“Sister. Do not resent me.”

The Oscar in print differed from the Oscar of today. His word choice, sentence structure, conversation topics—nothing overlapped with the Oscar I now knew.

“This is all a situation you brought upon yourself.”

Unlike the weak and indecisive Oscar of today, the Oscar in the book made no attempt to hide his ambitions, didn’t waste his talents, and never hesitated to use whatever he could. He knew no guilt. He was, in every sense, a true Veritatis.

“Because you reached for things beyond your station, because you coveted what you shouldn’t have—that’s why things turned out this way. You—!”

“No.”

“……”

“No, child. Oscar, my dear brother. Your premise is flawed. Grandfather chose me because of the fragrant blood flowing beneath that pale skin of yours.”

What shaped him was his environment. The previous Count and Veritatis elders who refused to acknowledge Oscar with Madame Poporani’s red blood in his veins. And I, Brote, who stood at the forefront, used to pressure Oscar.

“Even if Veritatis represents roses, grapes, and the abundant South, how can its dignity remain when its master is stained with such common scents? Hmm? What would become of the Veritatis prestige?”

Not the current me, but the me who existed in that same printed world. The Brote in the book.

“…Sister. Please don’t resent me.”

“Of course not. And you mustn’t resent me either.”

The world of the Brote in the story was narrow and deep. She failed to notice why Oscar spoke those words that day, at that moment. She dismissed it merely as his usual complaints and tantrums.

But the following month, everything turned upside down.

Oscar—who despite being favored by Count Veritatis couldn’t rise to the position of undisputed heir because of his common blood—was directly addressed by the King as the “next” Count Veritatis.

[‘Return of the Princess.

Thirteen years ago, the kidnapped and missing youngest princess of the royal family has had her true identity restored by Young Master Oscar Veritatis, who is being discussed as the next Count Veritatis…’]

I unfolded the newspaper, checked the photograph… and discovered Eric standing beside the princess. I recognized the princess’s face. She was someone Brote knew—the Academy’s one and only commoner girl… Ariel.

‘Brote, Ariel is sick. She… needs me.’

Why did those words come to mind at this moment?

‘Just one day. She asked me to stay with her for just one day.’

Why didn’t I take those words seriously then? Why did I nod? Why didn’t I hold onto his back? Why, why, why…

‘Wow, so that rumor was true.’

‘I know, right? Honestly, I had my suspicions…’

‘Hey, hey, it’s already over. What’s the point in talking about it now?’

‘Anyway, Young Master Colin’s life is set now.’

‘Ugh, if I had known, I would have made the first move—!’

‘Nonsense. Hey, you’re too ugly, you’d have been rejected.’

‘Shhh—be quiet!’

Brote didn’t even know such rumors were circulating. Because she was busy. To solidify her position as heir. These excuses held no weight. Because she trusted Eric. That explanation didn’t work either. She acknowledged that blaming someone now was pointless.

When she finally composed herself and managed to visit her grandfather, Brote realized she was the only one who hadn’t known about the “rumor.”

Her grandfather, standing with his hands behind his back, patting Oscar’s shoulders, looked at her with indifferent eyes. The elders who had previously refused to acknowledge Oscar now took turns patting his shoulder, raising their voices in anticipation of his future endeavors.

‘Sister. Didn’t I warn you?’

‘……’

‘Not to resent me.’

Seeing these people change their attitudes like flipping a hand, Brote could only let out a hollow laugh. There was nothing else she could do. Thus, Brote lost everything she had held. In a single moment. Without any warning, in a completely unexpected way.

It made sense. The Oscar that Brote knew was a simple fool, and the Count was a selfish coward. She couldn’t imagine them orchestrating something so bold.

‘The succession, and Eric.’

Brote, who had been running with only those goals in sight, wouldn’t have known. But to me, who had read that book repeatedly, imagining those situations countless times, it became visible. At some point, I began to understand, vaguely, ‘why’ events unfolded that way.

It resembled a well-crafted script. A script where the participants were predetermined. A bold rebellion with the royal family as its backdrop.

The reason Brote failed to notice this…

‘Sister. Shall I tell you something? Men dislike women who are better than them.’

‘……’

‘Still don’t understand? This was the inevitable outcome the moment you harbored vain ambitions.’

‘……’

‘So, act like a proper Veritatis.’

Was because she didn’t know the identity of the man standing behind Oscar as he spoke those words.

‘Philip Esmund.’

