During the subsequent days after meeting Countess Cliossa, Victor endeavored to meet with the count and clarify matters related to his upcoming marriage. Questions stirred by his grandmother prompted him to ponder: why exactly should he wed Sylvia?
The sole reason he discerned was that his father seemed reluctant, though the precise motive eluded him.
Not that he opposed marrying the duchess outright—it offered numerous advantages. His concern centered elsewhere: specifically, what transpired after the current duke's demise.
With the duke alive, Sylvia would remain merely Victor's wife. Posthumously, however, as duchess, circumstances changed drastically. She'd return to her ancestral lands, leaving Baltas to dissolve, forcing the lord to relinquish his territory.
Had they been equals in status, Sylvia might reside on her husband's lands, with the duchy serving as an enclave within Baltas, eventually inherited by offspring—not as a duchy, but a marquisate.
Current realities complicated matters. Baltas belonged to Shermain, demanding its return upon elevation to dukedom—a prospect Victor steadfastly opposed.
Under Leomville's suzerainty, Baltas would lie abandoned, transferred to a future heir.
Adding to the confusion, his domain spanned hundreds of miles from the duchy, invalidating claims to duchy lands altogether.
Several solutions crossed his mind: First, elevating himself to dukehood, matching Leomville's status. Easier said than done—he'd require substantial lands, endorsement from the council of nobles, and royal sanction. None would acquiesce without incentives.
Failing that, Victor considered another path: principality.
Distinct from dukedom, he could capture vacant lands, backed by sufficient military might, appealing directly to the empire for recognition. Advantageous, as it encircled Lantaris, but transparently obvious to the kingdom itself.
Thus, viable options dwindled.
Ultimately, his final resort rested on raw power.
Raise an army, augment his influence, and upon attaining dukedom, crush Leomville's vassals, effectively usurping regency.
Most practical, given funds and troops, he could bribe compliant vassals, coercing resistance. Timelines, resources, and expenses loomed indefinite.
Head throbbing from these deliberations, Victor faced his reflection in a copper mirror, surrounded by bustling servants dressing him for the big day. Overwhelmed, he found solace in the uniform—a tailored military outfit with a white sash draped over his shoulder, suspending a sword.
Preferring this attire to frivolous finery, he verified his appearance with LuLu, satisfied, then proceeded outside to the waiting carriage.
Guests had assembled at the count's primary palace, where he'd receive his new crest and vicomte title, followed by an evening nuptial ceremony.
Procedure mystified him, as neither experience nor memory provided context.
Lost in thought, he reached the palace exterior, greeted by an honor guard of the count's knights, tasked with escorting him.
Briefly surveying attendees, he boarded the carriage and departed.
Upon arrival, Victor disembarked before the palace, greeted by four knights who escorted him through a long corridor, terminating in the count's throne room.
Gray walls accented the modest throne, contrasting starkly with the opulent counterpart at the ducal palace.
Vassals surrounded the hall, exclusive to shermain nobility, excluding outsiders as an internal affair.
Spotting familiar faces amid the crowd, he located Baron Klint, animatedly engaging fellow noblemen, and Selitas, flanked by ladies, feigning mirth.
Klint, formerly an outcast, now dominated high society via lavish spending.
Selitas preferred female company, reveling in life's pleasures, resonating more with Victor. Unlike Hector, the unfortunate baron presided over a moribund territory and starving populace, only recently recovering.
Eyeing Hector's brazen swagger, surrounded by beauties, Victor yearned to strike him but diverted his gaze to a lone figure nearby.
Clad in a fitted fish-tail gown, Linea captured his attention. Pale, refined, her petite frame accentuated by the fabric, contrasting sharply with Shona's voluptuous curves.
Daydreams swept him away, envisioning an intimate scene with Linea, until coughing jolted him back to reality.
Straightening, he observed Count Alexander seated on the throne, flanked by his wife Melisa in a smaller adjacent chair. Next to them stood Andreas, dressed identically to Victor, radiating attractiveness.
Uniforms varied minimally: Andreas wore golden sashes, while Victor's white sash hosted a richly ornamented blade.
Both sported tailcoats with trailing tails, tight-fitting pants tucked into knee-high boots crafted from deer hide, accessorized by lace cravats.
Refocused, Victor approached the throne, kneeling on his right knee, hushing the hall.
The count's steward materialized, unfurling a scroll detailing the lord's accomplishments. Required reading validated Victor's promotion.
