Byletta heard gasps come from everyone in the room but the count.
Eventually, the pair found themselves before the house, standing in the lamplight. The count narrowed his eyes.
“Do you intend to fight dressed like that?”
While Byletta had changed out of her wedding gown, she was still wearing quite an elaborate dress. It was a floaty garment with a wide hem, prepared not through the count’s assistance, but by the Holland family themselves.
Since her parents had gifted it to her for her wedding day, Byletta had no intention of letting it get dirtied with blood. The material felt pricey—probably in deference to the status of her new in-laws—so there was no way she would ruin it with a stain as stubborn as that.
Perhaps that was why her family had prepared such a luxurious gown for her in the first place: to discourage this exact behavior. But as long as she subdued the count as cleanly as possible, things would be just fine.
“Don’t worry, I won’t blame it on my skirt if I lose. I’m actually rather used to fighting in dresses.”
“Hmph, you cocksure little girl! You may be itching to challenge me now, but when all is said and done, this will amount to no more than a schoolgirl’s jape. Young ladies like yourself should be seen and not heard. I’ll be taking no more of that lip.”
Count Swangan had whipped himself up into quite the rage by now, but it sounded like he hadn’t heard the full story of how Byletta and his son had come to be married. His poor relationship with his own child had left him ignorant of the martial conditions on which their match rested. But if he presumed that she was but a silly little girl, that would only work in her favor. His conceit was something she could take advantage of.
“Well, Father, I hope you don’t stoop low enough to wave away your own loss using a drunken slip of the hand as an excuse.”
“Ha-ha-ha! Don’t make me laugh, missy. You think you can best me? Hmph. If you could manage that, I’d give you anything you asked for.”
At first, all Byletta had wished for was that the count stop drinking, but now it seemed more could be on the table. If she could ask him for anything…there was a certain prize she wouldn’t mind winning.
As Byletta mulled over this new information, the count smirked.
“If you could best me. Once you are in the afterlife, I rather think you’ll regret making light of a veteran of the Imperial Army.”
It appeared the count had no intention of holding back. If he planned to make her rue her actions from beyond the grave, he’d have to place her in one first.
The count punctuated his threat by swinging his blade straight at her. Byletta parried the strike with her own weapon.
Even if Count Swangan was drunk, there was no way her strength could ever rival that of a grown man. All Byletta could do was block and parry, block and parry. Over, and over, and over again. It may not have resulted in the showiest swordplay, but the strategy was effective, and she’d been honing it for a long time—not that the count knew that. He tutted in frustration.
“Another parry? Is running away all you can do?”
“I thought that was what little girls did.”
The count’s attacks came quicker than Byletta had expected, but the man would’ve been no match for her colonel father. In fact, his technique was so bad that he would barely be able to rival her paper-pusher brother. Perhaps it was due to the drink? Whatever the case, his movements were easy to predict. Fighting him was like reading an open book.
Byletta abruptly thought back to the terms of her marriage contract. Her husband had been looking for a fearless, courageous, and physically strong individual who could be called a woman. At the time, it had sounded to her like he was looking more for a fellow soldier than a wife. Well, he’d certainly found one.
Byletta grew amused even as the count frowned. She hadn’t intended to make fun of him, but perhaps her mirth had shown on her face and given him the wrong impression.
The sound of the count’s sword swinging through the air seemed to gain a rougher edge. He was probably becoming more and more frustrated that he couldn’t put an end to the fight.
“You—!”
“Hyah!”
The count’s frustration had given Byletta an opening. Easily reading the trajectory of his maddened swings, she caught his sideswept sword with her own blade, springing it right out of his grasp. It drew a wide arc as it spun through the air, finally piercing the ground a short distance away.
Byletta’s blade glinted as she pressed it against the speechless count’s throat. “It looks like I’ve won, Father. See? We told you that you were drunk.”
“Urgh. Who…in the world…are you?!”
“Oh my, are you truly that drunk? I’m the blushing bride who arrived today to marry into your family, of course! Have you forgotten already?”
As Byletta smiled brightly, the wide-eyed count curled his lips in disdain.
But it was almost like he was sneering at himself. The desperation present in his mannerisms just a moment before vanished. Perhaps he had some underlying reason for resorting to drink…
Not that anything would excuse him from raising a hand to his wife and daughter.
“I see… So this is the sort of woman my son has chosen to wed. Very well, do as you please. What would you have from me?”
From the way the count was staring at her, it seemed he intended to keep the promise he made only moments ago.
“Let me see. Since you’re willing to humor me, I might as well take full advantage. It’s nothing special, but there is something trivial that I do wish for.”
“Well? Spit it out.”
“I would like a divorce. As soon as my husband is given leave to return from the front, I intend to notify him of my intentions. I’d like you to write a letter to be enclosed alongside mine that states your agreement on the matter. The use of your wax family seal would also help immensely.”
“What? A divorce…? You dare make light of the Swangan family? Our veins are flush with the blood of the old empire!”
“How strange. I wouldn’t expect someone like you, who served in the military, to value their lineage to such a degree.”