Turning Chapter 990
Time in the South was quickly coming to an end.
Most Cavalry members had already finished packing to depart. Some, having recovered early from their injuries, had left ahead of schedule to return to the Capital due to urgent matters.
However, those who had played key roles in the recent battle—including the vice commanders—remained. That included Commander Kishiar and his aide, Yuder. The reason was simple.
“Commander, an official invitation has finally arrived from House Hern.”
“Oh? It seems the Imperial couple have at last sent their reply.”
Mayra had finally found the time—and will—to prioritize her own matters, and thus the long-delayed succession ceremony was finally scheduled.
In the long history of the Empire, the succession ceremonies of the Four Ducal Houses stood apart. Though there were countless noble families, only those four had the right to formally request and receive letters of acknowledgment and congratulation from the reigning Emperor and Empress.
Of course, when relations between the throne and the duchies were poor, this tradition often turned into a battleground for political friction. When the aristocrats dominated, some Houses would intentionally not request the letters to insult the Crown; conversely, when the Emperor wanted to diminish their power, he might ignore the request entirely.
Yuder remembered how, in his previous life, Emperor Keillusa had clashed with the ducal factions in a cold, behind-the-scenes struggle.
But Mayra El Hern had no reason to provoke such a fight. She followed proper protocol, sending a letter to the Capital, and in return, the Emperor and Empress responded with warm blessings. In fact, the moment Mayra sent that letter, she’d already notified the Cavalry of the planned ceremony. Today’s invitation was just the formal seal on what had already been communicated.
Even without the ceremony, receiving the Emperor’s and Empress’s letters marked her as the next Duke. But to make it official—to show the world who now ruled House Hern—a public ceremony was still necessary.
Yuder looked down at the invitation he’d received. Written in Mayra’s own hand, it exuded the unmistakable dignity of the new Southern ruler. The quality of the paper, the ink, even the perfumed seal—all of it bespoke careful selection and deliberate pride.
She must want to show that, even after all that’s happened, the South has not collapsed. That it still stands strong.
But that wasn’t the only invitation Yuder had received. Alongside the elegant blue one for the succession ceremony was a black envelope: a funeral notice.
It would be held before the succession ceremony, at the same temple where the Second Prince of Hern had once been laid to rest. This time, two names were listed as the deceased.
One, of course, was the former Duke of Hern.
The other—was the Second Prince of Hern.
Nothing about this is subtle.
First, they were holding the ceremony in the same temple where the former Duke had died and which had suffered the worst damage during the Hailstorm. Most would’ve avoided the place. But Mayra insisted.
Second, both names were written side-by-side—something unthinkable in a society where higher rank or paternal status dictated precedence. To place the son beside the father was to intentionally diminish the father’s dignity. Or to elevate the son.
The answer is likely both.
Though the previous funeral for Second Prince Ashlav had been interrupted by tragedy, it had technically taken place. There would’ve been no objection if Mayra had left things as they were. But she was determined to see her brother properly honored. This double funeral not only affirmed her intent to conclude her brother’s rites but also broadcasted her disdain for her father’s legacy. It was a bold, symbolic act.
Kishiar, who held identical invitations, wore a faint, knowing smile. He clearly understood the statement Mayra was making—perhaps even appreciated it. There was something secretive and satisfied in his cold, amused expression.
“The ending of the silver desert fox, who loved hiding in his den and tormenting others... what a pitiful sight.”
Looking at that smile, Yuder asked a question that had suddenly come to mind.
“By the way... why was he called the ‘silver desert fox’?”
“In the Empire’s southern deserts, there’s an animal called the silver sand fox. Do you know its habits?”
“Not really.”
The silver sand fox was known in the South as a symbol of selfishness. It took over the dens of other animals, killed the original inhabitants, and even preyed on members of its own species. If a fox belonged to a different pack, it was hunted and devoured without hesitation.
