his personal signet, rolling it around in his hands, asking himself once more if what he was about to do was folly.
The sight of The Dragon’s Promise had stirred certain thoughts in Sigurd. In a certain sense, the legendary imperial ring was little different from the ducal signet that Ailn had inherited during his investiture ceremony.
Having relinquished the ducal signet, however, all that remained in Sigurd’s possession was the personal signet he’d inherited as the eldest son.
A certain matter of practicality was turning itself over in his mind as he rummaged through Aldous’s old desk. It wasn’t mere sentiment. Accordingly, there were formalities that needed to be done.
From the desk, he retrieved a stick of wax, waxed parchment, and twine. He still held the official family seal of the eum-Creids.
Sigurd wrapped his signet in the parchment, folding it into a square shape and holding it together with twine. Then he held the stick of wax at a gentle distance from a candle’s flame, waiting for it to soften.
When it had sufficiently melted, he hesitated—but at last, with a grimace of resolution, he pressed the melting wax onto the parchment and branded it with the eum-Creids’ official seal.
By the morrow, it would be on its way to a small village named Venlind in the Singing Mountains.
__________________
Later that evening, Ailn talked with Renea in the castle’s garden. It was a warmer night, despite it being early spring, and Ennieux was very adamant in not allowing the dog into the ducal study.
As a result, the puppy was raised in the barracks, but if Sophie or Renea wanted to play with it, the garden was the natural place to go.
The garden was a small space that jutted out from the south end of the keep. Heavily influenced by monastic gardens, it was an enclosed, square courtyard. Along the keep’s walls, a loggia sheltered more delicate plants. Pots of medicinal herbs were variously placed on the ground or hanging from iron hooks mounted on arches.
Given the warm night, they ventured into the open center of the courtyard, where violets and daisies had started to bloom. Ailn didn’t hate the peaceful atmosphere.
The torches along the loggia crackled, while an owl’s hooting could be heard from far away. But in contrast to those somnolent sounds, the puppy running around the garden gave squeaking barks and tiny, excited growls.
After so much mess and excitement since he’d come to this world, it was nice to just watch his sister happily playing with her new dog.
“You’re already leaving? Ah!” Renea asked, giggling as the teething puppy ran over and started nibbling on her finger. Then she gave Ailn a hesitant, probing look. “I suppose I should attend, since… I’m the reason Varant is in such a precarious position.”
“Don’t. You said the safest place to be is near Sigurd, right?” Ailn replied. “Just keep your head down for now. There’s nothing to be gained from bringing you.”
“Sure!... Hey! Sir Pup, don’t steal my glove!” Renea lightly admonished the dog, looking none too upset that she’d get to stay home. Then she cooed softly. “Do your teeth hurt, Sir Pup?”
Ailn frowned, as the puppy once again started nibbling on her finger. “You know, you’re really not supposed to…” Then he shrugged, realizing he didn’t particularly care how they raised it. “I thought you were going to name it Snoopy.”
“Sophie was insistent we give him an honorable name,” Renea said, with an expression on her face that suggested she didn’t really get it. “But Sir Pup’s a cute name, too.”
__________________
That night, Sigurd lay awake, staring at the cottage ceiling.
How had he ever found himself in Venlind?
It was true he’d had frequent business in Calum, the capital of ark-Chelon, yet he’d never had a proper reason to visit its countryside—destitute towns that had sprung up around mines long since depleted.
Just once, he’d decided to check on Ciel’s well-being. He had chalked it up as simply continuing what he had already resolved to do: seeing to the welfare of the young woman he’d once spared.
Two of the Blanc scions had remained under the auspices of the duchy eum-Creid. Ciel was one. Sigurd saw too much of the other.
On that first visit, Sigurd had been returning from Calum to the imperial capital. He’d lacked even the time to pass by Varant.
Yet he made time for Ciel, because he genuinely wished to see if she’d managed to find some sort of happiness. The couriers he occasionally sent her way assured him that she seemed to be doing fine. But…
He wished to see for himself. And so he went to the Singing Mountains.
Three years after the brief, tragic clash between the eum-Creids and the Blancs, Sigurd walked into her apothecary… which also happened to double as her home.
The knights had assisted her in building it. A small log cabin, with clay firmly packed between the logs to keep the draft out. It had a small garden out back, and a loft for sleeping up top.
When Ciel heard a visitor’s footsteps, she came treading down the stairs and froze at the sight of him. He’d expected as much.
“...I apologize for coming,” Sigurd said. “I just—”
He wished to see if she was doing well.
He knew why he’d come, yet for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to say it. There was the subtle tug of shame, the prickling feeling of anxiety keeping him from speaking forthright.
They were both adults now. Ciel had grown out her hair… her clothes were no longer tattered. Then again, why would they be? Sigurd found himself baffled by his own expectations.
“Is there something you need… sire?” Ciel asked cautiously.
