Chapter 335: Patty Grant
Hearing the attendant’s report and seeing the change in Lady Ropeni Grant’s expression, High Lord Gawain immediately guessed what had happened.
Just as he had suspected—Patty Grant was the daughter of the lord of the Grant territory. And judging by the girl’s current condition, which was far from good, her connection to the Sleeper’s mental network was likely related to her physical state.
Gawain masked the turmoil stirring inside him, wearing only a look of simple curiosity. “Lady Grant, what happened?”
“Please don’t worry. You may wait here for a moment,” Lady Ropeni controlled the worry on her face, bowed slightly to Gawain, and spoke in a low, hurried tone. “I need to step out briefly but will return soon.”
Gawain thought for a moment and nodded. “…Very well. Take care of your matters. Don’t mind us. But if you need any help, I’m always at your service.”
Lady Ropeni quickly thanked him and then hurriedly followed her attendants out of the reception room.
Gawain watched her figure disappear behind the door but restrained himself from asking further questions or expressing any desire to meet her daughter—it would be far too abrupt.
Patty Grant was probably only about ten years old. Gawain himself had just been resurrected not long ago and was currently a frontier duke pioneering the southern borderlands. Suddenly asking to meet the daughter of a single mother he barely knew would be suspicious. He certainly couldn’t just blurt out, “Hey, fellow countrywoman, I heard you have a daughter?”—that would ruin his reputation forever.
To avoid arousing Lady Ropeni’s suspicion or resistance, he needed to keep his words and actions natural. So, he silently watched her leave, confident he would find a chance to meet “Patty Grant” eventually.
After signaling for the noisy harps and lutes to quiet down, Gawain began to pace the reception room with growing interest, examining the collections and artworks from the former Viscount of Grant. As he studied these items, each bearing a distinct personal touch, he recalled the various accounts and rumors about the late Viscount—stories no more than a few years to a decade old, yet already twisted and absurd through the chaotic record-keeping and deliberate distortions of this era, as if they were dark legends passed down from centuries ago.
In these many versions, the former Viscount of Grant was portrayed as a madman tormented by evil spirits or hereditary illness, a man of both extraordinary intellect and mental instability. He amassed wealth through cunning but squandered it recklessly, ruining his family’s traditions and reputation, plunging his lands into chaos. Once a shining star among the young southern nobility and the ideal suitor in countless noblewomen’s dreams, he ultimately fell into an obsession with forbidden knowledge and perished in his own magical laboratory.
Gawain pieced together these half-true stories, many of which had been investigated by Amber’s agents. After reviewing them again, he turned to the half-elf who was licking her plate clean and nodded. “Are you full?”
“Full, full!” Amber patted her belly with a sheepish grin. “With that look on your face, I bet you’re about to send me on another errand.”
“Not too troublesome,” Gawain smiled. “Go to the castle gate and take a look at the door…”
Before the evening ball began, Lady Ropeni Grant reappeared before Gawain—though Amber returned to his side even earlier.
The lady bore a trace of fatigue, but her mood was clearly calmer. Gawain greeted her with natural curiosity. “I heard from the attendants earlier—Patty Grant is…?”
“My daughter,” Lady Ropeni said with a faint smile, the only time her expression softened and seemed genuine. “Her health isn’t good…”
“I hope she recovers soon,” Gawain said. “If there’s a chance, I’d like to meet her. There’s a rather skilled druid in my lands who might be able to help.”
Ropeni’s expression grew even gentler, and her tone more sincere. “Thank you for your kindness, but I’m afraid no druid can cure Patty’s illness. Of course, you may visit her. I think Patty would be very happy to meet someone as legendary as you—she often heard stories about you when she was little.”
The ball began as scheduled.