Cruel, territorial, impossible to flush out once hidden—such was the leader of the fox pack.
Kishiar smiled with his eyes.
“Fitting, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
Just remembering what the man had done to his own children made the nickname feel well earned. Yuder figured he now understood what kind of life the late Duke had lived—how much of a thorn he’d been in the side of the Imperial family. He erased the man’s face from memory without regret.
“Well then, if we’re attending both ceremonies, our schedule will get quite busy.”
Kishiar set the letters down, as if he’d ever not been busy.
“The funeral and the succession. Probably the last major events we’ll see in the South before we leave. I’m truly looking forward to it. How about you, my aide?”
“Yes. I am as well.”
Kishiar’s red eyes softened, a playful warmth glimmering within them.
“You saw, of course, the line about how attendees may bring a partner to the succession banquet?”
“I did.”
“There’s only one person I can bring now. Makes it simple, doesn’t it?”
“......”
It was so very like him to say such a thing with that person sitting right in front of him. Kishiar rested his chin on both hands and looked at Yuder with expectation.
“If that’s the case... was there any need to read that line so carefully?”
After all, if one always has the same partner, there’s no need to bother reading or considering that part.
Kishiar blinked, briefly stunned by the deadpan jab—then burst out laughing and lowered his head.
“...You’re right. I read it for no reason. I concede.”
“......”
“Shall we make the afternoon an outing then, to get everything ready?”
That “getting ready” part was always such a hassle. But knowing how much Kishiar enjoyed preparations, Yuder simply nodded.
“Yes. I’ll prepare.”
***
A few days later, beneath a clear blue sky with not a cloud in sight—
A solemn funeral was held at the grand temple in Sharloin.
Most had expected the ceremony to take place elsewhere, since parts of the temple had yet to be fully repaired after the Hailstorm. But Mayra, the new head of House Hern, insisted it be held there.
Her reason became clear from the crowd that gathered.
On the day of the Hailstorm, many commoners had come to that temple—but their mood had been dark, tense, anxious. This time, though, the people’s expressions were calm, composed, even peaceful.
Most of the flowers they offered were not in the name of the late Duke, but instead for Second Prince Ashlav—or signed simply under Mayra’s name as the new head of House Hern. The sight left a quiet message for the loyalists of the former Duke.
These offerings weren’t for the dead Duke.
They were for Mayra—for the one who had honored her promise to the southern people on the day of the storm. For the South, which had overcome its hardships.
The ceremony inside the temple was also markedly different from before. The number of attendees was far smaller, and there was none of the noise from the previous funeral. Ashlav’s biological mother had taken her inheritance and left after the Duke’s death—she didn’t attend.
The priest conducted the rites in a brief, solemn manner. The coffins were carried away, disappearing beneath the temple one after another.
Everyone noticed: Ashlav’s eulogy was longer and far more heartfelt than the former Duke’s. But no one objected. The Duke’s death faded into nothingness, even overshadowed by his son’s memory.
Afterward, Mayra greeted guests, a light smile visible beneath her veil. When she saw Kishiar and Yuder, her welcome was visibly more sincere than with anyone else.
“Honestly, I sent the invitation, but I didn’t expect you to come all the way here.”
“Oh, come now. After all we’ve been through together? How could we not come?”
Mayra smiled at Kishiar’s easy reply.
“Thank you. I hope you’ll attend the succession ceremony as well, to make it all the more special.”
“Of course. We’ll celebrate in the Emperor’s stead.”
After a few more polite exchanges, they bid farewell. Only then did Mayra speak about her father for the first and last time.
“Children born into House Hern often die young. Because of that, the Duke believed it /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ was his duty to father as many heirs as possible. He pitied himself for that burden—but he never tried to rise above it. I won’t live for things that meaningless.”
“Then, Lady Mayra,” Kishiar asked, “what do you believe is meaningful?”
Mayra responded quietly, but with heartfelt conviction.