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TRAS Chapter 62: Ducal Responsibilities
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 15:16:03 +0000 UTCAt first, Ailn’s rise to dukedom had him feeling more optimistic about his real mission. The office certainly testified to his new authority, with its mahogany desk restocked with fresh ink and parchment every day.
There was even a trolley of snacks, regularly brought in by maids, and Ailn found himself wondering how far the castle would go to indulge his whims.
In reality, luxury was just another form of captivity—a clever way to confine someone to long hours of work, all while making them feel good about it.
Becoming the duke should have given Ailn the privilege of delegating work as he pleased.
“Kylian, when is Sigurd returning from the northern wall?” Ailn asked, wearily.
“As of the noon missive, he has actually proceeded further down the northern wall. I suspect he means to create as much distance from you as possible, out of spite,” Kylian replied.
“...Great,” Ailn said. He recalled their conversation from the day prior, when he tried to make good on his word and force Sigurd to continue doing whatever tasks he’d been doing before.
It had been right in this office, actually.
“... I refuse. I will not toil for the achievements of my brother’s unrepentant self-aggrandizement. ‘A thief of labor is poorer than a beggar of bread.’”
“Isn’t that a bit selfish, Sigurd? ‘There is no limit to what men can do so long as they care not a straw who gets the credit.’”
“... ‘Pretty words cloak unsightly hearts.’ You won’t deceive me into servitude, Ailn.”
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ Just admit you’re being lazy.”
“Lad—lazy?! Where are you conjuring these from?!’’
“‘I contain multitudes,’ Sigurd. How about having an original thought for once?”
After that, Sigurd’s eyes darkened, and he stood there for an uncomfortably long time, completely still while he stared at Ailn. Then, with a sharp, shaky intake of breath, he walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him and storming out of the castle.
A few hours later, Ailn learned that Sigurd had gone to the northern wall.
“Wouldn’t have expected delinquent behavior from Sigurd of all people,” Ailn muttered, staring dazedly up at the ceiling.“He’s lucky I’m not incompetent. What if I didn’t know arithmetic and ended up ruining the duchy’s finances”
Kylian furrowed his brow, debating whether he should object to the fundamental unfairness of Ailn’s criticism. He shook his head, deciding for the better.
The new duke’s lethargy might have worried him, but the truth was Ailn looked healthier than ever—Ailn had taken Sigurd’s chamber, and was sleeping in a more luxurious bed than ever.
As if thinking about the same subject, Ailn turned to Kylian with a question. “Where’s he sleeping when he’s not at the wall, anyway? The barracks?”
“No, he’s—” Kylian was taken aback that Ailn had paid so little attention to his older brother’s activities. “Sigurd is staying at your former cottage, Ailn.”
“... Are you serious? Why?”
“He’s convinced your victory was forged in the fires of hardship. And that you look down upon him for having drifted over the years into an indolent lifestyle.”
“I look down on him for choosing to stay there,” Ailn said, eyes narrowing.
Once again, Kylian elected not to object. He wanted to be done with this.
Sitting at a wooden bench with a small table in front of him, Kylian flipped to the next page of a leatherbound book of administrative documents. Ever since Ailn became the duke, the knights who used to assist Sigurd had strongly demurred from bringing their new duke up to speed and helping him settle in.
Though they couldn’t outright object, they all loudly proclaimed their ignorance on administrative matters, and were probably hoping Ailn would soon prove himself a poor duke; then, perhaps, they could justify finding one way or another to oust him.
Thus, despite his already stressful schedule, it fell on Kylian to assist Ailn.
“The next item on the agenda is the knights’ recreation budget, which still hasn’t come to a firm decision,” Kylian said. “Given our current budgeting concerns…”
Ailn twirled his quill lightly between his fingers in thought.
“No… increase it this year. Enough for them to afford the pool table,” Ailn said. “Let it be known that I’m not above realpolitik.”
“If you truly believe a billiards table will sway the knights’ opinion of you, then you’re as deluded as they like to pretend you are,” Kylian said with a sigh.
“What did I ever do to them?”
“Are you honestly asking that? I truly cannot tell.”
