Chapter 50

Translator: Willia

One of the things no one born into nobility could avoid was Political Marriage. Marrying for love was practically impossible, and children had to accept whatever the elders of the house decided for them.

There was no right to refuse. No, refusal itself was unthinkable. Rejecting a marriage decided by the elders, by the Family Head, was the same as rejecting one's own house.

A Marriage Alliance was hardly an affair filled with nothing but love and beautiful blessings. Quite the opposite, it was so weighty and solemn that there was no room for love or blessings to enter into it.

When two houses entered into a military alliance, it meant that countless lives were bound up in that alliance, and marriage gave the alliance tangible form.

So whether the two people loved each other or not was not a consideration at all. Even if they were young.

Harold was walking through the streets of Torvik with Adela, a daughter of House Winddale. Harold was fourteen, while his fiancée, Adela, was eight.

Adela had one lady-in-waiting with her. A little farther behind, Gidwin and Tommy followed as guards.

A cool autumn breeze blew, and the whole city of Torvik smelled of baking barley bread.

Very few houses had kitchens, so during the grain harvest season, bakers baked bread in large batches in outdoor ovens. Even bread had a season.

Once that season passed, people had to brush off the mold and eat bread that had gone hard as stone.

“Is the walking too tiring?”

Harold asked. His eight-year-old fiancée looked up at her lady-in-waiting, who subtly raised one finger.

“Um...... I'm fine.”

“Are you hungry?”

Adela looked up at her lady-in-waiting again, and the woman once more raised one finger.

“Um...... I'm fine.”

Harold sighed inwardly, but he knew it could not be helped. He could easily guess the reason.

In fact, before coming out today, Adela had received instructions from her mother and her ladies-in-waiting.

No matter what happened, she was to choose one of only three answers: I'm fine, thank you, or I'm sorry.

They had given her those instructions because even an eight-year-old child had to conduct herself properly as the daughter of a noble house, yet Adela was still too young to have mastered all the proper etiquette.

On top of that, their houses had been bitter enemies for so long that there was no small amount of pointless pride involved. They could not allow the family name to be embarrassed. Being young was no excuse.

Harold thought for a moment before speaking.

“I'm feeling a little hungry myself. Let's buy something tasty and have a snack together.”

This time, the lady-in-waiting raised two fingers.

“Um...... thank you.”

Harold smiled faintly. He did not particularly dislike Adela. She did not seem like an idiot, and there was something cute about how hard she was trying.

But what occupied Harold's thoughts now was the first battle of his life, which he had fought only recently. It kept circling through his mind.

The Highlanders with madness in their eyes, severed limbs, screams, battle cries, hunger, utter exhaustion, and death after death.

Harold had trained his body well enough, but none of it had mattered. The ground was so uneven that one wrong step could send him sprawling, and he had barely been able to make use of the Swordsmanship he had spent so long learning.

All he could do was grit his teeth, raise his shield, and force his way forward with sheer desperation, or thrust with all his strength.

At best, he had barely managed to keep up. In the midst of it all, his father, leading the soldiers, had seemed remarkable to him in a way he never had before.

And then there was Wid. Harold had never imagined that he would meet Wid as an enemy on the battlefield. War, he thought, was a cruel and heartbreaking thing.

But what, then, had that overwhelming, utterly untouchable presence been in the final battle? He had seen it with his own eyes and still could not believe it.

Some said an Einheri had come on the king's orders and brought the war to an end, while others said a dead god had briefly manifested.

Yet for some reason, Harold felt that presence had been Wid. Everyone else told him he was talking nonsense, but that was simply what he felt.

Harold bought freshly baked bread, fish, cheese, and the like before heading to the riverside. Merchant ships could be seen floating along the river, while the nearby reed beds swayed in the autumn wind.

Ancient ruins stood there as well, a reminder of the remorseless passage of time.

They spread a cloth over a flat rock, laid the food on top, and ate. The lady-in-waiting picked the bones from the fish, while Harold tore into the soft barley bread and drank the wine he had brought.

Adela picked at the food little by little with her small hands, but she must have been hungry, because both the amount she ate and the pace at which she ate began to increase noticeably.

“My lady.”

At the lady-in-waiting's quiet warning, Adela seemed to realize what she had done and went back to nibbling daintily.

“It's all right. You can eat comfortably. Like this.”

Harold demonstrated by deliberately taking a large bite of bread. Adela looked back at her lady-in-waiting, and only when the woman nodded did she finally relax and eat freely.