In the grandest banquet hall of Grant Castle, tables were laden with fine food and wine. Musicians supported by the Grant family played soothing Ansu court music from a wooden platform in the corner. Dressed in their finery, gentlemen and ladies entered the hall, engaging in the aristocratic social rituals of this lavish setting. The minor nobles and noble heirs from the surrounding Grant territory all kept an eye on the figure seated on the raised platform at the far end of the hall—occasionally glancing up to watch the conversation between Duke Cecil and Lady Grant, speculating on what they might be discussing.
Gawain was merely chatting casually with Ropeni. After observing the scale of the ball, the quality of the tableware, the number and attire of the musicians, he smiled and praised, “A fine ball.”
“It is an honor to receive such praise from you,” the lady replied. “I have done my utmost to make this ball worthy of your presence.”
Gawain nodded lightly. Then, at some moment, he noticed a subtle change in Ropeni’s gaze as she looked around the noble guests.
It was a deep hostility, disdain, and a flicker of near hatred.
The expression was well concealed; if Gawain hadn’t caught it, even his keen observation might have missed it.
A faint smile played on Gawain’s lips as he casually remarked, “How many of those here tonight were also at Count Karlov Hosman’s banquet ten days ago?”
Ropeni’s face stiffened for a moment, but the unease quickly vanished. She spoke calmly, “It seems that even after seven hundred years, nothing that happens on this land escapes your notice.”
“No, many things do,” Gawain said, “I just happened to learn about one or two afterward.”
“…Count Hosman stole wealth that rightfully belonged to you through dishonorable means. Fortunately, the Grant territory was not involved.” After a brief pause, the lady carefully avoided Gawain’s initial question, steering the conversation away from the nobles gathered here.
But Gawain wasn’t pressing the matter; he had only mentioned it in passing, gauging her reaction before pretending to forget it. Then, suddenly, he said, “Your husband, in my eyes, was a remarkable man.”
“…That remarkable man left me nothing but chaos.”
Gawain smiled faintly and turned to watch the southern nobles dancing gracefully in the hall, their elegant manners as if performing on a stage. Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to a shadowy figure standing in the crack of the banquet hall’s door.
He couldn’t make out what it was, but he knew someone was there—because beside him, Lady Ropeni had already risen, her face showing surprise, tension, and worry as she looked toward the same spot.
The lady seemed a bit at a loss. “Your Grace, please allow me to—”
Gawain stood as well. “No need to hesitate. Go ahead.”
Almost immediately, Lady Ropeni left her seat, swiftly crossing the side of the hall toward the main door. Gawain naturally followed.
Some guests noticed this and were surprised, but after Ropeni waved them off, the music resumed and the nobles stayed, though many’s attention had clearly shifted to the door, following the movements of Ropeni and Gawain.
Ropeni pushed open the banquet hall door. Gawain stood behind her, peering out.
Outside in the corridor sat a wooden chair on wheels. A slightly panicked maid stood behind it, and inside the chair was a small, curled-up figure.
The figure was a girl, draped in a white garment specially tailored with only one sleeve and a large opening at the waist—because her skin was fragile and ulcerated, she could no longer tolerate normal fabric. She sat crookedly in the chair, several leather straps securing her to prevent her from falling. Under her skirt, one leg had been amputated at the knee, the shriveled stump resting weakly on the chair. Half her torso looked as if it had been scorched by flames—skin blackened and wrinkled, cracked and scarred in layers, with a twisted mass of flesh and blood fused where her burned arm once was.
She was bound to the chair like a tattered doll, her head barely supported, trembling slightly as if struggling to hold her neck steady.
Yet her eyes were bright and curious, fixed on Gawain.
One-third of her face was marred by ugly, twisted purple scars, but she smiled—a happy, genuine smile.
“You’re really tall!”
Then she added, “Just like Dad in the stories!”
Gawain knelt before the chair so the little girl wouldn’t have to strain her neck. He looked into those bright eyes—the only part still exactly like the lively girl from the City of Dreams.
“Hello, Patty.”
(End of chapter)