Chapter 69

While Elwin stared about in a daze, Leon spoke without a moment’s hesitation. He seized Elwin by the wrist, his movements possessed of an extraordinary, clinical precision. As one might expect of a man native to the capital, Leon navigated the station’s labyrinthine layout with effortless command. He threaded through the intricate, bustling concourses in a single breath, ultimately securing a hired carriage just outside the terminal. With Elwin trailing in his wake, he skirted the sunlight, choosing to linger in the shadows like a scout navigating hostile territory.

This performance stood in stark contrast to his behavior in Ravenwell, where he had flaunted vibrant, expensive attire, grinning broadly while exchanging pleasantries with all manner of folk. Clearly, some hidden agenda compelled him to elude the public gaze within the capital.

Two possibilities presented themselves. Either he was a public figure whose visage was far too recognizable, or he occupied a station he dared not reveal to the masses. Which was it? Elwin’s imagination began to swirl like rising steam. He leaned toward the former theory, given Leon’s refined education and evident wealth, but his musings were cut short as Leon removed his hat and scarf, finally drawing a full breath.

“The lodgings surrounding the station are far too chaotic,” Leon said, his tone measured. “I thought we might seek a quieter district a little farther out. What do you think?”

Elwin nodded, shifting his gaze toward the carriage window. Though this was no pleasure excursion, it marked his debut in the capital, and he felt a desperate need to observe the cityscape. Gracefield, the capital, was a center of commerce and transport of international renown. He had heard tales of the bustling streets near the royal palace, teeming with wide boulevards where automobiles reigned and shops overflowed with the latest fashionable luxuries.

Yet, the carriage seemed to be retreating from the lively core. To Elwin’s knowledge, the central district occupied the southern expanse relative to the train station, but they were traveling steadily northward. The roads constricted, and the well-dressed throngs seen at the terminal vanished, replaced by laborers in rough-spun clothes. The inn they soon reached possessed a polished entrance, yet its signboard and weathered outer walls suggested a modest, aging structure.

Good, Elwin thought, relief washing over him. He had feared the central district’s inns would prove ruinously expensive. Their coffers were already strained, and with unforeseen expenses mounting, he was in no position to reject a shabby establishment. Seeing Leon look far more relaxed than he had amidst the station crowds, Elwin strode toward the reception desk. But then…

“Oh! My lord, you are…!”

The innkeeper’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. Elwin immediately thought, I knew it. Leon is famous! To his utter shock, however, the innkeeper had fixed his gaze upon Elwin instead.

“Are you not Sir Elwin of Ravenwell?”

Hearing his own name articulated with such clarity left Elwin feeling as though he were trapped in a dream. He pushed up his spectacles, squinting to determine if this man was a phantom from his past, but the innkeeper remained a complete stranger. Even so, the man scrambled from behind the desk with a jubilant expression, as if he had been anticipating this very moment.

Bewildered, Elwin could only blink, rendered mute by the confusion. Even more astonishing was the reaction of the other guests; upon hearing the innkeeper’s outburst, those dining in the common room began to murmur, gravitating toward Elwin like moths to a flame.

“My word, is that the young lord from the count’s estate?”

“He is even prettier in the flesh. How pitiful, to think someone like him endured such humiliation.”

“Exactly. He looks even younger than in the newspaper. Tsk, tsk.”

Unable to parse the meaning behind their mutterings, Elwin stammered, his voice sounding hollow. “Um, what do you mean by newspaper…?”

“You were not aware? The capital has been in an absolute uproar over your plight for days, Young Master. Look here.”

The innkeeper presented a newspaper that had been resting on the desk. It was The Sunday Whisper, a scandal sheet voraciously consumed by the common folk for its sensationalist tales. On the front page, Elwin’s photograph was splashed in prominent detail, crowned by a lurid, bold-faced headline.

Even as Elwin scanned the ink-stained letters, he struggled to fathom the existence of such a piece. The article chronicled his life in agonizing detail, tracing the timeline from his father’s untimely demise to the present. It spoke of how, under the law that barred omegas from inheriting titles, he was on the verge of being driven from his ancestral estate. It even chronicled how the second son of the branch family’s barony had usurped the title of heir, tyrannized the count’s estate, and eventually absconded with the seal and the deed.

The revelation burned with unbearable humiliation. That his seal had been pilfered right before his eyes was now common public knowledge. Worse yet, the article wallowed in his misfortune, labeling him a pitiful Omega beauty and highlighting his lovely appearance, complete with an accompanying photograph.

“What on earth is happening? How could The Sunday Whisper have uncovered my story?”

“It is not merely The Sunday Whisper that published the article, Young Master,” his companion interjected. “It appeared in The Crown Herald as well, and The Daily Journal printed an even larger photograph. Look here!”

“The City chose not to run the photograph, despite the fact that it would have certainly spiked their circulation figures. Those people are far too hidebound and old-fashioned for their own good.”

