Chapter 1

"I'm sorry?"

Harold had been brushing snow off his hair, and now he didn't trust his ears.

"Your brother is dead."

His gruff superior officer, looking uncharacteristically apologetic, held out a letter.

Two letters, actually.

Harold practically snatched them out of the man's hand and tore them open.

[...We regret to inform you of the death of your elder brother, Count Bertholdt. Enclosed is a copy of the Count's will. The original is held at the main branch of the Central Bank in the capital.]

Harold read fast.

No matter how many times he reread it, the words didn't change. The name signed at the bottom was the Bertholdt family lawyer's, just as it ought to be.

His brother was dead.

Harold looked up, mouth opening and closing soundlessly at his superior, as if doing that might make the man admit the letter was some terrible joke.

But the commander of the northern base only gave Harold's shoulder a heavy pat. Frozen snow crumbled off his cloak.

"The roads were blocked with snow, so the news got to you late. Get to the capital quickly."

"...."

"Your nephews will be waiting for you."

"Nephews... nephews?"

Harold startled and looked at the letter again.

No matter how many times he reread it, the words wouldn't sink in. His eyes went wide.

Nephews. Right. He had nephews.

[Furthermore, the Count designated his younger brother as the children's guardian in the event of any harm to his own person.

We understand that travel is difficult in winter, but for the sake of your young nephews, we ask that you return to the capital as quickly as possible....]

His mind went blank.

He couldn't even remember how many years it had been since he'd last seen them. They could barely walk back then, so they wouldn't remember their uncle.

How old were they now? Could they run around?

His brain stalled, caught between the news of his brother's death and thoughts of his nephews.

"Harold?"

Harold's mouth opened and closed. When his eyes met his superior's, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I quit!"

"Sign the leave-of-absence form before you go."

The commander pressed a sheet of paper and a pen into Harold's hand.

"Send word when you reach the capital. We'll talk again when I'm down there myself in the summer."

---

I'm counting on you, Harold.

"...Sir? Sir Bertholdt!"

"Yes? Ah, sorry."

"It's understandable."

Mattheus, the Bertholdt family lawyer, adjusted his glasses and spoke gently.

"Have you finished everything at the bank?"

"The will's confirmed, and the other matters you mentioned are taken care of. Here — the certificate, and the rest of the documents."

"We'll handle what's left on our end. There's no chance you'll be dragged into a custody dispute, so you needn't worry about that."

Harold swallowed hard.

The last document he'd signed at the bank had been the custody papers for his nephews. Then there was the matter of the countship. One of the nephews would inherit it, but as a minor, he wouldn't be able to act on his own until he came of age — Harold would stand as his proxy.

"So — my nephews?"

"They're at the Bertholdt estate."

"...Who's looking after them?"

"The family butler, as far as I know. A man named Adrien Renard. Have you ever met him, Sir Bertholdt?"

Harold shook his head.

"As you know, I... haven't been at the estate in a long time. He must be someone my brother hired after I left. Are the children all right? With me gone, the funeral hasn't even — ah, the funeral. We need to hold a funeral for my brother."

"Now that you've arrived in the capital, we can take it one step at a time."

The lawyer's reassurance did nothing to ease Harold's nerves; his fists clenched tight.

It still didn't feel real.

His brother had been the sort of man who wouldn't die even if you killed him.

He just... was. That was the kind of man he'd been. Unkillable. Far too clever to die in something as paltry as a carriage accident.

But there was no time for sitting around in shock over a brother's death.

I'm counting on you, Harold. Take care of the children.

His brother, who had never once asked anything of his younger sibling in his life, had filled the will with vulnerable, almost pleading words.

His clenched fists trembled. He gritted his teeth.

The only reason he hadn't run straight to his nephews was that Mattheus had stopped him. The will had to be confirmed at the bank first, the lawyer had said, and the guardianship secured.

"After the Count's death was confirmed...."

Mattheus studied Harold's face before speaking slowly.

It had been a long time since Harold had been in the capital, but he could still read the expressions of the lawyer he'd known since childhood.

