“Is there perhaps… some love affair I should know about?”

That was the first thing the woman said as she gazed out over the rose-colored riverside.

“Whose affair?”

Kyle tilted his head slightly and set down his knife. Maude only smiled faintly, giving no real answer, and a small crease formed between his brows. Summer was indeed the perfect season for daydreams — but an affair?

It wasn’t the kind of conversation most lovers would have in a beautiful riverside restaurant. The evening breeze slipped between them, carrying a soft sigh.

“I was only joking,” she said, a playful lilt to her tone. “You just seem so used to everything.”

“The recommendation and reservation were both made by Azel,” Kyle replied flatly.

“Azel?”

The familiar name made Maude tilt her head, her expression thoughtful. It was on the tip of her tongue — she knew that name. Before she could ask, Kyle helped her along.

“Lieutenant Azel. You met him at the Bergen base.”

“Ah!”

At last, the memory clicked. The face she’d seen at the checkpoint was vague in her mind, but the bright, confident smile that had watched both her and the Grand Duke lingered vividly.

“Azel… that Azel!”

The name brought back the chatter she’d overheard from young ladies about Kyle’s bouquet — and she couldn’t help but grin. Well, if he’d been her first romance, that would explain a lot.

A smile curved across Maude’s lips, and Kyle’s eyes, as always, followed her.

Who was this Azel, and what was so amusing?

Her laughter — impossible to predict, impossible to ignore — left him with an odd feeling. Without a word, Kyle placed a neatly cut steak in front of her. Maude gave a polite nod of thanks and lowered her gaze— only to almost burst out laughing.

‘This is…’

Each piece was cut into perfect, ruler-straight cubes. Maude bit back her laughter, glancing between the plate and Kyle’s ever-serious face.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, lips twitching. “It just looks… very neat.”

Her fingertips brushed the edge of the plate gently, a soft smile still dancing on her face. She really was a woman who smiled often — ever since the night of the banquet, it had barely left her.

Beneath the high neckline of her dress, a glimpse of white bandages peeked through. Kyle couldn’t help his eyes from drifting there sometimes — though he never asked about the wound. Dr. Lewis had already told him everything: the treatment plan, the prognosis, and that by the end of summer, only a faint scar would remain.

By the time the scars faded and summer returned, everything would finally fall back into place. The thought was… oddly comforting. And she was still smiling.

Kyle found himself looking at her for a long while — that soft, smiling face that seemed to glow beneath the night lights.

The terrace had fallen under the embrace of dusk. The city lights spilled like jewels across the river below. But in that warm, golden moment, a chill slipped through him.

Maude’s laughter stopped. She was staring at him — not warmly, but sharply, her eyes cold.

He didn’t know why, but he didn’t look away.

Then, her gaze shifted to his right shoulder. Kyle followed it down— and saw the crimson bloom spreading through his white shirt.

‘D*mn it.’

The old stitches again. Of all times…

He quickly slipped his black jacket back on, covering the bloodstain.

“A doctor’s words,” she said sternly, “are as good as law.”

It was exactly what Dr. Lewis always said — word for word. Kyle almost laughed. The doctor had practically carved the phrase into his ears, saying it with more authority than most commanding officers.

“And where did you learn that?”

Maude’s incredulous scoff barely left her lips before she stood abruptly, pushing her chair back. Her small frame cut across the golden light, and before he knew it, Kyle was sitting under her shadow.

Under the brilliant city lights, her silhouette looked almost fragile.

“We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

Her small hand darted out of the dark, gripping his wrist firmly. She pulled — surprisingly strong for her size — and Kyle followed, half-amused, half-resigned.

Her scolding murmurs slipped through the evening air like a melody.

For nagging, it was… a rather sweet voice. And for some reason, he didn’t mind listening.

***

“Just as I expected,” Dr. Lewis sighed, eyeing the blood-soaked shirt.

Kyle said nothing. There was nothing to say — only silence, and the faint rustle of the doctor’s gloves.

The reopened wound bled freely, red against white.

“If you keep this up, I’ll go to headquarters myself next time,” the doctor threatened, voice weary.

Dragged into the hospital by Maude’s insistence, Kyle could do nothing but endure Lewis’s exasperated sighs and lecture.

“I’m sorry, Doctor.”

He bowed his head deeply.

“Sorry? You should be apologizing to yourself, not me,” Lewis muttered, examining the wound again.

The Grand Duke — always neglecting himself, always silent about the pain that painted his body in scars. Lewis’s heart clenched at the sight.

“You can’t carry everything alone, Your Grace. Please… take care of yourself.”

He never realized how precious his own life was.

Each scar told a story — of duty, of loss, of someone who had given too much.

“I’ll try,” Kyle said quietly, his smile faint but genuine.

Lewis studied that tired smile for a long time, words failing him.

***

The night air was cool and soft as it brushed against their cheeks. Beneath the streetlights, the two walked side by side, shadows stretching long between the trees.

Maude glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing in thought.

Was every soldier this reckless?

No — no, it had to be just him.

If every man in his unit were like Kyle, the army would’ve collapsed long ago.

“Let’s come back together in three days for your follow-up. I’ll be there too.”

His blue eyes met hers — calm, deep, like the sea.

“All right.”

“Doctor Lewis likes diligent patients, you know. He said you’re his worst one.”

Her voice was bright and teasing again, and Kyle couldn’t help but smile.

Under the soft shimmer of city lights, her laughter rang out — light, warm, and fleeting, like a midsummer dream.

***

Celeste’s investment had paid off handsomely. The prestigious daily paper she’d purchased was plastered with stories about Prince Rhaion.

Every page. Every column. Even the smallest editorials — all singing his praises.

Most pieces detailed his time in Bergen, stretching from brief paragraphs to full-length features.

As always, every triumph that had truly belonged to Kyle was credited to Rhaion instead.

Count Clifton Drevan’s expression twisted with barely contained rage as he read.

‘D*mn that Dwyer.’

“‘The Royal Family as a Model of Noblesse Oblige.’ ‘“The Crown Prince and His Honor, Shedding a Sense of Privilege.’”

He flipped the page, face darkening.

That coward— running for his life at Bocatte two years ago — abandoning his men. Most of them had died. Lieutenant Azel had barely survived, clinging to life at death’s door.

The paper crackled in Clifton’s hands, his fury simmering beneath the ink.

It had been the Grand Duke who’d saved his son from the sl*ughter at Bocatte. The Grand Duke, who had led the defense, who had fought when others fled.

And yet… this.

How long was Kyle supposed to live like this?

He might have moved from Bergen to the capital, but nothing had changed. The same endless duties, the same disregard for rank.

By any measure, he should have been promoted to colonel long ago.

How could the emperor — his own father — be so cold to him?

Clifton clicked his tongue, thinking of Emperor Leopold’s ever-pleasant face.

“…Tch.”

Tired of flattering articles about cowards and hypocrites, he was about to close the paper when a new headline caught his eye:

“Norwood’s Merger Fails — Shockwaves Across the Shipping Industry.”

His brow furrowed. Shockwaves, was it?

True, Nowood had suffered some losses from failed bond investments, but to claim an industry upheaval was absurd. The family still owned most of the modern steamship fleet.

“A Foreseen Collapse: Nowood’s Shares Plummet Following Deville Line’s Price Cut.”

Unless someone wanted to bring down the King of Steamships, Alten Nowood himself.

Clifton’s gaze lingered on the lines, his eyes narrowing. Then he shook his head slowly.