Intent
"Ian. My dear little boy. Ahem."
The tutor cleared his throat, stealing a glance at Ian.
Since the illegitimate child who received this letter was nearly illiterate, he must have asked someone else to read it aloud—most likely his tutor.
Ian rested his chin on his hand, eyes bright and innocent.
"Please continue reading, sir."
"Are you doing well where you are? Your mother is comfortable, thanks to Count Derga. I don't have to work anymore, and I'm happy every day. You too should study hard with gratitude toward the Count. Young Master Chel may be your half-brother, but don't forget that it's your duty to serve him. Be proud to be the symbol of peace between the families. Above all, build a strong bond with the Cheonryeo Tribe. You and Young Master Chel are the hope of future generations."
The tutor glanced sidelong at Ian as he read.
"And I have one favor to ask."
Ah, there it was—the real point.
"The Cheonryeo Tribe smokes something called gurut leaf instead of cigars. I've always wanted to try it myself. When you go there next year for your birthday, could you secretly bring me some seeds?"
Gurut leaf was a kind of stimulant used by the Cheonryeo.
They chewed it finely or rolled and smoked it. No one outside their tribe knew exactly what plant it came from or how it was made—it was one of their closely guarded secrets.
The only thing known for certain was that before battle, every warrior of the tribe would bite down on a leaf.
"And the flowers from the plant you cared for have finally bloomed. Once you cross the border, I suppose I'll never see you again."
"…Hmm."
"The last line says this: If this letter reaches you, write down a verse from the song I used to sing to you often. I'll always love you, my son."
It seemed clear—the dried petals in the pouch were her real gift.
And that last paragraph was the only part truly written by his mother.
She'd been clever enough to embed a kind of code, forcing the Count to continue delivering and collecting letters.
'So she mixed in a request to smuggle gurut seeds along with a real message…'
What puzzled Ian was Derga's approach.
Why go through such a roundabout scheme?
If he wanted to manipulate Ian, all he had to do was threaten his mother's life, as he always had.
There was no need for this elaborate ploy.
"Ian?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you. Please keep the letter a secret, won't you?"
"Of course."
Derga's hidden motive had to run deeper than this. Ian silently vowed to uncover it.
The tutor pulled out a clean sheet of parchment.
"Shall we write your reply today?"
"No, not yet. I have too much to say—I need to gather my thoughts first. Perhaps next time."
"I see. But your mother must be waiting for your response."
He's pressing me.
But even if Ian wanted to write, he couldn't.
He didn't know the lyrics to the song.
'If I write the wrong words, my mother will panic. She'll think something's happened to me.'
The chain that bound him also protected him.
If she misunderstood and took her own life… who knew how Derga might react to tighten his hold?
'Worst case, he might imprison me until the peace ceremony.'
Meeting her in person would be best.
Luckily, tomorrow was the luncheon with Lord Molin.
If he played his cards right, Ian could gain both an opportunity to leave the mansion—and insight into Derga's true intentions.
"Oh, Lord Molin."
"It's been a week, Count Derga."
As arranged, Molin arrived at the mansion with two attendants.
Both young and full of energy—clearly subordinates from the central administration under Molin's mentorship.
"An honor to meet you, my lord."
"Thank you for your hospitality."
The two men, introducing themselves as Mac and Dgorr, kissed the Countess's hand. Lady Mary smiled gracefully and presented her son, Chel.
"I do hope you enjoy your time here."
"Ah, this must be Young Master Chel. Then this one must be…?"
There was little room for confusion.
As rumored, Ian's golden hair shone like sunlight. The question was mere formality.
"I am Ian."
"A pleasure. I've heard much about you."
"Please, call me Mac, young master."
Chel's expression soured at being addressed the same way as Ian.
But what could he do? He couldn't protest in front of his elders—or Ian.
So he simply clung to his mother's side as they walked into the garden.
"As expected of the Bratz estate. The garden is magnificent."
"To receive such praise from someone of the capital—how fortunate I am today."
Their conversation was polite, subtly testing one another's poise.
There was no malice; it was simply the habitual dance of noble etiquette.
"Master, shall we serve the appetizers?"
"Yes."
At the butler's signal, servants wheeled in trolleys of dishes.
"What shall we have for the aperitif?"
"The weather's fine—let's go with sherry."
"And for you, Young Master Ian?"
At Mac's kind inquiry, Ian almost answered the same—but caught himself.
Sherry was white wine, and he was still too young to drink.
He smiled brightly and requested a fruit beverage instead.
"You look much better than you did last week," Molin said kindly, wiping his hands.
Though the boy was bound as a peace offering, to the old man he looked radiant, full of life.
"Perhaps because I was looking forward to today."
"Haha! Is that so?"
"I've always been curious about the capital. Last time, I talked too much about myself. Isn't that right, Father?"
At Ian's smooth remark, Derga cleared his throat and stroked his beard.
Meanwhile, the servants set out the drinks and a light salad.
"So, what is it you wish to know? Truthfully, the capital isn't so different—people live there as anywhere else. Still, I'm glad I brought Mac and Dgorr. An old man like me hardly understands the lives of the young."
Ian began with harmless questions—
what students in the capital studied, how they spent their leisure time, whether they'd ever seen a real mage.
At the mention of mages, Molin's and his attendants' eyes gleamed with interest.
"I'm especially curious about what people in the capital eat."
"The capital isn't particularly abundant or special. All local specialties from the provinces are sent directly to the royal palace. And there's almost no farmland in the central district."