The only grandson of Margrave Esmund who guarded the kingdom’s edge bordering the Grand Duchy, and the director of the Investigation Team handling all manner of unsavory tasks in this country. Simultaneously… he was “presumed” to be the twin of Louis Beauvesh, known as the current king’s only son.

Because she only learned this man’s true identity right before her death.

‘What shall I do with this…’

As he brushed back his fine golden hair matching the crown prince’s, smiling with golden eyes flashing beneath his smooth white half-mask.

‘Ah, yes. My lady, I’ll give you this mask of mine.’

Philip Esmund. No, Philip Beauvesh’s true face.

Drip. Drip.

As drops of blood glistening at his fingertips reddened the snow, an unfamiliar voice broke the silence.

“Whoa, whoa. No need to look at me like that. I assure you I’m not a suspicious person. Wait, saying that probably makes me sound more suspicious, doesn’t it?”

The man, who had been showing his palms near his face as if to prove his innocence, suddenly extended his right hand as if offering a handshake.

Drip, drip. Blood droplets fell from around his wrist, sliding down his black glove. They landed a short distance from where blood had already begun to pool at his feet.

“I’m Philip. Philip Esmund. The grandson of Margrave Esmund and the director of the Royal Investigation Team dispatched to the North to deal with ‘those things’ for the winter. Philip Esmund.”

“……”

“Hmm… usually when one party introduces themselves first, the other party reciprocates…”

Whoosh—whoosh—the mountain wind blew. Carried on that wind, white particles began to fall, little by little. The sky, which had been bright and clear until moments ago, was now filled with dark clouds.

The “northern demon” known to crave human flesh and blood, the “Manaha” that spilled transparent blood. A white plateau where time seemed to have stopped, devoid of human traces. And the director of the “Investigation Team” who appeared “alone” there.

And… blood.

Nothing good would come from getting involved with this man.

“Alright. Fine. I understand I look dangerous. I’d like to prove my identity with my identification badge, but I seem to have lost it during the fight.”

Regardless of knowing his identity—no, precisely because I knew his identity—I could only imagine the worst.

“But I’m telling the truth. I swear I’m not dangerous. Look, there are four of you and I’m alone. I lost all my subordinates to ‘those things.’ This blood got on me during that fight.”

“……”

“I have a conscience. I’m not asking for much.”

“……”

“Let me travel with you just until we reach the gate.”

After rattling off his long explanation, Philip Esmund raised both arms and looked at us as if awaiting judgment. It was then that I felt warm breath on my ear.

“What shall we do?”

“…I think he’s dangerous.”

I hadn’t expected “that” Aide Rondo to ask for my opinion, so my delayed response came as I looked up at him and asked:

“What do you think?”

“I agree.”

At his answer, I couldn’t help but look at him with slight surprise. Our conversations usually involved grabbing at each other’s words and stretching them in various directions. This was the first time our opinions had aligned.

A snowflake fell onto his long eyelashes as he looked down at me. The sky had turned pale white, ready to pour down heavy snow at any moment.

The snowfall was intensifying.

The distance from the forest surrounding Manderley Mansion to the northern gate wasn’t far in terms of actual distance. If one rode alone on horseback across this vast snowfield, it could be crossed in as little as one day, or three days at most.

The problem was… that snow. The snow that was gradually growing heavier, making its presence known again. Of course, this snow had been factored into our schedule for traveling to the capital… but even so, I couldn’t help feeling anxious.

We couldn’t afford to waste any more time. That thought struck me strongly.

“Vivi. Please bring a blanket, water, and some jerky.”

“Ah, yes!”

Vivi, who had been blinking briefly as if assessing the situation, seemed to calculate that giving these items would make the man leave. She released my arm, which she had been clutching like a lifeline, and ran toward the carriage without hesitation.

“Ha, how cold-hearted. Offering nothing but a blanket, water, and jerky to send me off into this vast wilderness without a word?”

Philip Esmund also seemed to have grasped the situation and immediately expressed his opinion.

“You said you weren’t asking for much, did you not?”

I too rejected his proposal outright. The quicker the decision, the better.

“Why choose the difficult path when an easier one is available?”

“Because—”

“Because our lady isn’t foolish enough to let someone who speaks only lies into our carriage.”

Just as I was about to counter Philip Esmund’s words, the man placed his hand on his sword hilt and stepped in front of me. Warmth slipped away between my fingers like sand. Only when the cold northern wind filled that empty space did I realize that the man and I had been holding hands all this time.

“Well, I have no choice then.”

With a click of his tongue, Philip Esmund revealed his true colors.