007 Unexpected Reunion
It was Ron’s first time attending a formal ball, and the sheer grandeur of the Harle Mansion left him more uneasy than any dungeon he’d ever walked into. The chandeliers above glowed like clusters of stars, casting warm light over the checkered marble floors, polished to a mirror’s sheen. Curtains of velvet framed the tall windows while decorative columns flanked the walls like sentinels, giving the entire hall an air of ceremonial gravity. Staff bustled quietly in preparation, carrying trays, arranging candles, adjusting the floral centerpieces along the edges… but aside from them, there were few guests in sight.
“We arrived too early,” Bret murmured as he glanced around, adjusting his grip on the ribbon-bound books. His voice lowered in the quiet tension of the moment. “Are you nervous?”
Ron nodded, his tone honest but restrained. “Yes.”
“You don’t show it,” Bret said, though the side glance he gave Ron suggested he meant it as both a compliment and a warning. Ron merely offered a faint shrug, the painting still covered in linen tucked beneath his arm.
From the top of the central staircase, an elegant woman descended with practiced grace, each step a soft whisper of satin against the stone. Her gown shimmered in a dark wine-red hue, patterned subtly with golden embroidery that caught the light. She had an air of quiet power about her… the type of presence that could silence a room without raising her voice. Her dark brown hair was styled in waves that framed her oval face, and her features were composed in the way of someone used to being seen, admired, and evaluated. A string of pearls hung from her neck, complementing her high collar and long sleeves that spoke more of refined taste than opulence.
Bret leaned toward Ron, his voice a quick but quiet rush. “Diane Welfer Harle. Commoner by birth, alumni of the College of Arts. They say her voice could’ve shaken kingdoms if she hadn’t married into the Harle line. The Art World still mourns what she could’ve been… a bard, a legend… but instead, she became the wife of Count Harle. Sharp as a knife, and far more dangerous than she lets on.”
Ron barely caught all of that, but he nodded subtly, keeping his eyes forward. Diane’s gaze settled on the pair of them, and her smile came slowly but not unfriendly.
“Oh my,” she said, her voice like a flute over still water, “hopefully you’re not badmouthing me with your friend there, Mister Beck. And you—” her gaze turned to Ron, her eyes briefly tracing his posture, his clothes, and the covered painting beneath his arm, “—such a roguish look. You’d look fine in a painting, sword in hand, tragedy behind your eyes.”
Ron couldn’t help the small, nervous breath he exhaled. He had interacted with nobles before, but never in a place like this… “I am grateful for your praise,” he added hastily.
Bret cleared his throat and gestured toward Ron. “May I present Ronald Retsej… an aspiring writer and, more notably, a landed honorary knight.”
Diane blinked, clearly amused. “Landed? Honorary knight? Writer? That’s the strangest combination of words I’ve ever heard. Did he slay a dragon with a quill?”
Ron found the courage to speak, shaking off the edge of nervousness. “Please, call me Ron. And we can do without the honorary part…”
Bret’s head snapped toward him with the quiet fury of a man watching his friend trip over royal protocol. “Sir Retsej,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “this is a formal event. Doing without your title implies a degree of closeness that could be… misinterpreted. Mrs. Harle is a married woman… married to a Lord, no less! People talk, and not kindly.”
Realizing his mistake, Ron quickly bent into a clumsy bow, one arm awkwardly keeping the painting steady as the other crossed his chest. “Apologies, my lady. I meant no disrespect.”
His etiquette had always been lacking, and for good reason. Nobles rarely came with kind words or humble hearts in his past. Most of his conversations with their kind had been tense exchanges… barbed, rigid, or thoroughly one-sided. He hadn’t expected… warmth.
Diane didn’t look offended. If anything, she appeared amused by his struggle. “You are forgiven, Sir Retsej,” she said with a playful emphasis on the title. “But let us continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable. Say, the retiring room? It’s far less stiff there, and I find the company more honest.”
Bret gave a deep nod, his voice calm but deferential. “We gladly accept your invitation, Lady Harle.”