Listed absurdly, he grasped half the narrative: borderland monster extermination, bandit suppression, famine relief, mythril ore discovery.
"What, to paint me in a brighter light?"
Interrupted by the steward requesting his sword, seal, and crest, confirmation vanished.
This new title wasn't hierarchical; rather, a lateral appointment unrelated to prior service.
Knighthood permitted immediate ennoblement to vicomte, contrary to fairytales where soldiers earned dukedom by capturing monarchs.
Ridiculous fantasy, Victor scoffed inwardly, acknowledging its theoretical possibility.
Handing over his sword, crest, and the scroll sealed by the count, he watched expectantly.
All eyes awaited his kneeled declaration.
— I, Victor Baltas, swear to defend House Shermain at any cost! Obey the count's commands; tell him only truths! In battle, follow orders; demonstrate valor; eschew cowardice; if defeated, endure pain silently, refrain from begging mercy.
Victor rehearsed this oath tirelessly, relieved to recite it flawlessly.
Rising, the count wielded a ceremonial blade, conferring it upon Victor's shoulders. Sword restored to the steward, the count retrieved a scroll, awarding Victor a silver-emblazoned sword and crest.
— By decree of Shermain, I, Count Alexander Shermain, hereby confer upon you the title Vicomte Victor Baltas. Rise!
Standing erect, Victor unsheathed his new blade, displaying his elevated status to spectators.
Bowing respectfully to the smiling count, he approached Linea, isolated near the wall.
Episodically glancing her way, he noted noblemen approaching, receiving polite rejections.
— Lady, may I join you? — Victor queried courteously, maintaining decorum.
— Congratulations, your excellency, — she greeted him enthusiastically.
Together, they received felicitations from visiting nobles, keen to cultivate rapport with the newly titled vicomte. Predictably, discussions revolved around commerce opportunities within Baltas.
Hours passed in similar fashion. Guests mingled, imbibing freely, until the count vacated his throne. Announcement of adjournment rippled through the hall.
Attendees migrated to the reception hall, reserved for Victor's wedding guests.
Decorated spaciously, columns lined the expansive chamber, enhancing structural integrity. Floor-to-ceiling crystal windows overlooked the palace gardens, breathtakingly illuminated by embedded magic crystals lining walls and ceiling.
Foreign to both him and the former inhabitant, Victor surveyed the venue with childlike wonder.
Shermain and Leomville vassals bisected the hall from the foyer's doors, awaiting the arrival of the principal participant—or rather, participants—and soon the herald announced the duke and his daughter's entrance.
Murmur filled the hall, intensifying anticipation. Moments later, silence reigned as a tall gentleman in white uniform escorted a green-clad lady into view.
Their magnetic presence owed much to ethereal golden locks, refracting light from magic crystals, producing a halo-like glow.
Sylvia's emerald bodice, interwoven with gold thread, complemented her diadem, though Victor's gaze fixed on her necklace.
Certainly his gift, crafted by the master jeweler, its absence at the earlier meeting struck him.
Recall prompted a search for Cliossa, locating her in a distant corner, sipping wine. Dressed for evening, she remained ravishing, commanding male attention.
Aware of her grandson's regard, she lifted her glass in subtle toast.
Returning focus to his bride, he witnessed the processional couple traverse the carpeted aisle toward the count.
Duke yielded Sylvia's arm to the count, prompting the herald to announce Victor.
Courtesy dictated bowing to Linea before advancing.
Positioned before the count, Victor received her hand without hesitation.
Precisely then, an oppressive aura enveloped the palace, compelling everyone to kneel, including the duke.
Disoriented, Victor glanced around, noting universal submission.
Seconds later, intensity peaked, bending heads collectively, even the duke succumbing.
Perplexed, Victor whispered urgently to the kneeling count.
— What's happening?
— Legendary knight's aura, — Alexander murmured tersely, shooting a questioning glance at the duke, who nodded in affirmation.
Immobilized by compulsion, Victor observed servants genuflecting voluntarily.
Suddenly, a breeze whirled through the hall, carrying audible whispers.
— The king is dead!
Echoing resonance faded, but knees remained grounded, acknowledgment confirmed.
Personally delivering news nationwide, the kingdom's legendary knight demonstrated extraordinary potency.
Victor marveled at the overwhelming force able to immobilize even a wizard like Leomville thousands of miles distant.
Earlier, he dreamed of marshaling armies, establishing a principality. Now, confronted by this power, he comprehended the futility of opposing the kingdom militarily.