Duke, This Will Sting for a Moment (30 Chapters Left to Complete) - Chapter 5

I heard the news that Frost was hovering between life and death while locked in the underground prison, and I was utterly devastated.

If only I had realized Flama’s treachery a little sooner, the Grand Duke would never have been injured.

After purifying the black mages who confessed to treason with Holy Flame, I should never have overlooked the fact that Flama’s spirit—the crimson phoenix—had never manifested again.

I should have trusted my own eyes and believed in the Grand Duke’s innocence over the so-called evidence of treason presented by the Emperor.

I should never have ignored the people’s fervent trust and respect toward the Grand Duke as he marched northward—or their resentment and rage directed at our punitive force.

Regret always comes too late, just like this.

“Frost Eelheim! As the master of the Ice Sword, you can’t possibly fall to mere poison…!”

With what heart did I wear that sheer dress revealing everything, slipping into your chambers like a shadow?

I placed your life before even the safety of my own fugitive subordinates or my thirst for vengeance against the Emperor.

[This blade is too precious to waste on you. Consider it an honor, and close your eyes.]

If you were going to kill me, why draw Ielo only to shut your own eyes now?

[If His Highness perishes, kill that woman too! No—cut her head off this instant!]

You kept the Empire’s most beautiful woman as your consort; at the very least, you should rise out of sheer reluctance to lose her!

[The price of deceit is indeed a head.]

You should have seen your loyal Captain of the Knights threatening me, a huge tear clinging to the corner of his eye. Then you’d never dare close your eyes so peacefully.

Anxiously pacing the cell, I found myself clasping my hands together and murmuring without even realizing it.

“Please, anyone…”

Then I let out a bitter laugh.

When I gazed up at my subordinates’ corpses hanging from the imperial city walls and desperately prayed with all my soul, the goddess never answered.

Amidst the scorn and contempt of the very people we had sworn to protect, our cold corpses became carrion for crows.

After all, all I ever did was recklessly slaughter the beings the goddess had lovingly crafted and breathed life into—why would She answer me?

So instead of praying to the silent god, I screamed until my throat tore raw, directing my plea at the one who longed desperately for an answer.

“Frost Eelheim! You idiot, open your eyes! Let’s both live—just open your eyes, please!”

*

That night, Frost’s body stepped beyond the boundary of life and death, inching one step, then another, toward his end.

Every lamp in the Grand Duke’s manor burned brightly; in his chamber, blood- and pus-soaked cloths passed continuously from the waiting maids’ hands.

“Hah… hah…”

Each labored breath Frost exhaled made Head Butler Alexis and Head Maid Rosalynne’s hearts quiver—afraid it might be his last.

Even without consulting a physician, they knew: His Highness would not survive the night.

“Your Highness…”

Alexis bitterly regretted having permitted the Marquis’s daughter into the chamber without the master’s explicit consent.

Was this agony caused by his own meddling, driven by fear that the Duke might pass without an heir? The old butler’s tear-streaked face trembled as he clenched his fists until his nails bit into his flesh.

“Oh, please…”

Rosalynne dropped to her knees and clasped her hands in prayer.

“My lady…! Oh, my lady…!”

She wasn’t calling upon the cruel gods, but desperately invoking the late Duchess Adelia, who had passed fifteen years prior.

“Your Highness, can you see our young master? Has he not yet reached that place? If you meet him, please take his hand gently. Tell him he lived well—praise him proudly. Please guide him to a good place.”

But contrary to the head maid’s assumption, Frost’s soul wasn’t drifting toward his mother. Instead, it floated backward through time—toward an unforgettable memory, a scene he needed to witness once more.

Back to that dreadful time when the Emperor dispatched thousands of troops under the pretense of suppressing rebellion in the North…

[I trust only you, Brother—you know that well. These soldiers are merely sent to eliminate hidden traitors in the North, never to harm you, my innocent elder brother. Please understand.]

Justin Della Ponti—the radiant, blond Emperor—truly excelled at lying.

If he truly meant only to deal with rebel scum no better than bandits, he would never have appointed the Imperial Knight-Captain as commander of the punitive force.

Solace Moretti.

Master of the holy Fire Sword, Flama—and the Emperor’s right hand. The foremost hero who made today’s Emperor possible.

