“I wish you were my real brother.”

When Erich first said those words, Reingart wasn’t flustered. Rather, his heart seemed to race a little. 

Not from surprise, but from anticipation. Because he’d been thinking the same thing.

What noble would share his son’s portion of milk with a maid’s bloodline? Would he willingly raise a child whose father was unknown? Feed him, clothe him, educate him, and even provide him with a sword, horse, and armor?

The older he got, the more he saw and heard, the more he learned about the world’s harshness and the distinctions of status, the greater his doubts grew. 

He learned that it was very common for maids to bear their master’s children, and that when such children showed exceptional talent, they were rarely acknowledged as bastards and given their father’s surname. Illegitimate children had no surname and couldn’t hide their lowly origins.

“Blasphemous talk. A man as fine as the lord has no bastards.”

“My brothers say all adults have bastards. Even if they pretend not to know, they secretly help them, right? That’s exactly you.”

B*stard. 

Every time he thought of that word, Reingart’s chest churned. 

When he thought that the privileges and fortune given to him weren’t merely born of charity, that the things the lord bestowed weren’t because of Erich, his stomach swelled with pride. He sometimes felt like he’d grown two spans taller.

Maybe all of this was mine from the beginning, just my portion.

“When you’re grown, Father might acknowledge you. He might be waiting for a good opportunity. You know, some impressive occasion.”

So Reingart trained even harder. 

Clinging to that single thread of hope, he struggled to become a b*stard the lord could proudly acknowledge. He secretly hoped whenever a shining moment came.

However, even on the day he first won the mounted tournament, even at his knighthood ceremony, Gallant Rothe only patted his shoulder with a pleased face but didn’t acknowledge him as a son. 

He only treated him as a young, useful knight fresh from being a page favored by his youngest son, now just sworn as his vassal.

Yet he still couldn’t abandon that expectation, so he could only smile bitterly at his own patheticness.

“I heard you distinguished yourself greatly at Mendel?”

At the question directed at him, Reingart raised his eyes. He’d just taken a mouthful of water to rinse his bitter mouth. Swallowing it, he met the gaze of the man in his thirties sitting across from him. 

The Count’s eldest son, Volker Rothe, had a small frame like his father but keen eyes. His inability to handle a sword and his skill with calculations were also unmistakably his father’s.

“I heard His Imperial Majesty personally rewarded our Sir Rein’s martial prowess. I heard rumors you kissed his ring.”

“The rumors are exaggerated.”

“Where there’s wildfire, there was a spark.”

Volker urged with a sly smile. His wife Bertha also looked this way with a perfunctory smile. Reingart knew the attention of the nine people seated around the table was focused on him.

At the twelve-person dining table sat the Count’s two sons and their wives, along with vassals. The two empty seats were for the Count and Countess. 

That he got to sit here even without Erich—was it simply because he’d distinguished himself on the battlefield? 

Reingart answered the question while mocking his habitual expectations.

“It’s true I had an audience with His Imperial Majesty, but it wasn’t private. There were over a dozen other knights besides me.”

“Did His Majesty personally commend you?”

“No. There were many knights from prestigious families, so he didn’t even speak to me.”

Most of the knights present that day were sons of nobles. It was natural that Reingart, who’d killed the most enemies and captured the most prisoners, couldn’t stand in the front row. The Emperor didn’t even glance at him.

“That’s disappointing. Why wouldn’t he speak to you?”

Volker tilted his head with a slight smile. Well, you’re a maid’s child after all. The Emperor wouldn’t deign to speak with a b*stard without a father or surname. 

His thinly smiling eyes seemed to say that, and Reingart’s shoulders stiffened slightly.

“Our Rothe is prestigious too. Isn’t that truly disappointing, brother?”

“I agree. Sir Reingart is Rothe’s pride, yet I can’t believe no one informed His Majesty.”

Dietrich, who was sitting across from him, responded eagerly. 

The Count’s second son was a knight and commander of the private army, leading five hundred soldiers. 

