“They must never be allowed to return to the capital. They’re already harboring deep resentment.”

It was only the lack of concrete proof that kept them from acting—but the Knights of Dusk already knew that Guido’s words were true.

The Order decided to eliminate them quietly.

Nobles who supported the Order began withdrawing their forces from the eastern front one by one, each offering their own excuses. Supply wagons bound for the east vanished without a trace, and reinforcements were cut off entirely.

A handful of imperial faction nobles unexpectedly remained on the battlefield, but the Order did not expect them to last long.

And yet, united around the Knights of Dusk, they endured with relentless tenacity. They went on to secure a string of victories—and in the end, they subdued Ishtal.

The people of Legrandem erupted in celebration, hailing their heroic triumph.

Only then did the Order hastily attempt to mend its relationship with the Knights of Dusk, but they didn’t even bother to acknowledge them.

Realizing that the rift would only deepen, Pharos hurried to find his father.

“They must not be allowed to enter the capital!”

“They return bearing news of victory—how exactly do you propose we drive them out?”

“Then at the very least… the Archduke’s second son—”

Guido had been beaten down, and Tenetta Achilleton had taken the position of Commander of Dusk. The order stood united under him—remove that single pillar, and it would be easy to break them apart.

Beneath what he framed as a rational judgment lay an inferiority he refused to acknowledge. Though he held the title of Commander of Dawn, Pharos had never built any real achievements to his name.

And now, a young man of similar standing—one even younger than him—was returning to the capital as a war hero…

Pharos found it unbearable.

Agulus showed no sympathy for his turmoil.

“Rumors have already spread across the capital that he personally seized the royal banner of Ishtal! Even His Majesty the Emperor is waiting to commend him!”

“If it’s merit you speak of, I can earn it as well. Give me a few years. The Dawn Knights and I will claim victory just the same—”

“Against whom? Ishtal in the east has already surrendered, and the western front is nearly resolved as well, is it not?”

Silenced, Pharos closed his mouth like one struck dumb. Agulus drove the final nail in.

“I made you the head of Dawn long ago, yet you’ve done nothing but linger in the capital. And now, belatedly, you think to trail behind others and claim what’s left.”

The blunt rebuke, delivered as if scolding a child, dripped with disdain. No matter how much he tried to deny it, Pharos had always yearned for his father’s acknowledgment—and each word cut into him like a blade.

***

From that day on, Pharos found himself unable to tolerate Tenetta or anyone under his command.

It was not merely a matter of wounded pride.

The Knights of Dusk—like a pack of wild dogs that had never been tamed—quickly muddied the waters of the capital. And yet, the people of the capital treated even their debauchery as though it were just another glorious tale of valor.

In public, the Emperor openly praised Dusk. Behind closed doors, however, he repeatedly pressured Dawn, asking why there was any need for two knightly orders to remain now that the war was over. For the moment, the Order still held more power than the imperial throne, and that was the only reason they could endure—but that balance would not last forever.

Things might have been easier if the Knights of Dusk had remained loyal to the Order.

But Tenetta Achilleton, even while commanding the Holy Knights, openly kept close ties with the Emperor, and made no real attempt to rein in the beasts under his command—the men who had returned after tearing through human flesh.

And yet, whenever he needed the authority of religion, he shamelessly invoked the name of the Order.

Just like now.

“What exactly have you been doing?”

Standing before the fortress wall, Pharos threw the question at Tenetta like an accusation. Tenetta, who had been waiting for him to approach, looked down at him with those eyes of his. Having grown even taller over the years, he held Pharos’s gaze—and just before Pharos could raise his voice in irritation, he spoke in a crisp, almost pleasant tone.

“If you insist on wearing your eyes as decoration, you should at least choose a better color.”

It was mockery, wrapped in gentleness.

Dropping the pretense of courtesy, Pharos lowered his voice.

“My eyes are not for decoration.”

“Then don’t use them as if they are.”

“How would my eyes possibly—”

“You asked when it was obvious I was rooting out heretics.”

Heretics. Heretics.

Pharos ground his teeth. His face, already rigid with tension, hardened into open hostility.

“Is the Line family truly heretical?”

“For someone who thinks they might be innocent, you didn’t seem to hesitate at all when it came to their execution.”

