Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything! - Chapter 431

Chapter 431: Sylvia’s Thoughts
Outside the castle, yet still within its paved courtyards, rows of elegant canopies had been erected—each sheltering nobles from the afternoon sun.

Beneath the silken covers, tables glittered with polished silverware, crystal goblets, and platters of delicacies whose rich aromas perfumed the air. The hum of laughter and soft music wafted over the gathering, mingling with the clink of wine-filled cups.

Closer to the elevated platform—where the hosts of the celebration would sit—only the most prestigious noble houses were permitted to occupy seats. The hierarchy was clear: the nearer one’s canopy to the dais, the higher one’s station.

Farther out, however, sat barons and viscounts from lesser domains, some of whom looked almost out of place. Their garish dress and coarse manners drew subtle glances and hushed whispers. They carried the air of those still learning courtly etiquette, or worse—those unaware it existed.

Sylvia, seated beneath one of the finer canopies, swirled the wine in her goblet before taking a measured sip. Her eyes—sharp and calculating—lingered on a man sitting directly across the courtyard under his own modest shade.

Lord Vladimir.

The infamous cripple.

Clad in a black woolen coat over a plain black tunic and pants, he looked unremarkable—harmless, even. And yet, as his steady gaze met hers, something in his dark eyes unsettled her. There was no challenge in his stare, only stillness, but it stirred a quiet warning in her instincts.

Not far from his position sat Count Adamos, a man whose influence matched his girth. But it was the Count’s son who intrigued her more today, for he had chosen to sit under her canopy. And yet, his attention was elsewhere entirely.

He was staring—no, studying—a girl who had emerged from the castle moments ago.

Mary Ashbourne.

Sylvia’s eyes followed his, then subtly flicked past, landing on two unfamiliar women nearby—both gray-haired, golden-eyed, and strikingly regal.

She leaned toward her sister and whispered, “I thought the Ashbournes were nearly extinct. Who are those two?”

Ruth followed her gaze, frowning as she studied the pair—Alicia and Abigail.

Their appearance bore the unmistakable traits of House Ashbourne. Yet, Ruth hesitated.

“I don’t think they’re part of the main bloodline,” she murmured. “But… they look almost identical. Too close to be coincidence.”

Around them, nobles carried on with their meals and soft banter. Goblets clinked, the gentle rhythm of conversation pulsing like a tide.

Then, without warning—thud.

A heavy, deliberate impact echoed across the venue.

Thud.

Another. Louder.

The ground beneath their feet seemed to feel it.

A third thud crashed through the air, and the entire courtyard fell into silence as if the sky itself had dropped a stone upon them. Conversations died mid-sentence. Laughter vanished.

Every gaze turned toward the source of the sound.

And in the next breath, the celebration turned breathless.

Four paladins marched in perfect rhythm, their steps echoing like war drums across the silent courtyard.

Clad in radiant armor that gleamed under the afternoon sun—each suit weighing no less than 700 kilograms—their presence alone bent the atmosphere. This was no ceremonial display. These were true paladins, warriors honed in the furnace of war, and they paved the way for the ones who followed.

Behind them came the true stars of the celebration—Duke Asher and his wife, Sapphira.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as eyes fell not on the famed White Wolf, but on the woman at his side.

Today, Sapphira appeared in her true form.

Her emerald hair cascaded nearly to her feet, its lustrous strands shifting with every graceful step—too divine, too sacred to trim. A soft veil concealed her face, yet even that could not hide the curve of lips that seemed crafted to unsettle the pride of even the most self-assured lords. Her gown, an elegant blend of silk and starlight, clung softly to a svelte figure, every motion a whisper of grace and power.

No one could believe she had given birth only months ago.

Yet, in her arms rested Atreides—royally dressed and calmly observing the world as if he knew he would one day rule it. But what stole the breath of the audience was not the infant she carried—but the one Asher did.

A second child. A boy.

His hair—strikingly similar in hue to his mother’s emerald strands—shimmered under the light.

And in Asher’s arms, held with a tenderness few believed the White Wolf capable of, was Merlin.

Not a caretaker. Not a wet nurse. But the Duke himself, holding his child as if the rest of the world had ceased to matter.

It was unheard of. No nobleman—let alone a ruling lord—would carry his child at a gathering like this. Especially not a man known as the War Bringer. But Asher defied expectation, moving through the stunned crowd without a care for their whispered judgments.

His focus was clear.

His family.

Sylvia, mid-sip, froze.

Asher and Sapphira stepped into the courtyard like celestial beings, surrounded by an entourage of armored elites, each of them a fortress of steel. Yet no armor could outshine the couple they guarded.

Her hand trembled slightly. Her goblet tilted.

“So… she’s the reason no woman ever caught his eye,” Sylvia whispered, a chuckle slipping through her lips. “I have to admit… she’s breathtaking.”

Ruth, seated beside her, gave a brief glance before returning her gaze forward.

But Sylvia couldn’t look away. Her eyes slowly shifted to the man beside that emerald-haired goddess.

His golden eyes, like suns captured in flesh, scanned the crowd—measured, calm, deadly.

And then… they met hers.

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t even notice when her fingers released the goblet, wine spilling across the tablecloth. Her heart thudded louder than the paladins’ march.

“What a well-forged man,” she murmured with a slow, reverent smile. “It’s truly a pity.”

Ruth reached forward and caught the tumbling goblet before it fell. “Unfortunately, both of you are already married. Or do you intend to abandon your husband on a whim?”

Sylvia’s eyes lingered on Asher for just a moment longer before she responded, voice hushed with a strange mix of longing and loyalty.

“I admire him. Deeply. He’s the kind of man I always dreamed of… But my loyalty lies elsewhere. Even if my husband is his sworn enemy… he is still my husband.”

And just then, as if summoned by the confession, Asher’s gaze met hers once more.

Her cheeks flushed.

She looked away, her fingers tightening in her lap.

The White Wolf had passed… but the echo of his presence lingered like a brand on every noble heart present.