He’d competed with his brother, two years his senior, since childhood—Erich had often said he’d have a headache deciding which side to take when his brothers fought over the succession.

“That’s exactly what I mean. Next time I have an audience with His Majesty, I should mention it. That the knight who took the most spoils in the final battle was from Rothe.”

“Well done, Reingart. As a fellow knight, I’m truly proud.”

“Of course we’re proud that our house produced an outstanding knight. Father surely thinks so too.”

At the competitive praise the two brothers poured out, Reingart lowered his eyes. Volker and Dietrich didn’t mention Erich’s death in battle. 

They only talked about his accomplishments on the battlefield and the Emperor’s reward. Rather than show any sign of blaming him for their youngest brother’s death, their intention to butter him up and pull him to their side was transparent.

“Was Mendel Castle bearable, Sir? I heard it snows terribly there in winter, so you must have suffered greatly.”

“Really, brother. What’s a little snow to a fine knight? He could surely endure even if ice daggers poured down.”

“Of course, but Luise. It was Sir Rein’s first time seeing snow directly, wasn’t it? Northern winters aren’t easy.”

“It couldn’t have been as hard as knight training, Sister Bertha. My husband suffered so much before his knighthood. It’s a trial only the strongest men can pass.”

Listening to the young noblewomen’s power struggle, Reingart maintained a neutral expression. The daily competition between brothers and sisters-in-law was not something new.

The vassals watched with smiling faces, gauging which side to join. The dining table scene he’d returned to after a year was so exactly the same it made him cynical.

Had only Erich’s absence changed? Ah. There’s one more thing.

The Countess.

Reingart shifted his gaze to the seat at the end of the long table. A glass, plate, and cutlery were placed at the empty seat. 

Because Gallant Rothe had been without a wife for so long, that seat had always belonged to vassals or guests. He was staring at that unfamiliar sight with a strange feeling when—

“The lord is dining.”

The chamberlain raised his voice to announce the castle lord’s entrance.

Everyone seated around the table stood up at once. Conversation broke off and only the sound of chairs scraping echoed. Reingart stood straight with his eyes lowered, waiting for the Count and his wife to enter. 

Tap tap. The sound of a woman’s shoe heels striking the floor rang out particularly clearly.

“Rein!”

The Count’s call came from behind him before those footsteps had even stopped. Reingart immediately turned that way, then placed his right arm across his chest and bowed his head. It was the gesture of loyalty to his lord.

“I greet my lord.”

“You’ve returned safely. I’ve been waiting.”

He raised his head at the sound of footsteps approaching. The moment he saw the Count’s smiling face, he first examined his complexion. 

Whether there were traces of grief from losing his son. How great his joy was at seeing him again. 

Even in that brief moment, Reingart was comparing the weight of Erich and himself, and he felt nauseated by that disgusting habit.

“You arrived earlier than scheduled. I thought you wouldn’t come until next week.”

“I must have urged my horse on.”

“You wanted to come home quickly. I just returned from Isen today too. You came on a very perfect day.”

The Count welcomed Reingart with a beaming smile. He spoke to him first upon entering and personally approached to continue the conversation. He even patted his shoulder affectionately, like he was proud.

Reingart kept his eyes lowered to avoid looking down at the Count, who was shorter than him, but the woman’s presence that entered the edge of his vision was already vivid.

A pale gray satin dress. Hands clasped neatly above it. And a fragrance.

The faint floral scent he’d smelled when he knocked off her bonnet.

Reingart moved his eyes slightly to look that way. 

The woman standing behind the Count was completely different from what he’d seen during the day. Only her face was the same beneath the elegantly pinned-up blonde hair.

A jeweled necklace hung on the neck of the woman who had asked him to cut it, and a stiffly starched lace collar spread out like wings. 

Lace. 

That fabric delicately woven from linen was the exclusive property of nobles.

The woman wearing lace seemed like a completely different person from when she wore the bonnet. 

She stood with an expressionless face, not even giving him a glance. Her slightly raised chin and lowered eyes were utterly aristocratic, and Reingart instinctively turned his eyes away, feeling like they had been stung.