My Ruin to You - Chapter 110

Roseline, trailing behind Valen, hid a small, weary smile. Sometimes, hunger is the best diplomacy.

But Roseline couldn’t just stand by and watch. The countess was certainly despicable for dumping two whole spoonfuls of salt into perfectly good food, but only the guilty should be punished—not the entire household. At least, that was Roseline’s view.

“The only thing I’ve eaten since morning was one boiled potato. Yesterday, I walked all day and barely managed one proper meal…”

Valen stared down at her for a long moment, gauging her sincerity—until Roseline rubbed her stomach faintly, as if unable to bear the hunger any longer. With a click of his tongue, he frowned.

“Hold on a little longer.”

“How long?”

“Until we leave.”

“Huh? We’re leaving?”

“Who knows what else they might slip into the food here? I’m not taking that risk.”

The count, who had been eavesdropping, let out a devastated sigh. The head chef, who had poured his heart into preparing the meal, looked equally crushed. The countess trembled, swallowing back sobs.

“I’ll try the food first and spit it out if something’s wrong.”

“Roseline.”

“Even if it’s poisoned, I have enough mana to detoxify it. And if I pass out, I know you’ll take care of me. Right?”

She tugged lightly at Valen’s sleeve. His icy expression fractured in an instant, his lips quirking despite himself.

“You’re too clever for your own good.”

Just as he gripped her hand in return, the dining hall doors swung open, revealing the steward and the knights. Having pieced together the situation on their way from the annex, the knights bowed the moment they crossed the threshold.

“Your orders, Your Highness.”

This time, it was Roseline who squeezed Valen’s hand—rubbing her thumb gently over his knuckles in silent plea for leniency toward the innocent. It was a habit she’d picked up from him, one he often used to soothe her.

“Take the countess and that maid to the annex.”

Being dragged away by knights was a humiliating blow to a noblewoman’s dignity, yet the countess followed without a single sob—or rather, she couldn’t make a sound. Some instinct had warned her that any protest might twist the Grand Duke’s judgment, landing her not in the annex, but in the dungeons below.

As the maid’s weeping faded into the distance, Valen finally spoke, his gaze fixed on the count’s balding head.

“Rodelac.”

“Y-Yes, Your Highness.”

“How many troops can you mobilize?”

For a moment, the count doubted his ears. This was no time to discuss military matters—yet the Grand Duke’s intentions were inscrutable. His lips turned ashen, veins bulging on the back of his hands. But he had no choice but to answer.

“W-Well, counting the reserves and the knights stationed at the borders… roughly five hundred, Your Highness.”

Valen’s fingers tapped once against the armrest.

“Good. Then you’ll deploy them all—to aid the refugees.”

The count’s jaw dropped.

“Every last one of your soldiers will distribute food, clear the roads, and escort survivors to safe zones. Under my oversight.” Valen’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Consider it your house’s penance.”

Roseline bit her lip to hide her own smile. Of course. Valen hadn’t softened—he’d simply found a punishment far more useful than executions.

The count, realizing escape was impossible, bowed so deeply his forehead touched the floor.

“A-At once, Your Highness!”

“Oh, and one more thing.” Valen rose, pulling Roseline up with him. “We’ll take that meal to go.”

The chef nearly wept with relief.

“…If I issue conscription orders, I can gather up to 700.”

“At dawn, mobilize them to document the refugees—their identities, families, occupations, and skills. If you don’t want to be stuck supporting them indefinitely, you’d better do this properly.”

“Yes, Your Highness!”

“Since your virtuous wife seems so deeply concerned about their plight, have the granaries opened to distribute food and clothing.”

“…Yes, it will be done.”

“Leaving them outside the walls does no favors for Molin’s public order. Set up tents in the fallow fields—just enough to last them through winter. By spring, we’ll disperse them to neighboring territories.”

“Understood. I’ll have the tents erected by tomorrow.”

“The rest is in your hands.”

It was forgiveness.

The moment the words left Valen’s lips, the count pressed both hands to the floor and bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the ground.

“Your mercy humbles me, Your Highness! This unworthy Rodelac swears upon my blood and—”

“That’s enough.”

“Y-Yes, Your Highness!”

As the count heaved his bulky frame upright, his children and household followed suit. Though he’d soon be emptying his storerooms for refugees, the count looked almost buoyant—as if losing a few granaries was nothing compared to escaping charges of attempted treason.

Well, that worked out. Roseline couldn’t help but admire Valen’s cunning. He’d crafted the perfect pretext, asserted absolute authority without raising his voice, and bent the count to his will—all without a hint of visible effort.

The man was utterly flawless. For the first time, she understood why nobles feared making an enemy of him.

Valen turned, offering his arm. “Now. Let’s find you that meal.”

As they strode past the still-bowing household, Roseline caught the countess’s eye—and for once, the woman didn’t look away. There was no hatred left. Only awe.

And that, Roseline thought, is how you salt a victory.