This Marriage Will Surely Succeed

A whirlwind of thoughts rushed through Iona’s mind, yet none could be put into action.

Before she could carry out his order, Richard had already unveiled the veil himself with the tip of his blade.

"Ugh."

The man sitting across from her recoiled in horror, leaning back in his chair.

His hand instinctively clamped over his nose, suggesting that the pungent smell of the ointment smeared on her face had finally hit him.

Iona didn’t need a mirror to describe her current appearance.

She had padded her face with soaked cotton to obscure her bone structure, then wrapped her entire head in a cloth soaked in pig’s blood. The bright red streaks of blood, looking as if they had seeped from unhealed wounds, created vivid trails on the bandages.

To top it off, she had donned a black wig matching Carmen hair color, erasing any traceable feature of her identity.

‘The question is why he ordered me to remove the veil in the first place.’

There was no way he could have recognized her identity and made such a demand.

She had been cautious with every move, accounting for the possibility that his observational skills were unusually sharp.

It seemed more likely that Richard, suspecting Carmen of betrayal or ulterior motives, had orchestrated this spectacle.

Even though she had meticulously prepared for the chance they might inspect her disguise, she couldn’t afford for Richard’s whims to strip away the last layer of her mask. ɌἈꞐọ𝖇ĚS̈

Straightening her back, Iona braced herself under the pressure.

“What a hideous sight.”

Richard remarked coldly, scrutinizing her face inch by inch.

Even so, his tone had softened slightly, indicating his suspicions were at least partially alleviated.

Feigning fear, Iona clenched her trembling hands as the blade lingered under her chin. It wasn’t her role to stop Richard here.

“What are you doing!”

Amaia shot up from her seat, shouting in protest.

Considering Richard’s noble status, his actions wouldn’t typically be deemed improper, but here, he was hiding his true identity.

Richard’s interest shifted to Amaia, intrigued by someone daring to raise their voice at him.

“You’re supposed to be someone assigned to assist this side, yet you’re excessively protective of the viscountess.”

“She’s been through enough already! Is this kind of threat necessary? Since that day, she hasn’t even held so much as a dining knife.”

Amaia stood her ground, refusing to back down. Her wisdom showed in not addressing Richard’s earlier nitpicking.

She then added with a firm tone, “If you truly wish to confirm her identity, wait until her wounds have healed enough to discern her face. Wouldn’t that be more appropriate?”

Indeed, the face Iona revealed was horrifying to behold—scarred and slashed in a way no one could stomach easily.

The faint scent of decay wafting from her skin was enough to discourage any curiosity to look further.

Richard finally withdrew his sword from her.

Though the edge of her veil had been slightly torn, it was a minor loss compared to the worst that could have happened.

“It’s unsettling to conspire with someone wearing such a suspicious getup,” Richard said nonchalantly as he sheathed his sword.

It was only after he put the weapon away that Iona exhaled shakily, suppressing the nausea rising within her.

As she curled her body slightly to steady herself, Richard clicked his tongue in mild disdain.

“With such a weak constitution, I wonder if you’ll be able to handle your duties properly.”

Amaia glared at Richard as though he were the most despicable man alive.

To threaten a woman who’d almost been killed not long ago, only to dismiss her as weak afterward—how shameless could one be?

Though the viscountess sitting here had suffered no actual wounds, Richard remained unaware of this fact.

Iona’s hunched and trembling figure looked genuinely pitiful to anyone watching.

Even Richard’s companions seemed to share similar thoughts, staying neutral and silent.

Breaking the awkward tension, Richard gave a curt nod.

“Bring it here.”

At his command, a man quickly stood and retrieved a wooden box from the floor.

Naturally, all eyes turned toward the object.

As the man took a knife from his pocket to cut open the sealed box, Richard continued speaking.

“Usually, goods passing through here consist of jewels or valuables. Occasionally, there’s food, or depending on the season, specialty or luxury items.”

“……”

“Next time, it’ll be weapons.”

At that moment, the lid was removed, revealing the contents of the box.

Iona peered into it with a grim expression.

‘These are... incendiary rounds.’

They weren’t large siege bullets but smaller ones likely intended for use in firebombs. Their crude design suggested they were outdated models, not the improved ones commonly used today.

Iona immediately sensed there was a significant purpose behind Richard’s descent to this place.

Recognizing the need for direct communication, Iona signaled Amaia with a subtle glance.

Amaia, perceptive as always, retrieved a notebook and pen from her bag. She had prepared these tools in case written communication was required.

Conscious of Richard’s gaze, Iona carefully imitated Carmen’s handwriting, crafting each letter deliberately.

While she doubted Richard knew Carmen’s penmanship, her greater concern was the reverse—Richard knew hers.

Having learned the Bardem language directly from him, Iona’s writing habits were likely familiar to him. Richard often used the Empress’ native tongue for discreet communication, so Iona had been forced to master it as well.

Handing over the finished note to Amaia, Iona watched as he read aloud:

[What are these weapons intended for?]

“The viscountess wants to know what these weapons are for,” Amaia translated.

“Does she need to know?” Richard replied dismissively.

[Exporting such firearms abroad is dangerous—]

Iona paused mid-sentence as Richard’s hand abruptly snatched the notebook.

Holding it up to his eye level, Richard examined the words with an amused expression.

“Exporting such weapons abroad… of course, that’s unacceptable.”

“……”

“But if this weren’t a dangerous matter, would we really need such secrecy for this meeting?”

Richard casually tossed the notebook back to Iona.

The sting on the back of her hand, struck by the notebook’s spine, was sharp.

However, the relief of realizing Richard hadn’t recognized her handwriting far outweighed the fleeting pain.

“But this time, there’s no need to worry about that. The cargo won’t make it to Bardem,” Richard added, dropping an unexpected remark.

Until now, Iona had assumed he had come here to assist the Empress. Could his true purpose lie elsewhere?

Sensing something amiss, Iona furrowed her brow.

Though the layers of disguise on her face felt suffocating, she was grateful they made managing her expressions unnecessary.

“One of the explosives in this shipment is set to cause a stir. Enough to kill a few people and burn down a warehouse—just enough to make headlines. Don’t you agree?”

Richard spoke of casualties with unsettling nonchalance.

Even Iona, accustomed to his calculating demeanor, felt an instinctive unease at his cold tone.

[Isn’t the goal to transport goods discreetly?]

Iona painstakingly wrote her next question, pressing firmly on the pen.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Just as she was about to hand it over, Amaia extended her arm and placed her palm over the notebook, signaling her to stop.

Sometimes, knowing less can be an advantage for assessing a situation.

This was one of those times.

Amaia, who lacked the deeper context of Richard’s ties to the Empress, noticed something Iona hadn’t.

Fixing Richard with a sharp gaze, Amaia asked pointedly:

“You’re not working for the higher-ups who’ve been contacting me, are you?”

--- End Of The Chapter ----

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