The polished clack of their boots echoed softly as the three made their way through the arched corridor of the Harle Mansion’s inner wing. Compared to the grandeur of the ballroom, this space felt surprisingly subdued. The room they entered had the scent of old books and pipe smoke, with faint traces of lavender drifting in from a nearby vase. The furniture was modest but refined… There were velvet-cushioned chairs, a long tea table of dark oak, and thick curtains drawn half-closed against the light. There were only a few decorations: a faded landscape painting, a grandfather clock ticking steadily in the corner, and a sword mounted above the mantel, clearly dulled from disuse.
In the middle of the room, seated with one leg crossed over the other, was a broad-shouldered man whose presence seemed to shrink the furniture around him. His hair, a deep shade of black streaked faintly with gray, was combed back neatly, accentuating a strong brow and stern jawline. A trimmed beard gave his face an air of authority, though there was something approachable in the way his eyes crinkled with warmth. He wore a navy-blue coat with gold lining over a high-collared vest, sleeves tucked into leather cuffs, and a silver signet ring glinting on his finger… It was Count Harle in appearance, but something about the set of his shoulders and the way he rested one hand over his knee gave Ron a strange sense of familiarity.
Diane gestured with a soft smile. “My dear husband, we have guests…”
Bret leaned closer to Ron and whispered with subtle reverence, “It’s Count Derek Harle, let’s pay our respects-”
But Ron’s eyes widened before Bret could continue. “It’s… you?” His voice cracked with disbelief.
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The man on the sofa blinked, then covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Yes, it’s me,” he admitted with an awkward grin.
Ron let out a breath that turned into incredulous laughter. “I thought you died!”
“Rude,” Derek muttered, though a chuckle followed behind the word.
The air between them shifted, nostalgia blooming like a half-forgotten melody.
———
Years ago, Derek had worn no noble garb… just plain, battered armor and a cloak so tattered it could barely billow. He had fought like a man possessed, dual-wielding blades with a discipline and ferocity that could put military instructors to shame. The enemy had been mercenaries, hardened killers paid to silence their charge, a bratty young princess with delusions of romantic danger. What was supposed to be a simple escort job had turned into a small war. One of the mercs, a famed swordsman known for dueling nobles, had cut through half the vanguard.
Ron remembered how they split up to throw off pursuit. He and the princess had made it out, waiting at the rendezvous for three days. But Derek never came.
———
“Motherfucker…” Ron shook his head, the grin still on his lips. “I thought you were dead. We waited three days out there.”
“I came… eventually,” Derek said sheepishly. “Took me a week. Got run through the ribs and woke up in a hermit’s shed. Not my proudest moment.”
Ron chuckled, but the emotion underneath was real. “I’m glad you’re alive. But really? You, a noble? I never dared imagine. To think an old man like you—”
“I’m not old!” Derek’s protest was immediate. “I’m thirty-eight, dammit!”
Ron leaned in slightly, a smirk tugging at his face. “That’s plenty old.”
Derek scoffed but then pointed at Ron’s clothes with a raised brow. “You kept it?”
Ron glanced down at the vest and short cloak. They were the same ceremonial garments Derek had forced on him back then, before a formal meeting with a noble they were meant to impress. “I had nothing better to wear,” Ron muttered, clearly a bit embarrassed.
“How long’s it been?”
“Five years,” Ron answered quietly.
Diane cleared her throat with a delicate but pointed cough. “Husband, dear… It seems you have a lot of catching up to do with this fine young man.” Her voice carried more sharpness now, as if measuring how long she should keep pretending to be patient.
Derek stood up and clapped Ron on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “Don’t be so cold. This here’s an old friend from my adventuring days.”
Diane’s expression shifted, her smile turning paper-thin. “Adventuring? You mean when you were off pretending to be a wayward hero, shirking responsibilities while I handled everything here? Huh. That’s some adventurer.”
She didn’t wait for a response, simply turned and glided out of the room with a flick of her gown. The door clicked shut behind her.
A thick silence settled, filled only by the faint tick of the clock.
Bret adjusted his collar awkwardly and cleared his throat. “Well, I believe that’s my cue to give you two the room.” He turned and followed Diane’s example, though with a bit less grace and considerably more speed.
"You sure have grown up, kid… Sit, sit!" Derek gestured animatedly to the seat across from him, his voice booming with the easy confidence of someone used to commanding a room.
Ron did as told, lowering himself onto the cushioned sofa. He gently set the covered painting down beside him. The room’s quiet warmth contrasted starkly with the tension he’d carried since walking through the mansion’s doors. He had not expected a reunion, much less with the man he once thought dead.