It was all a farce. No one in the North was unaware that Captain Solace’s blade was aimed squarely at Grand Duke Frost Eelheim’s throat.

Yet when news of the punitive army’s departure arrived, the Northerners weren’t overly concerned.

No matter how formidable Solace might be, they firmly believed their lord held the upper hand.

Frost Eelheim, chosen from birth by the sacred Ice Sword, Ielo, was the pride of the North—the continent’s guardian blessed by the goddess herself.

Moreover, the North itself was a superb fortress.

To the east and north stretched endless snowfields of minus fifty degrees. Though legends claimed ice dragons once dwelled there, even monsters now avoided that barren wasteland, making it a natural defensive line.

To the west and south, where the North bordered other imperial territories, treacherous mountain ranges teeming with monsters stood as barriers—rendering the North virtually an independent, self-governing domain.

Former lords deliberately hunted only a controlled number of monsters, leaving others behind to maintain order. Frost was no exception.

Thus, Northerners even placed wagers on whether the punitive army would become monster fodder or retreat in fear before ever engaging.

But Captain Solace Moretti of the punitive force ruthlessly cut down monsters and swiftly crossed the Zenith Mountains via a hidden pass, invading the North in a single stroke.

Wherever the punitive army swept through, corpses of resisting soldiers and villagers piled high; lines of deserters fled without even attempting to fight, overwhelmed by the enemy commander’s blazing presence as he wielded his fiery sword.

[My son, no matter what happens, never oppose the Emperor. Do not let our North become a land soaked in the blood of innocent people. Bend your back and serve faithfully until His Majesty understands. That is the only path for your survival—and for everyone’s.]

Even as treasonous schemes from the imperial faction claimed his life fifteen years ago, the loyal late Grand Duke urged his young son to swear this oath until his final breath.

Following that dying wish, Frost bent his knee and served faithfully the imperial house that had murdered his parents—but in the end, the land his parents loved was still stained with the blood of innocent Northerners.

Frost straightened his long-bowed spine and drew his sword.

He would defend it with all his strength—even if it meant death.

He would take the head of punitive commander Solace Moretti and send it back to the Emperor, proclaiming the North’s eternal independence from the Empire.

That was the only way for him—and those who followed him—to survive.

Yet regret lingered.

Solace had been his comrade-in-arms, fighting monsters and barbarians across countless battlefields, always guarding each other’s backs.

Though they’d always met fully armored, never seeing each other’s faces or shaking hands bare-handed, Frost deeply admired Solace.

Watching Flama, the Fire Sword, cleave enemies while radiating a brilliant crimson aura and tracing fiery arcs through the air had sent his heart trembling with awe.

How many times had he rushed into unnecessary battles just for another glimpse of that sight?

So much so that his own Captain of the Knights, Leo Dominichi, would occasionally side-eye Solace and offer unsolicited advice: “You mustn’t fall for him—it’s improper. Just admire from afar.”

Even on the day of the full-scale battle against the punitive army, Leo had sternly warned him not to show the slightest mercy.

[Tch! What do you take your lord for!]

Frost never lowered his guard against Solace—not even for a moment. Even without invoking the full power of the holy sword Flama, Solace remained the continent’s greatest swordsman, a match even for him.

But when Frost finally exploited a fleeting opening and thrust his blade forward—

The moment Solace’s helmet shattered against the tip of the Ice Sword, Ielo, and fell onto the blood-soaked earth—

Frost froze, unable to move.

The helmet tumbled away, revealing fiery red hair cascading like a waterfall down to Solace’s waist. That brilliant crimson, rippling in the wind, seared itself into Frost’s retinas.

Long hidden beneath the helmet and deprived of sunlight, the exposed face was pale; the bitten lips, unable to conceal shock, were redder and sharper than the flaming hair itself.

Straight eyebrows, a refined nose, a slender neck, and vivid green eyes like summer leaves.

“You… were a woman…?”

Even as Solace, frowning in dismay, seized the opportunity to exploit his momentary lapse, Frost remained frozen in stunned silence.

Then Flama, the Fire Sword, slashed diagonally across Frost’s silver armor in a long, searing gash.