Her voice was fuller than it had once been. More resonant. Was that the consequence of a healthier lifestyle, free from Marcella’s abuse? Or merely the natural progression of adulthood?
It would have been easier if she demanded he leave, or even gave him a bitter glare. Instead, she gazed at him awkwardly.
“I heard that you sold herbs, and… I was in need of healing,” Sigurd lied.
Ciel stared at him in disbelief, unable to hold back a gentle scoff. “Are there wounds which the Saintess’s divine blessing cannot reach, yet which honeysuckle can?”
With a quick scan of the shop, Sigurd realized none of the herbs he saw for purchase were truly medicinal. Fennel and chamomile, mint and lavender, even violets—they were plants fragrant and sweet, likely chosen to calm a customer’s mind after she’d surreptitiously used the divine blessing to heal the aches of their body.
“The Saintess isn’t here,” Sigurd said flatly.
This poor attempt to save face earned another scoff from Ciel. But she sold him a pouch of herbs, anyway.
Having achieved his aim of confirming Ciel’s ostensible health and happiness, Sigurd fully intended for this to be their last meeting—though a note of dissatisfaction hung in his heart.
Yet as he turned around, she called out in a voice flatter than his… with perhaps a note of mocking.
“Come back if you run out.”
Sigurd, against his better judgment, did.
__________________
Just as he’d been advised by Sigurd, Ailn decided to set out at first light. He seriously considered simply going by himself, eschewing a protective retinue for the sake of speed and discretion.
Ultimately, he decided that the risks were still too great. And so, he decided to once again bring along knights—more than last time, even, to deter threats. One particular knight, who had not accompanied him to Sussuro, caught his attention, as Ailn knew just how skilled a swordswoman she was.
It was Camille, his cousin who he’d hardly spoken to since the duel.
"Having you as my guard is reassuring, Camille," Ailn said smoothly. "And with Kylian here as well, I doubt I have much to worry about."
“Yes, of course, sire,” Camille replied. Her usually tranquil smile faltered. “It is, but my duty.”
Somehow, she seemed ill at ease. Did she hold bitter feelings toward Ailn? Like most of the knights, Camille had seemed to side with Sigurd when he and Ailn had their excruciatingly public clash at the castle’s front gate.
It didn’t matter much to him, though, and he had no particular interest in prying.
Sigurd himself seemed to have made a strange peace with the outcome of their verbal war, though Ailn still found it unsettling. In fact, the man now stood at the very spot they’d argued—waiting to confer with Ailn one last time before he departed, presumably to make sure no crucial details had been overlooked.
“Duke ark-Chelon’s son Ashton will be acting as the arbiter,” Sigurd said to Ailn as he approached, not bothering to greet him. “See that you remain in his favor. He is our firmest ally in ark-Chelon. Do not speak glibly to him.” Then Sigurd’s expression hardened. “Do not let him speak glibly to you.”
“What, he’s gonna insult me?” Ailn asked.
“Not to your face,” Sigurd said, clicking his tongue. “He’s clever, Ailn.” His tone as harsh and resonant as ever, Sigurd spoke his next words very emphatically. “I am telling you for your own sake. Rein in your insecurities, and stifle your need to show off your intelligence.”
“...Are you of all people seriously—” Ailn pinched the bridge of his nose, and let the insult slide. “Whatever. I’ll avoid him if I can.”
Sigurd narrowed his eyes skeptically. But he said nothing more on the matter.
Then… his gaze drifted to the side. It was the kind of avoidant behavior Sigurd never displayed.
“I have… a request of you, Ailn,” Sigurd said.
“...Okay. Shoot,” Ailn arched an eyebrow.
Despite the fact that he was asking for a favor, a flicker of irritation ran across Sigurd’s face, which he quickly suppressed. Then he let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan, and retrieved from his cloak a folded and sealed parchment, as well as a marked map.
“There’s a small town in the Singing Mountains called Venlind,” Sigurd said, hesitating before handing Ailn the parchment. “I need you to go and deliver this to… a woman in those mountains.”
Furrowing his brow, Ailn felt the object inside.
It was a ring.
Did Sigurd seriously have a mistress? After all his lectures about duty? Eyes flitting toward the knights ready to depart, Ailn lowered his voice.
“This isn’t an engagement ring, is it?” Ailn asked, keeping his voice down. “Shouldn’t you go and do that kind of thing yourself?”
“It’s my personal signet,” Sigurd said flatly.
“...Okay, Sigurd. Even I know you can’t use that as an engagement… ring…” Ailn’s eyes widened.
There was only one reason to send an heirloom like this.
__________________
“Bea,” Ciel Blanc sighed at the mess of stuffed animals on their dining table. “Have I not told you only one of your friends can eat with us every day?”
A small girl with strawberry blonde hair came running into the room, grabbing as many toys as she could carry in her arms before running out again.
“Russew’s hungry today, mama!” Bea explained, as she came scurrying back to the table with her toy cat.
