Noble Lady Reformation Guide - Chapter 87

The pastoral landscape of the Rodellen territory appeared peaceful and heartwarming at first glance, yet it was easy to understand why central nobles avoided the area.

The terraced vineyards clinging to the hills bordering the Beltus Ducal lands weren't particularly impressive in scale. Rumor had it the local artisans were so obsessively dedicated to wine quality that they vehemently opposed expanding cultivation areas.

"...I thought all noble mansions would be luxurious and dazzling, but this isn't quite that."

Derek had ridden since dawn to reach Rodellen's outskirts by midday.

Pellin, who'd been kicking her horse's flank beside him, looked at the modest noble residence beside the vineyards with visible surprise.

The elegant two-story limestone structure showed its age with cobwebbed neglect, though its high ceilings and marble floors suggested potential with proper restoration—effort that wouldn't come cheap.

"This isn't bad. There's even stables, and while calling this overgrown patch a garden is generous... there's at least a circular garden layout beneath these weeds."

Derek dismounted, brushing off his shoulders. Pellin studied the mansion skeptically before reluctantly following suit.

"Too early for proper renovations... We'll need the title first for authority... but I wanted to assess the condition."

"Oh ho, our young lord's already giddy about his future title, inspecting mansions he doesn't even own yet..."

"Clearly needs work. Can't maintain this alone—will need servants hired... must survey the locals too... And establish systems to keep things running during my wanderings."

Derek's goal had never changed.

Becoming a higher-level mage.

Everything else was just logistics to expedite that purpose.

While a noble title might be someone's lifelong ambition, to Derek it was merely a tool toward greater ends.

He had no interest in flaunting authority or status.

"That's a money pit waiting to happen."

"Where will you get the funds? Maintenance costs look astronomical."

"Taxation rights come with the title. The real challenge will be getting local gentry to comply. One mountain after another."

Derek sat on a weathered garden chair engulfed by weeds.

In the warm sunlight, insect chirps filled the air. A perfect retirement spot, but hardly appealing to nobles in their prime.

"Nice neck."

"Yeah, whatever."

Pellin remained unimpressed.

Though humoring him for pay, she clearly despised noble pretensions, preferring battlefields to parlors.

"Decided on a family name?"

"Ravencrow."

"...Hmm."

Derek answered instantly, arm draped over the chairback as he gazed skyward.

The name tickled Pellin's memory until realization struck.

"..."

During his mercenary days, Derek occasionally visited his childhood slums.

Just once or twice yearly—walking the canals where makeshift graves stood.

Curious, Pellin had once tailed him at dawn as he bought fresh butter bread, placing it on a weathered plank marker before sitting silently by the water.

No visible emotion—just quiet contemplation.

The name carved there was"Ravencrow."

Carrion crows picking at slum corpses.

Despite rising from nothing to magical prowess, Derek still saw himself as that scavenger.

Or perhaps it held deeper meaning Pellin couldn't grasp.

"Weather's nice."

She sighed beside him as he muttered the name and stared at the sky.

Blue and vast.

Seasons turned unchanging, winter always yielding to spring.

An eternal cycle where only people came and went.

"I tossed and turned worrying Lady Iselin might be upset. While necessary for maintaining the Rosea Salon's prestige, it must have been hard for her to accept."

Lady Trisha of House Renuel had been most aggressive in ousting Duplein from the three great families.

Though her presence alone should have been awkward, she boldly approached Iselin with feigned sympathy.

Pity requires clear hierarchy—the superior condescending to the inferior.

While appearing kindhearted, her words subtly mocked Iselin scrambling for funds like some merchant.

Elennte frowned nearby, calculating intervention methods.

Denis sipped tea indifferently, but Elennte rolled up her sleeves, ready to act.

Yet Trisha's veiled barbs left no opening for objection—this was noblewoman warfare.

"I heard you traveled north to secure funds for your house..."

"Yes. To the Rocheste territory."

"How... strenuous. Unbecoming of noble ladies to chase coins. Though your diligence is... admirable."

Noble grace thrives in detachment—like flowers above worldly concerns.

Trisha's words needled Iselin's undignified hustle.

While clueless observers might see kindness, the salon veterans recognized the venom.

As Trisha smugly served cake, Elennte's temple vein bulged.