It was the face of a man about to say something Harold wouldn't like.

"I only saw your nephews once. That was when I sent you the letter."

"...What?"

As expected, Harold didn't like what Mattheus had to say.

It went well past dislike. His head went numb.

"The children... no. Wait — is there a problem? Was the shock of their father — my brother — dying too much for —"

"They were shaken, certainly, but they didn't seem to be in any physical danger. No, Sir Bertholdt. The butler I just mentioned wouldn't let me in to see them."

"...The butler did?"

"There's a law that says when a minor noble without a guardian has no surviving relatives, an adult designated by the family can refuse outside visitors. It was meant to prevent interference during succession disputes."

Mattheus's face was apologetic.

"It's not usually expected to apply to the family lawyer.... The moment I understood the situation, I sent word to you, but —"

"The roads were blocked by snow."

Harold swallowed. Only now did Mattheus's letter make sense.

"That's why you told me to head straight to the bank without telling anyone?"

"Because the Sir Bertholdt I know would reach the capital before the snow had finished melting."

Mattheus nodded.

The man, who had served as the Bertholdt family's lawyer since Harold's grandfather's day, couldn't quite hide the worry in his voice.

Mattheus had probably seen the nephews more often than Harold had. Harold forced himself to relax. His hands were tingling.

"Whatever the butler has in mind, he must know he can't hold out much longer now that you're back."

Harold caught Mattheus's meaning.

"So it's a race against time. I'm going to the estate right now. Will you come with me?"

"Of course. If trouble starts, you'll need me there."

It wasn't far from Mattheus's office in the commercial district to the Bertholdt estate. Close enough that walking would be faster than fighting through the crowded streets in a carriage.

It had been years since Harold had been in the capital, but he hadn't forgotten the way to the estate.

The words from his brother's will kept repeating in his head.

You're the only family those children have left now.

These were children who wouldn't even remember their uncle.

Still, they must have heard about him. Knowing his brother, he'd probably done nothing but bad-mouth Harold. His older brother had been the one to suffer for having a younger sibling with a wandering streak.

It must have been hard to keep up with a working knight's stride, but Mattheus didn't complain once.

As they entered the residential district, the old estates of Harold's memory unfolded around them, unchanged from how he remembered. Hurrying past the antique mansions of the nobility, Harold finally reached his brother's home.

He saw the problem immediately.

The garden, always meticulously kept, was in disarray. It was winter, so of course nothing was in bloom — but dried leaves and broken twigs lay scattered everywhere.

Harold's brother had never been one to fuss over the estate itself. But he had loved the children his wife left behind with everything he had, and the spaces those children lived in had always mattered to him.

It had been a long time since Harold had last seen his brother, but he didn't think that would have changed.

An untended garden, windows hung with heavy curtains.... Not a single sign of life came from the estate.

But Mattheus had said his nephews were here.

Children, in a place like this?

Only at the bank had Harold been able to find out how old his nephews were. Eight. Whatever the inside of the estate looked like, the outside was no place for young children who had just lost their father.

"There isn't even a guard?"

Harold glared at the estate, incredulous.

The front gate was firmly locked, but no one came out to identify the visitors.

"After the Count died, the butler dismissed every servant who'd been working at the estate...."

Harold took a deep breath to keep from cursing.

"Later — bring back the ones he dismissed."

"I've stayed in contact with them. They'll come whenever you call, sir."

Harold glared at the closed gate.

Would his nephews be all right? The worst scenarios kept flashing through his mind, but he was afraid even to give them shape. They'd be all right. They had to be.

Harold tightened his grip. The thick iron bars began to bend. Once they'd parted wide enough, he reached through and seized the lock.

Crack.

The lock broke easily.

Creak. The gate swung open.

Harold ignored Mattheus nudging the broken pieces of the lock with his foot and made straight for the house. For better or worse, the front door wasn't locked.

"...Could you remind me later to check whether anything's missing?"

"Ah — don't worry, Sir Bertholdt."

Mattheus swallowed hard.

His brother, who'd had no patience for clutter, wouldn't have filled the estate with anything ornamental.