The leisurely meal continued for some time. Gidwin and Tommy, who had followed as guards, sat nearby looking bored, idly plucking at the grass with their hands.

Then someone called Harold's name from behind.

“Harold?”

Harold had been taking a sip of wine. When he turned around, he saw a familiar face.

The young man wore a navy-blue gambeson with a sword at his waist, and in one hand he carried an axe with its blade wrapped in cloth.

His hair was blond like sunlight on a clear day, and his eyes were the color of the sky, yet the overall impression he gave was somehow reminiscent of a dark crimson rose.

They were the same age and had grown up together, but what had happened to him over the last five months? He seemed that much closer to adulthood now. Harold could feel it.

“Wid.”

“Who's that?”

Knut, standing beside Valery, asked.

“Winsloe's Heir.”

“Ah, so that's him.”

Knut himself was a Legitimate Heir of a ducal house, so he had heard about Harold now and then over the years. Especially because his second older brother, Gutoerm, had tried one way or another to have Harold brought to the ducal house as something resembling a hostage.

Gidwin and Tommy rose to their feet with their hands on the swords at their waists, but they recognized Valery as well, so they were not especially wary. Even so, they did not welcome him the way they once had.

Arne and Skard, who had followed Valery, stared coldly at the pair. As though sensing the tension, Valery spoke.

“They're my friends. No need to be on guard.”

“Even so, weren't they the enemy until recently?”

“The war is over, Arne.”

“Then I'd appreciate it if they disarmed and kept some distance.”

“Hey, you disarm.”

“Tommy.”

Harold called Tommy's name to stop him.

“......Who is he?”

Adela asked her first question, staring at Valery with wide eyes. In all eight years of her life, she had never seen anyone so handsome.

Her lady-in-waiting was too busy staring at Valery in a daze to remember to correct Adela.

But when Adela asked who he was, Harold found himself unable to answer right away.

As though he knew exactly what Harold was hesitating over, Valery spoke.

“Can you still call me your brother?”

Harold looked away and thought for a moment before answering.

“......Yeah. But I don't think I understood how you felt back then. I think I understand a little now. Things in this world aren't that simple. I know now that childish sulking doesn't change anything.”

War had a way of changing people, from the preparations beforehand to the moment the operation began. Put positively, it was growth. Put negatively, it was scarring. It also depended on what a person went through.

There had been the pounding of his heart when the Call to Arms came, his father's deliberation over whether he, Winsloe's sole Heir, should take part, the process of steeling himself for death once his participation was decided, tending his equipment, his mother's tears, the long march, and finally, battle.

Valery merely smiled faintly, and there was a composure in that smile that only the strong could possess.

Wid, you seemed mature for your age even before, but now you've truly become an adult. That was what Harold thought.

What kind of road had he walked, and what battles had he fought?

Valery glanced at Adela beside Harold, then started walking again.

“I have business at the citadel. I'll get going.”

Valery walked away at a measured pace. Whether it was out of consideration for Harold and his friends or because their relationship had truly grown distant, he veered aside and put actual space between them.

A distance beyond the reach of a sword.

There were plenty of soldiers from the comital houses walking around Torvik. Security was not especially tight, though. Some rested their spears on their shoulders while chatting with comrades, while others casually shopped in the market.

The places under heavy guard were the homes of those who had served Duke Sven at close quarters. They had each been detained separately so they could not gather their forces.

In other words, ordinary people did not seem to be suffering any particular harm.

Thanks to that, Valery's group reached the Torvik Citadel without being stopped.

From this point onward, there were guards at the gates, and when they saw a group of armed young men approaching with swords at their waists, they frowned and blocked the way.

“Who are you?”

“Knut. Third Young Lord of House Viðing.”

Hearing a name he had never imagined he would hear, the gate guard stared blankly for a long moment before finally managing to answer.

“......Th-that... how... ah, you cannot enter right now......”

“Are you telling me you intend to stop me from entering my own home?”

“My apologies. P-please, just a moment. Please wait a moment. I will report this at once.”

One of the guards hurriedly ran inside the citadel.

A little while later, Aethelred, Count of Winsloe, came rushing out with several knights. The sight of Knut shocked him once, and the sight of Valery shocked him all over again.

Knut regarded Aethelred with a hard, arrogant look utterly unlike the one he wore around his friends.

“The war is already over. Why are your troops occupying the city and the citadel?”