“You read dry rags like The City? No, this is no time for such discourse. I must contact my wife at once; she must know the young lord from the newspaper has arrived in person.”

It seemed that articles concerning Elwin were saturating every corner of the media, from low-brow gossip sheets to the prestigious broadsheets backed by royal foundations. The patrons in the dining room, brandishing their newspapers like weapons, began to murmur and stir, their eyes darting toward him with the intent of summoning even more onlookers.

Though Elwin could not comprehend how the situation had spiraled so far, the prospect of being swarmed by the entire neighborhood compelled him to seek refuge. He turned to the innkeeper with a desperate plea.

“I intend to stay here for the time being. Please, I require a room.”

“Two rooms, if you would be so kind,” Leon added, stepping in from behind to assert the count.

Since they had shared a single room throughout their entire journey from Addlington, a strange pang of disappointment needled at Elwin’s chest. Yet, Leon’s judgment proved impeccable. The moment he spoke, the room fell into a heavy silence, the patrons sweeping their gazes over him as if scrutinizing the mysterious escort accompanying the destitute young lord.

The pair claimed their keys and retreated to the second floor. Elwin’s hands felt heavy, weighed down by the snacks gifted by the innkeeper and a thick bundle of newspapers cataloging his own ruin.

It felt entirely surreal. The article was far too granular, far too precise, to be dismissed as a mere accumulation of idle rumors. Furthermore, the simultaneous publication across multiple outlets could not be attributed to blind coincidence.

Above all else, the photograph was the smoking gun. Newspaper printing required the commission of expensive, labor-intensive engraved plates. There was no plausible way these institutions could have sourced such materials naturally.

Someone who possesses intimate knowledge of my household and a portrait of my likeness must have commissioned these pieces. They had to organize several engravings in an impossibly short timeframe.

The servants left at the main house had promised to exhaust every avenue, but the staff at Ravenwell lacked the reach to launch a campaign of this magnitude. Among those in his immediate orbit, only one individual possessed the guile and the resources to execute such a maneuver.

Just before slipping into his room, Elwin checked the corridor for eavesdroppers before cornering his companion. “Did you acquire my photograph from my father?”

Just as he had during their three-question game in the greenhouse, Elwin dispensed with the formalities and struck directly at the heart of the matter. The image in the article had been among the personal effects his father took to Savar. Leon’s initial greeting—the comment that Elwin was as beautiful as he had heard—had not been mere flirtatious banter, but a calculated observation born of having already seen the portrait.

“To be precise, I obtained it from Mr. Dale before departing Ravenwell, simply in case it might prove advantageous. How are you always so blindingly brilliant?” Leon whispered, his eyes dancing with keen interest as if gauging the depth of Elwin’s deduction.

Leon’s expression remained infuriatingly placid, as if he viewed Elwin as little more than a charming curiosity. While Elwin’s pulse quickened under that intense gaze, he could not help but bristle.

“Why could you not have asked my permission first?”

Elwin understood the necessity of the article’s uncomfortable tone. To galvanize the public, one required a sensationalized narrative, a tragic Omega to stir the hearts of the masses. Moreover, the piece did not merely portray him as a powerless victim; it painted him as a capable, promising manager of his estate, one who had earned the genuine trust of his people in his father’s absence.

Recognizing that Leon’s strategy had, in its own cynical way, been correct, Elwin felt his resolve falter. He stumbled over his rebuttal, his voice trailing into silence. Leon bowed his head with studied, polite contrition.

“I apologize if I have caused you distress. It would have been the proper course to seek your consent, but I knew you would have forbidden it had I asked.”

It was a truth he could not deny. Had Elwin known, he would have stifled the report entirely. The realization that this man understood him so deeply, while Elwin remained ignorant of his own protector’s history, only fanned the flames of his irritation.

“…It is fine. You acted in my best interest, after all. For now, let us unpack and rest. I intend to visit the constabulary as soon as I am able.”

“The constabulary? In this sector, that would be the Northern Constabulary. Hm… I understand,” Leon replied, his voice hitching with a momentary, telling hesitation.

Leon’s reaction was deeply suspect, but Elwin chose not to press the issue and retreated into his room. Resolved to unmask Leon’s true identity through sheer, unyielding stubbornness, he began to mentally inventory the facts.

Leon was clearly wealthy; his family estate possessed a garden maze—a luxury of unimaginable scale. Elwin lacked experience with the capital, but he possessed a functional understanding of its geography and property values. The notion of such a sprawling, vast garden in the densely packed central districts, where land was worth more than gold, seemed impossible unless one were royalty.

Then there was the matter of the arrival. Upon entering the city center, Leon had instinctively shielded his face, only relaxing once they ventured into the rugged, industrial outskirts.

A memory surfaced: an old newspaper clipping detailing a sprawling smuggling syndicate gaining traction in the capital’s shadows, a group that had vexed the local authorities for years. Elwin’s mind snapped the pieces together with clinical efficiency.

Could he be masking his face because his true status is not respectable?