But who could really say. It had been almost seven years since Harold had last visited.

Back when his nephews still couldn't walk. When they'd crawled across the soft carpet and pulled themselves up by clutching at their uncle's trouser legs.

His brother had laughed — gently, in a way unlike him — saying the grip was surprisingly strong, maybe they took after Harold.

Even a man like that smiles like that when he gets married and has kids, Harold had thought.

The babies he remembered had been so small, so fragile. He'd been afraid of breaking them with his rough knight's hands and had barely been able to hold them properly, which had set his sister-in-law to laughing. Harold Bertholdt of all people — afraid of a baby not even a year old.

There was no sign of anyone inside the estate. Every piece of furniture was draped in cloth. A thin layer of dust covered the floor, the stairs — everything.

Harold ground his teeth. Where were the children?

His sharpened senses picked up everything, including what he didn't need to hear. The chill wind threading through the empty halls, Mattheus's flustered breathing, the heavy thud of his own heart.

Too much sound — it drowned out what he actually needed to hear. He had to calm down. His brother had always told him so. Stay calm. Otherwise you'll miss what's right in front of you.

"...."

Deep breath. Air in, air out. He counted slowly, the way his brother had taught him. One to ten, then ten back to one.

"...!"

Harold's head snapped up.

He ran up the stairs.

"Sir Bertholdt?!"

The estate was dark; not a single ray of light made it inside.

But a knight's keen hearing caught a faint voice. He couldn't make out the words. Just a soft, murmured whisper — and the voice was young.

A child.

His nephews.

The young voices were coming from a room at the far end of the hallway.

What set Harold off was the lock on the door.

And not just any lock — a heavy brass thing, the kind you'd put on a garden gate or a front door. Locked so that the door couldn't be opened from the inside. Even though the only ones in there were two small children.

Mattheus, who had hurried after Harold, saw the lock and went pale.

Just as he had at the gate, Harold broke the lock with his bare hands. It hit the floor with a heavy clang.

The children's voices inside the room stopped.

Before turning the doorknob, Harold steadied his breathing.

He hadn't been expecting their first meeting to go like this when he came down to the capital. But however it happened, this was going to be these children's first meeting with their uncle.

He was furious. But he didn't want to frighten them.

Only after forcing his breath back under control did Harold open the door.

The room was freezing. The first thing he saw was the dead fireplace. It had been cold a long time — only burnt-out ash lay scattered on the hearth. Two perfectly good logs sat in front of it, but neither showed so much as a scorch mark.

Near the fireplace, besides the logs and ash, sat a heap of bundled blankets. The cloth piles looked almost like a nest, with dolls and the leftover crusts of bread scattered inside.

That alone told him how the children had been living.

He was never going to forgive the man who had done this.

Nephew or not, no child deserved to be treated like this.

...The children. Where were the children?

There was no one in the cold room — no sign at all. He'd definitely heard voices. But somewhere, faintly, came the sound of breathing.

From behind a toy box the parents had once filled with nothing but the children's favorites.

"...Grandpa Mattheus?"

A small voice, trembling with fear, came from behind it.

A tuft of soft, downy black hair peeked out. A pair of blue eyes glinted. Mattheus's tense shoulders dropped in relief.

"Master Edwin?"

"...."

The child looked anxiously at Mattheus and Harold.

Of course the child didn't know Harold. To him, Harold must look like a big, frightening stranger. Harold carefully knelt down to meet the boy at eye level.

This wasn't the first meeting Harold had imagined. But.

Even so.

"Hi. I'm —"

"Uncle?"

Another young voice came from behind Edwin.

A face identical to Edwin's. The stubborn set of the mouth from his brother. The delicate eyes from his sister-in-law.

Harold's throat tightened; he could barely manage a nod.

"Sorry I'm late, Edgar."

"Uncle!"

Before Harold could even react, a warmth came clinging to his chest.

A weight so light it seemed it would blow away the moment he moved.

Harold understood.

No matter what happened from here on out, he would never let go of this small, warm life.