“We’ve had our disagreements,” Ailn said, looking irritatedly to the side. “I’d say I’m treating them pretty nicely considering not a single one of them cheered for me. Which reminds me: where were you on the day of the duel, anyway?”
“... I decided not to attend,” Kylian said, averting his eyes.
“You skipped?” Ailn was genuinely confused. “I’m pretty sure it was mandatory for the knights to witness it.”
“Ailn, I required a respite,” Kylian said honestly. “I had little doubt of your victory, and thus saw no cause for concern.”
“And if I lost?” Ailn asked.
“My standing with my fellow knights has been extremely poor lately,” Kylian sighed. “The worst they could do to me is demote me and give me less work. Rather, at this point I’d welcome it.”
“Hedged your bets, huh?” Ailn mused. “I’ll take a look at your assignments and cut out the scut work.”
“... It would certainly be helpful,” Kylian said, thinking it over. After a moment, however, he threw Ailn a worried glance. “Who exactly will take on those responsibilities?”
“What was your most menial work? Keeping watch in high traffic areas? Resolving petty disputes?” Ailn asked.
"As well as making sure the lanterns are properly lit throughout the city at night," Kylian replied. "Any knight could do it, but it's essential."
"What's your opinion of the knight who was sitting next to me during the inquisition? Tall guy with a goatee?" Ailn gave Kylian a curious look.
"Sir Goodfellow? He's well-liked by all the knights and known for being kind. He's also a family man," Kylian said.
"… Goodfellow? His name is Goodfellow?" Ailn took a moment to process this unexpected information before shaking it off. "Anyway, he's on drudge duty from now on. If a task isn't making use of your talents, Kylian, consider it Sir Goodfellow's."
"That hardly seems fair," Kylian frowned.
“Was he solving murders, Kylian?” Ailn asked. “Does being a ‘family man’ make him a genius detective?”
“Well, no,” Kylian admitted.
"Then this is nothing more than an efficient reallocation of resources," Ailn said. "Besides, he's probably safer watching gates and lighting lamps."
After a moment of inner conflict, Kylian's expression cleared as he considered better uses for his time and effort—not to mention the increased opportunities for rest and recuperation.
“Then, I would much appreciate it,” Kylian said, finally.
"Then it's as good as done," Ailn replied, allowing himself a small, petty smirk.
Duke Ailn eum-Creid and Sir Kylian were swiftly learning how to play the political game.
The next item on the agenda was a peculiar one. It concerned a rather important figure, who’d been pivotal in ushering in the current era of prosperity; yet, this knight had stained both their name and legacy.
It was Aldous. He wasn’t merely an attempted murderer but a traitor—a high marshal of the Order who dared assault his liege. He took the very creatures that had slain so many valiant knights, and raised them within the castle walls where Varant’s protectors thought they could sleep soundly.
His execution was not long away.
The condemned in Varant were granted time until the beginning of the next season to reflect and make what peace they could with God. With the festival of the wolf behind them, the gelé primevère that had pushed through the snow and reached full bloom would soon enter their wilt; spring was at hand.
Two girls had sent in concurrent requests, regarding Aldous’s execution. The first came from Renea, asking for the right of witness: to administer his last rites before he was hanged and to be present in the execution chamber during his final moments.
The second came from Sophie, demanding that Renea be denied this privilege entirely.
“What exactly… is the precedent here?” Ailn asked, squinting as he tried to untangle the competing emotions behind the sisters’ requests.
“Executions are a very quiet affair in Varant,” Kylian said. “Uniquely so, as it is strongly felt that death should not be a spectacle. At the same time, this means that permission for attendance must be actively sought.”
Kylian’s expression grew troubled. “Usually, two types of witnesses step forward: those who wish to give last rites, and loved ones who want to be present for the condemned’s final moments. I suspect Lady Renea’s motivation leans more toward the former. She has always done so—even for murderers.”
“So Sophie’s trying to deny Renea something that’s normally granted without question,” Ailn said.
“That’s correct,” Kylian confirmed.