"So merchants must handle nearly all distribution."
"Exactly. That's why famine in the capital comes not from barren soil, but from empty purses. One of the royal palace's roles is to balance supply and demand appropriately."
While Chel rolled his eyes and tried to show off, Ian conversed with relaxed confidence, steering the discussion with ease.
Mac and Dgorr exchanged meaningful glances.
'For a common-born bastard, he's remarkably sharp.'
His insight and focus were extraordinary for a child.
Ian cut his steak leisurely and added,
"Food is the foundation of all things. There should always be plenty of it. It would be wonderful if we could discover entirely new kinds of sustenance."
It was an unweighted remark — light, like idle talk about the weather.
Yet the moment Ian spoke, every adult at the table turned their attention to him.
Count Derga and the Countess wondered why he was suddenly being so talkative today,
while the guests — especially Lord Molin — found him intriguing.
"New kinds of food, you say. I'd like to hear more of your insight, Ian."
"It's hardly insight, my lord. Sometimes what we think inedible might turn out to be a valuable ingredient after all."
"Haha, could such a dreamlike thing truly happen?"
"One never knows. The starving don't discriminate in their hunger — they eat whatever they can. If we were to look closely, we might discover something worthwhile among it."
Ian didn't intend to reveal Gula just yet.
Not until the right opportunity presented itself.
Still, there was no harm in sprinkling a little bait — enough to spark curiosity.
Then Mac spoke up, as though a thought had just struck him.
"Now that you mention it, I've heard that in the slums, people make stew using discarded seafood shells. Supposedly, it's quite tasty. Have you ever tried it, Ian?"
It was the first time a sharp edge slipped into what had been a cordial conversation.
Ian — the bastard once raised in a brothel, the poorest of the poor — would certainly understand what that question implied.
'Ah, so that's how you want to play it.'
He hid a smile.
The central government and the border territories were in constant tension.
The imperial court had tacitly approved sending Ian, not Chel, as the peace offering.
But if, after joining the Cheonryeo Tribe, Ian's origins were questioned — if Bariel suffered losses because of it —
the central administration would have all the justification they needed to pressure the border lords.
So the meaning behind Mac's question was simple.
'Ian, aren't you just a slum-born bastard?'
They wanted him to confirm it himself — in front of three government officials from the capital,
making his background an unassailable fact.
"Ian? Sir Mac is speaking to you,"
the Countess prompted him gently, unaware of the political daggers hidden in each word.
Chel, too, seemed oblivious.
"Surely he must ha—"
"Chel!"
Derga's sharp voice cut him off before he could finish.
Clang! Chel flinched and dropped his fork in fright.
His father, however, remained calm, voice firm but cold.
"Sir Mac addressed Ian. It's rude to interrupt. Mind your manners."
In other words — shut your mouth.
Chel's face crumpled, and Lady Mary squeezed her son's hand beneath the tablecloth.
Her eyes flashed at her husband — Did you really have to shout? The boy's already shaken from last week's scolding!
"I've never had it," Ian replied, setting down his knife with deliberate composure.
"Really?"
"Yes. I was raised outside the mansion, but Father has always treated me with warmth.
Whatever anyone says, I am still a proud son of House Bratz."
"Oh-ho. Indeed you are."
Everyone knew it was a lie, but everyone pretended otherwise —
a strange little play in which all were willing participants.
Lord Molin smiled, clearly impressed.
A sudden strike, deftly parried — and elegantly so.
"I may not have tasted it yet," Ian continued, "but I'd like to, if ever I get the chance."
Count Derga frowned faintly but said nothing.
Ian's answer had been both polite and impeccable in timing.
"Is that so?"
"Of course. There's no such thing as nobility or baseness in what nature provides.
If something can ease hunger, isn't that reason enough to be grateful?
And they say it's delicious, too."
For a moment, Molin felt a strange sense of déjà vu.
He'd heard those exact words before, somewhere.
"You speak just like His Highness the Second Prince," said Dgorr, scratching where the old lord itched to remember.
'The Second Prince? Who would that be?'
From Ian's perspective — a man reborn centuries after his own reign — the current emperor was generations removed.
And princes? There were always too many of them to keep track.
"Prince Gale the Second," Dgorr explained. "He once said something very similar when discussing street food with the nobles.
Quite casually, too. Hah!"
They'd probably mocked him behind his back afterward —
that a prince of the realm would speak so lowly, without refinement.
Gale the Second… that name sounds familiar, Ian thought.
"I daresay the two of you would get along splendidly."
"Ian wouldn't dare presume such a thing," Derga interjected smoothly.
"No, no — I think it's a fine sentiment," Dgorr said with an easy grin, waving off the Count's concern.
And he meant it.
When tens of thousands starved to death each year, who could sneer at the idea of eating street food?
Survival came first.
"Ah, yes — appearances can be such a terrible prison," Dgorr mused.
"No matter how humble a dish may seem, if people buy it and eat it, doesn't that make it valuable in itself?"
"Indeed," Molin agreed. "But reality is cruel. Even commoners turn their noses up at food eaten by serfs."
At that, Lady Mary joined in.
"Even if a new crop were discovered, it would take ages before it became widespread, wouldn't it?"
It was a decent observation — but not quite correct.
Ian found himself shaking his head.
"No, Mother. That's not the real issue."
"Oh? Then what do you think, Ian?" Molin asked, tone deliberately probing.
Ian only smiled, as if to say, Surely you already know the answer, my lord.