[What is this…?!]

Solace looked even more shocked than Frost as he collapsed to his knees, gritting his teeth as he stared at his own blade.

Instead of its usual crimson aura, the holy sword erupted with dark, corrupting magic. Frost’s armor blackened, corroding and melting away.

The wound touched by that dark magic began bubbling and dissolving; blood welled up, staining his silver armor deep crimson.

Frost closed his eyes, awaiting the end.

Whether holy sword or cursed blade, he expected Solace to end his life without hesitation—the Flame Knight existed solely for the Emperor and had never once failed his master.

But what rushed forth wasn’t Solace’s blade—it was his, no, her voice, trembling uncontrollably with unmistakable bewilderment.

“This isn’t right… something’s wrong… this shouldn’t be happening…”

This time, Frost quietly opened his eyes and asked, “Why…?”

[Why… why don’t you kill me?]

Tell me—why turn your horse’s head against the Emperor’s command?

The Emperor never spared those who defied his orders—not even his most cherished right hand, greater than his own kin.

Knowing that better than anyone, would she really lead the punitive army back like this?

He never got an answer—not then, not now.

Because that person no longer exists here…

Yet precisely because she is gone, the flame rooted deep within his mind burns even more vividly, more brightly, within the profound darkness.

“Solace… are you at peace now?”

Frost let out a hollow laugh. Standing at the crossroads where one more step decides life or death—why do I think only of you?

“Solace…”

If I laid down this heavy burden—if I abandoned everything: the safety of the North I longed so desperately to protect, my vengeance for my parents’ deaths, the hopes of those loyal souls who gave their lives for me—

And simply said, “I want to find peace beside you”—what would you answer?

Would you mock me as a fool? Offer your hand and say, “Come with me”? Or scold me back to my senses?

[Frost Eelheim! You idiot, open your eyes!]

A stranger’s voice reached him from afar, like a hallucination.

“Who… is that?”

[Let’s both live—just open your eyes, please!]

“How unbearably noisy.”

Yet for some reason, a strangely nostalgic ache welled up deep in his chest.

“Your Highness! Your Highness!”

This time, the desperate voices of familiar companions struck his ears from much closer.

Slowly, Frost opened his eyes, revealing feverish blue irises.

“Oh, Your Highness!”

Rosalynne collapsed onto the floor, tears streaming down her face.

Alexis, staring disbelievingly at his master’s wounds as the physician cleaned them, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked hard. Just for an instant, beneath the deep crimson gashes, a faint green luminescence flickered like a mirage before vanishing.

“That was definitely…!”

That was unmistakably where countless silver needles had pierced his master’s abdomen—the lingering trace of Lady Yuriella Grande’s mysterious healing!

*

“…Is he dead? Why haven’t we heard anything?”

Beyond the high barred window of the underground prison, dawn was already breaking. Despite it being midsummer, the North’s air felt as cold and desolate as early winter in the capital.

“Yuriella Grande! You’d have to be mad to do this!”

Instead of the awaited news of Frost, Marquis Grande stormed in first, swinging his cane.

-Thwack!

“You sent her to seduce the Grand Duke, only to turn him into a pincushion?”

The pain in my shoulder was so intense my body instinctively folded in half.

“What possessed you to do such a thing?”

Under the relentless rain of cane strikes, I collapsed onto the cold stone floor.

They say he earned the late Grand Duke’s deep favor by clubbing Zenith Mountain monsters to death with an iron mace—but the way he wielded his cane now was just as dazzling, as if gripping that mace once more.

“Father! At a time like this, does the reason matter? If the Grand Duke believes we hired an assassin, what then? We should kill this wretch ourselves and eliminate any future trouble!”

Dolman Grande, who had followed the Marquis inside, drew his sword and strode toward me.

Dolman’s eyes, fixed on the blade he held tightly, gleamed with a chilling, murderous intent.

That guy—he’s serious.

The most troublesome foes on the battlefield aren’t the brilliant enemy swordsmen—it’s exactly this type: allies with bad judgment but restless hands and feet.

Catastrophic accidents always come from such men.

Dolman Grande suddenly raised the sword he usually carried only for decoration.

“Wash away the dishonor you’ve brought upon our house with your blood!”