“I can see where Sophie’s coming from but… ” Ailn leaned back in his wooden chair, making a face as he remembered he couldn’t tilt the chair itself back. “I’m not gonna rock the boat here. Renea’s request is granted—if Sophie wants her to refrain, she’ll have to convince Renea herself.”
“... It is a family matter and I don’t wish to badger you, Ailn,” Kylian started.
“Go ahead.”
“But I do not think it would be seen as a misuse of ducal power if you were to deny the request in order to protect your sister,” he continued. “Especially given that you were the victim of his attempted murder.”
“Renea’s an adult enough to make this decision for herself,” Ailn said thoughtfully. “...In fact she turns seventeen soon.” Scratching his head, a thought suddenly hit him, and he winced. “I should probably buy her a present.”
For now, though, that would have to wait. Today, Ailn had a meeting with an envoy from the royal family.
_________________
Later that day, Ailn received the envoy in the ducal office—having strongly encouraged Sophie to attend for reasons she wasn’t quite sure of.
The envoy was mustachioed, and his mustache was so well-groomed that Sophie found it off-putting.
“Surely, Duke eum-Creid—” the envoy began his harumph.
“Call me Ailn,” Ailn said genially.
“...Surely, Duke eum-Creid, you do not mean to suggest you would let the knights of this duchy suffer merely to protect your sister,” the envoy said, his eyes getting squintier. “With all due respect, the royal family sees this as nothing but a breach of the integrity of your honored blood. One, which has protected this empire for ages—”
“I think what you mean, Viscount Begotte, is that the third prince specifically would let our knights suffer just so he can bully a teenage girl,” Ailn said. “There is nothing that can be done within the empire’s laws to force our hand. And we’re not going to be held hostage by money.”
Begotte gave an exasperated, theatrically helpless sigh. “It would seem the brash, young duke fails to understand what his brother did. Lord Sigurd protected more lives with parchment and diplomacy than he ever did with his sword.”
“And right now he lives in a cottage because he thinks hunting rabbits leads to victory,” Ailn sighed. “He’s not as smart as he thinks he is, Begotte. Neither are you.”
“You truly think we won’t slash this duchy’s subsidies?!” Begotte snarled. The drop of his title seemed to have triggered him. “How does a duke who lacks holy aura expect to protect his people?”
“Who said I lacked holy aura?” Ailn asked.
“...Are you a buffoon? Of course we know it,” Begotte snapped. “One does not need spies to know what every peasant in this godforsaken land gossips about daily.”
Ailn raised a hand.
Seeing this, Sophie stifled a roll of her eyes.
The new duke made a small finger flick in mid-air, which was seamlessly followed by a small pop of holy aura against Begotte’s forehead.
Begotte gave a small yelp of pain, and his face turned red with indignance. “O-ow! What the devil—you would attack an envoy?!”
“Don’t be overdramatic, Begotte,” Ailn said, making a pinching, brushing motion with his hands. “All in good fun, I say. After all, you’re the one who came in here and mocked me.”
Gritting her teeth, Sophie once again followed Ailn’s motion. She fought back the repulsion which kept trying to creep across her face, as soft ribbons of aura held Begotte’s mustache.
That was as far as she went.
Sophie refused to caress the mustache with her aura.
“We know it’s her, you imbecile!” Begotte raged, as he pointed at Sophie. “What game are you playing at?!”
“Yeah?” Ailn asked. “Prove it, then. Go on.” He turned his palm upward, as a spiral of holy aura began to swirl above it. Then, with a grin he made a quick snatching motion with his other hand. “Got your nose.”
Her hands trembling with rage, Sophie nonetheless fashioned something like a claw of light, which pinched the viscount’s nostrils closed.
“To hell with this!” Begotte rose in anger, his voice extremely nasal. “My return to the capital will be swift, and my report will be damning!”
He stomped out of the office, and as he burst into the corridor Sophie and Ailn could hear him gulping air.
Ailn whistled, staring at his hands as if he’d truly performed all those petty, divine acts.
“We should come up with a routin—” he started.
Sophie shoved him with her aura as she stomped out of the office herself.
Comments
Lemance
Ailn is being a proper dickhead and I welcome it for now lol I do feel pretty bad for Sophie though