As Ron settled, Bret re-entered the room, awkwardly handing the stack of ribbon-tied books. He left two on a side table and dragged the last one under his arm with a mix of dignity and clumsiness. Shooting Ron a glare that practically said, 'You better sell those books to him,' he gave a sharp bow to Derek, then turned on his heel and retreated, leaving the two men alone.
Derek leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “So what brings you here?” he asked.
Ron blinked. “Huh? It should be me asking… stuff. What the hell happened to you?”
“Five years ago,” Derek began with a sigh, “I quit adventuring. That escort mission was my swan song. I promised my wife I’d hang it up after that. So I came back home bleeding all over the place and dragging half the forest with me. You should’ve seen her face when I walked through the door. I think she was ready to kill me before she healed me.”
He chuckled before continuing. “My father passed away that same year. He used to be the Viscount of Harle. Of course, retired. He had relinquished the position to me for some time now, but… It was a long story... I was in a somewhat rebellious phase then. I know, I know… I might be too old for rebelling against my parents, but I’ve wanted to be free.”
Derek sighed.
“With the whole mess involving the princess, and how you managed to get her to safety, the court thought it wise to elevate my standing. So here I am… a Count now, somehow. But I owe that title to you. If you hadn’t delivered the girl to the border, and if the Empire had lost one of their own on our soil, we’d have been crushed. You saved more than her life, you know.”
Ron leaned back, arms crossed. “I just did what needed doing.”
“What about you?” Derek asked, shifting in his seat. “What happened?”
“I retired,” Ron replied flatly. “Stopped adventuring half a year ago. Been staying here in Harle for a little over a month.”
Derek narrowed his eyes. “Wait. How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three.”
“What the hell?” Derek’s eyes nearly bulged out. “What happened? Was it an injury? Did someone throw you out of the guild? Just give me the word, and I’ll—”
“Hold your horses, old man,” Ron cut in with a tired smile. “I retired because I never wanted to be an adventurer in the first place.”
“But you had so much potential,” Derek said, clearly frustrated. “You’ve got the fastest damn legs I’ve ever seen. Where’ve you even been staying? I haven’t seen you at any of the inns.”
“I have land,” Ron answered simply.
That made Derek pause. “Huh? That can’t be. Harle hasn’t granted land to anyone in a hundred years.”
“It wasn’t Harle that gave it. It was the princess.” Ron ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how it happened exactly. One day, a courier found me, handed me a scroll with a deed and a letter. Boom. Honorary knighthood, land, and a name.”
Derek’s eyebrows raised high. “You’re… Ronald Retsej?”
Ron nodded.
“Well, hell,” Derek said with a slow grin. “Now things make sense. A few years back, I got a formal letter from the princess herself… unbelievably official… asking me to sign off on a land grant to someone named Ronald Retsej. I didn’t even connect the dots. The request came through a diplomat; they didn’t tell me much, just that it was a matter of royal gratitude. So I approved it. Guess I owe you twice now.”
Ron gave a noncommittal shrug. “When I got her to the border, she asked what I wanted. I told her land and enough gold to survive without needing to swing a sword. She offered me a title in the Empire, land too. I refused. Told her to give me something remote, something quiet, and not to bother with titles.”
Derek laughed. “And she gave you a title anyway. That sounds about right. And Retsej, really? She gave you a whole surname?”
“She must really fancy you,” Derek added with a teasing grin.
Ron deadpanned, “No. She hates me.”
“She hates you? Really?”
“Yes,” Ron repeated, his face sincere.
Derek scratched his beard. “You’re a dunce, that’s what you are. Women are complicated.”
He leaned forward again. “So what have you been doing lately? If you’re not adventuring, what is it then?”
“Writing,” Ron said without hesitation.
Derek burst out laughing, nearly falling off the sofa. “Hahahahaha! Nice one…”
But the laughter faded. Ron didn’t say anything. His expression didn’t change.
The silence lingered like a held breath.
“…Seriously?” Derek asked, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
Ron nodded, calm as ever.
The Count leaned back, folding his arms. “Damn,” he muttered. “I always thought you had a head on your shoulders, but I never figured you for a writer.”
Ron tilted his head slightly. “Neither did I, until I started.” And for Ron, it had been a long time since he started.