Aethelred hurriedly recovered his composure before answering.

“......There was an unfortunate incident. With the duchy in disorder in the aftermath of the war and His Excellency having passed away, we had no choice but to commit this discourtesy in order to maintain order.”

“I am grateful for that, Count Winsloe. But that does not explain why I cannot enter my own home.”

“Certainly not. This merely happened because the guard was carrying out his duty, so I ask your generous forgiveness. Please, come inside. I will escort you personally.”

“Where is my brother?”

“......The First Young Lord is at the castle on the hill. We are taking particular care to ensure that, aside from not being permitted to leave the castle, he suffers no inconvenience.”

Listening quietly from behind, Valery had to admit that the matter had been handled cleanly. From the justification to the procedure to the administration, there was hardly a gap anywhere. There seemed to be nothing anyone could seize upon.

A more foolish man might have disposed of the First Young Lord immediately and installed the Third Young Lord as a puppet duke, but that would inevitably have created trouble later.

If the king later took issue with it, demanding to know who they were to choose the successor themselves and kill their lord's Legitimate Heir, their house could truly be ruined.

They would not even need to get as far as the king. Neighboring great lords might make military moves against them. It would give them an excellent pretext to swallow up the duchy.

In any case, Valery's group was allowed inside the citadel. Arne, Skard, and Yorik looked around tensely, but with a strange sense of nostalgia as well. It was strange to see unfamiliar men occupying a place where they themselves had lived for years.

Valery's group headed toward the hill. The knights who came along as escorts formed what amounted to a ring around them. They stayed so close that it was difficult even for the companions to whisper among themselves.

There was courtesy, but no goodwill. Count Aethelred had been somewhat deferential when speaking to Knut, but he had not bowed completely either.

If one had to compare it to something, it was like a contest between one man who had nothing but legitimacy and another who lacked legitimacy but possessed the power.

Valery's group climbed the hill and reached the castle. He had been here before after dealing with The Ball-Ripper, so it was not entirely unfamiliar.

However, the family's treasures, things like trophies passed down through generations, were nowhere to be seen. Count Aethelred had sold them to raise funds.

The castle had always been cold and bleak, but now it felt even barer.

Valery's group was led upstairs. Count Winsloe stopped in front of one room and knocked.

Knock, knock.

“Young Lord Gunnar, it is Count Winsloe.”

“......”

There was no response from inside. When the door was carefully opened, Gunnar could be seen curled up on the bed, his huge body hunched as though he had grown weary of life itself.

Everyone else waited outside while Knut entered the room alone.

For a long while, Knut simply stared at Gunnar. Gunnar hardly raised his head, as though he had no idea who had entered. Nor did he seem to care.

“Brother......”

After waiting for some time, Knut called to his brother in a very small voice. Gunnar, who had lain as still as a dead man, suddenly snapped his head up.

Perhaps he had barely eaten because he had lost his appetite. His cheeks had grown so hollow that his cheekbones jutted sharply from his face.

His eyes shook violently as he stared at his younger brother.

Knut spoke.

“If I don't say this before either you or I die, I know I'll regret it. You didn't do anything wrong. I was the one who did wrong. Back then, I should've just said no.”

At his brother's words, tears streamed from Gunnar's hollow eyes. His lips moved, but no words came out. He merely reached out a hand as though he wanted to come closer, then drew it back again and again.

Knut stepped closer and took that hand. Though Gunnar had grown thin, his frame was so large that the difference in the size of their hands was striking. Gunnar's face crumpled completely as he cried.

At last, the two brothers pulled each other into an embrace, and Knut seemed almost buried in Gunnar's enormous body.

The older brother buried his face in his younger brother's shoulder, soaking it with tears as he spoke.

“I'm sorry...... I just... I was stupid. I should've done it myself... Even after that, I could've killed him, but I took too long. I'm sorry......”

Knut, who had been forcing himself to hold back, finally broke down as well, tears streaming down his face.

“No. I didn't understand anything. I was ignorant. Big brother, I'm sorry.”

The brothers apologized to each other. A moment later, Gunnar began sobbing like an animal.

The door closed. Valery was the one who shut it. Their sobbing could still be heard through the closed door.

Everyone remained silent. Arne, Yorik, and Skard had reddened eyes, but Valery's gaze remained calm and still.

It was not that Valery found the brothers' reconciliation unmoving. His feelings about brothers were simply complicated in more ways than one.

He had killed them all, after all. Every last one. Even his nephews.