"All I can offer are desserts. Please enjoy them while you can."

'The audacity!'

Elennte nearly erupted.

House Renuel's recent rise owed nothing to Trisha personally.

Yet here she was, trampling etiquette to establish dominance.

"Thank you, Lady Trisha. I'll enjoy these."

Iselin smiled serenely, selecting cookies.

The epitome of grace, she'd mastered ignoring such provocations.

Frustrated by her composure, Trisha pursed her lips.

Her power play wasn't just petty—it was strategic positioning before formal house rivalries began.

Subduing the unflappable Iselin would cement her status.

For that, she'd cross lines.

- Drip drip drip

Lukewarm tea cascaded over Iselin's head.

So sudden even Elennte and Denis froze.

"Oh dear, my apologies, Lady Iselin."

"──."

Tea droplets fell from Iselin's chin as shock delayed her reaction.

Elennte slammed the table, rising.

"Lady Trisha!"

"So sorry. The eastern tea slipped right from my hands."

Even Iselin looked stunned—anger would play into Trisha's hands, but silence meant surrender.

In the crowded tearoom terrace overlooking the noble district square, all eyes watched.

As Iselin bowed her head, Trisha whispered smugly:

"Are you alright? However shall we..."

Playing the flustered girl, though everyone knew this was hierarchy enforcement.

Just as Iselin looked up to respond—

"─What are you doing?"

A girl approached with servants in tow, having seemingly encountered them while passing through the square.

Her voluminous golden curls framed a petite figure in an expensive frilledress.

Her sharp, upturned eyes contrasted with her delicate frame, radiating prickly arrogance.

Trisha initially startled, then smiled upon recognition.

Perfect timing.

"Oh, Lady Diela! How fortuitous. I've just committed a grave offense against Lady Iselin."

Diela Catherine Duplein.

The younger sister of the tea-drenched girl.

Rumored as Duplein's young lioness, her charisma still commanded respect despite the house's decline.

But Trisha knew better.

At the last salon, Diela had already yielded to her.

Even when insulted, she'd conceded the house's waning influence.

Though intimidated by her aura then, Trisha now sensed the tide had turned.

Not even Duplein's lioness could resist the inevitable.

"I accidentally spilled tea on Lady Iselin. Might you assist me in cleaning up?"

"..."

"I'd hate to stain my dress."

The thrill of trampling both Duplein jewels at once intoxicated Trisha.

She raised her voice triumphantly—

Diela strode past Iselin toward Trisha.

"We've seen Rodellen. Time to return to Evelstain, Pellin."

"Nothing else to do?"

"Limited options before the title... Surveying suffices for now. We'll need Beltus Ducal support—Lord Melberot alone can't manage it."

Derek rose, heading toward the tethered horses.

"How will you persuade those nobles?"

"Use every connection available."

"Right... you've accumulated quite the network tutoring noble ladies. You've got influence in Evelstain's social circles."

"Doubtful... I just teach magic."

"Hmm... I disagree..."

Pellin mounted behind him, snorting.

Even as someone disinterested in noble culture, she sensed it—Derek's students entering high society would inevitably cause ripples.

Though what form that might take remained unpredictable.

- SLAP!

- CRASH!

An impact dwarfing the tea incident occurred.

Elennte gaped—even unflappable Denis stared wide-eyed.

Time seemed to freeze.

Diela had kicked aside the tea table and slapped Trisha with mana-infused force, sending her sprawling dress-first into dirt.

"Guh... urk..."

Trisha clutched her cheek, dazed.

The world spun before pain exploded across her face.

"Khh... gack..."

No words came—just choked sounds.

Everyone—nobles, servants, passersby—held their breath.

Diela coldly flicked her hand as Trisha realized her miscalculation.

She'd insulted Diela and the house before without retaliation—mistaking restraint for submission.

But Trisha didn't understand Diela's true limit.

Diela had learned to endure personal and familial slights.

But some lines remained uncrossable.

"..."

Winter's end approached, cherry blossoms nearly ready.

Yet the frost in Diela's glare could freeze the square solid.

Though emotionless, her eyes held primal predatory intent.

Trisha's expression twisted into primal fear.

Finally, the lioness spoke one icy word:

"Stand."

People had forgotten, but in Duplein's prime—

Diela had been their most notorious mad dog.