“That’s because—!”

Pharos nearly lost his composure and raised his voice, but he forced himself to take a slow, steady breath. Every time he became entangled with the man before him, he lost all sense of calm. Everything about him grated on Pharos’s nerves. Had he known it would come to this, he would have done whatever it took to keep the Tenetta of the past from ever setting foot in the capital.

Lowering his voice until even a servant lingering nearby would not be able to overhear, Pharos spoke.

“…Wasn’t it you who truly executed the Line family?”

Outwardly, it had been staged as though Pharos himself carried out the execution—but the one who had actually eradicated the Line family using divine power was Tenetta. From the very beginning, the man had made it clear that he would personally handle the true execution.

There was only one reason Pharos had involved himself in a farce he would normally never have given a second glance.

A single line from the letter Tenetta had sent him:

[Do you not need achievements?]

Because of those words.

Pharos truly needed visible accomplishments. Tenetta and the Knights of Dusk could afford to coast on the merits they had earned three years ago, enduring just as they had while idling away—but Pharos could not.

It was rare for nobles to be denounced as heretics. And the Line family, though not particularly powerful, still belonged to the imperial faction.

Whatever reason Tenetta had for cutting down members of his own faction… No—if they were truly heretics, then perhaps it could not be helped. Pharos cut off the thought before it could deepen.

The Line estate, where corpses had reportedly been piled high, had conveniently burned to the ground just a day before his arrival—but there were still plenty of witnesses who had seen the scene.

Even if they had not been heretics, it was Tenetta who had truly carried out the execution, so Pharos’s own divine power remained unstained.

And yet, something continued to trouble him.

It was because of what Tenetta had said earlier—when he took the hand of a heretic who had still been alive.

“Truth is… I’m not all that devout either.”

Lowering himself as though he were a priest hearing a final confession, the man leaned in and whispered softly.

“No matter how much I try, I just can’t bring myself to believe in things like gods or divine punishment.”

His voice remained gentle as it continued.

“So make sure you fall into h*ll—and prove that an afterlife truly exists.”

Had those words been spoken in public, they would have drawn not only condemnation but also serious doubt about his qualifications as a man of the cloth.

But no matter how much it grated on him, Pharos could not challenge Tenetta’s remarks. He had no intention of introducing even the slightest flaw into what would become his own achievement.

In the end, swallowing the harsh words that had risen to his throat, Pharos left him with a warning—one that would not seem out of place even if it were formally recorded.

“I trust you have not misused the blessing granted to you by God.”

Until that moment, Tenetta had been gazing at him with unwavering calm. Then, just briefly, he faltered.

“I value everything I’ve been given. So there’s no need for concern.”

With that, the man turned his back.

Pharos stared after him, his gaze fixed.

So absorbed was he in questioning whether the flicker of disgust that had crossed that angelic face had been real, that he failed to notice how the man’s once rough, unrefined gait had, over the years, become so straight and composed it could have been used as a model.

***

Isabelle opened her eyes.

The moment she recognized the familiar ceiling, a single thought surfaced first.

‘Did I… die from a heart attack?’

She had once heard that people could die suddenly from sheer shock.

But for someone who had supposedly died and come back to life, her body felt far too heavy. She had never returned like this before—with a pounding head and limbs that felt as heavy as soaked cotton.

As Isabelle let out a faint groan and shifted, Viole and Hexter—who had been keeping watch by her bedside—immediately stepped closer.

“Isabelle, are you alright?”

“…Mother, Father?”

Viole blinked back tears as she reached out to touch Isabelle’s forehead. Isabelle remembered then—her stepmother might have been reserved and somewhat distant, but she had always loved her.

With her father’s help, Isabelle pushed herself upright. But the moment she did, her face turned deathly pale.

“Then… the Line family really was… like that—”

“Let’s speak of that later.”

Hexter cut in firmly, placing a pillow behind his daughter’s back to support her.

Isabelle drew in a short breath.

Her father was right. No matter how deeply she dwelled on their deaths now, nothing would change.

And yet, the final scene she had witnessed before losing consciousness flickered vividly before her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the image etched so deeply into her mind.

Watching her daughter with concern, Viole hesitated before asking,

“Isabelle… what do you mean you’re engaged to His Grace the Grand Duke?”