Mirabella began to cry, her sobs sharp and bitter. Swan shook uncontrollably, her face pale as though she might collapse. She needed to calm her daughter, but her mind was blank. It’s not what I think, right? It’s not true. It can’t be—it mustn’t be. Those three phrases spun endlessly in her head.

A sharp lump rose in her throat, making it hard to breathe. Mirabella’s cries weren’t the usual whimpers. This time, they were long and uneven, filled with anguish. Swan could see the teardrops clinging to her daughter’s lashes, yet she couldn’t bring herself to act. She simply held her tightly, unable to move.

“Just tell me it’s not true. Say it, and I’ll leave. I’ll go and make sure you never see me again.”

The voice, once sharp and defiant, had softened into a desperate, almost pleading tone. It was so full of anguish that it was hard to bear. Swan wanted to scream instead, to step forward and shout, It’s not true. This child isn’t his.

So please… just go.

She wanted to shout those words so desperately but couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“Brother.”

“She is my child. My daughter. And she is my wife.”

Renéee collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. One of the maids by her side cried out, “My lady!” Whether she had fainted or simply broken down, her protests ceased entirely. Swan couldn’t bring herself to lift her head or turn to look. She sat frozen, holding her daughter tightly as Mirabella continued to cry without pause.

The knight was not executed, but the matter was far from settled. Atlion insisted on punishing those responsible. In the end, the squires who had trampled through the cabin with muddy boots had the smallest fingers of their left hands cut off as a substitute for a harsher punishment.

Renéee wept uncontrollably, her cries long and piercing, cutting through the silence like the wails of a grieving child. Forbidden from entering the cabin, she remained in a hastily set-up tent deep within the wooded valley throughout the cold night.

Her unrelenting sobbing, seemingly meant for Atlion to hear, echoed clearly. Swan clung to her child as the sound filled the air. Mirabella – her child who was never meant to exist in her world. She didn’t need her words; her attitude spoke volumes.

When Mirabella’s cries finally subsided, her breaths shallow and uneven, Swan looked down at her. But the moment Mirabella’s eyes met Atlion’s, her cries erupted again, louder and more desperate than before. Her piercing cries, as if her voice was about to give out, jolted Swan from her daze.

“Are you leaving?”

Her heart raced as she spoke, her cheeks flushing under his gaze. Her eyelashes trembled and she tightened her grip on the baby in her arms, trying to keep her composure. The man remained silent, his eyes fixed on her as the silence stretched between them.

“Brother!”

A sharp, angry voice rang out from outside. Bang, bang. The cabin door shook violently, as though it might give way. Swan, startled, turned her frightened eyes toward the noise.

“Brother! Open the door!”

Atlion’s face briefly showed a flicker of annoyance as he looked at Swan before it faded. He shifted his gaze, staring at her for a moment longer, then turned and opened the door. Outside stood a woman with a fierce expression, her eyes blazing with anger.

“I told you not to come in.”

“Look at this!”

“Renéee.”

“And this as well!”

The woman opened her hand to reveal a gold badge glimmering in the light. The object, about the size of a silver coin, was held up for him to see. Her expression was even more inflamed than it had been earlier that morning. The elegance and refinement that usually marked her features were gone, replaced by unbridled rage.

“Aren’t you curious where I found this?”

“…….”

“It was in her storeroom. In the drawer where she keeps her herbs. It was locked. She must have hidden it!”

“…….”

“And this—don’t you want to know how we tracked you down?”

The woman stepped further into the cabin with each word. Atlion simply watched her, his gaze steady and unreadable. Unlike before, he neither ordered her to leave nor raised his voice to silence her. Swan, her heart sinking, looked at him nervously, her dry lips trembling as she tried to gauge his reaction.

“Your foster father sold it as stolen goods,” the woman added, her voice sharp and accusing. “Your armour, brother.”

“Renéee.”

“Brother, didn’t you say that a man called Tom took your armour? This woman’s foster father? He claimed he was showing it to someone who knew about precious objects.

“…….”

“That wasn’t true. He hid it and recently sold it as stolen goods. Some of it was even melted down into raw metal. In exchange, he received a generous amount of gold coins. And this.”

The woman, who had momentarily stopped sobbing, now radiated a sharp and cutting presence. Her fiery demeanour returned as she gazed at Swan with an intensity that felt deadly. The badge with the Imperial Crest – the crucial item that could restore his memory. It was the same badge Swan had once seen him acknowledge when asked if it had been given to Tom.

His gaze, which had lingered silently on the badge, suddenly shifted to Swan. It wasn’t colder than usual, nor warmer – just the same unyielding, piercing stare. Caught in his gaze, Swan could only stare back, her mind blank.

Eyes like polished blue glass, an unweathered wall of ice, frost condensed into something unbreakable – those eyes. Eyes that had never shown warmth or longing, now seemed to shatter her piece by piece with their steady, unrelenting gaze.

In the past year, during the absence of Atlion, the Black Prince of the Holy Empire of Solerium, two major developments have taken place in Solerium. The first was the suppression of Ronan de Lamallac’s rebellion and the subsequent rise of the remnants who had turned into rogue forces.

The Lamallac faction, which Atlion had relentlessly driven into dangerous situations at great personal risk, was finally crushed under the reign of Emperor Calyps. However, Lamallac’s surviving loyalists retreated to the western mountains and fought localised skirmishes throughout the region.

Calyps, who personally commanded the search, was eventually forced to return to Solam after half a year, after the Marquis of Amiens warned that the central administration could not be neglected for so long. The task of overseeing the search was entrusted to Count Raoul of Pantheon, along with key Knights of the Order of the Crimson Lily – former subordinates of the Crown Prince – and their squire-led detachments.

For nearly six months, the search had made little headway, becoming increasingly directionless after Calyps’ return to Solam. However, as the search parties combed the twenty-four territories surrounding the Black Mountains, they began to uncover vital clues. Without finding a body, it was too early to declare the Crown Prince dead – a sentiment shared by Raoul of Pantheon and the other subordinates leading the search.

But still, if he were alive, wouldn’t he have returned to Solam by now? Nearly a year had passed. No one had considered the possibility that the Crown Prince might have lost his memory. Even if his body were wounded, he was still the Crown Prince.

Time crept on, heavy with a desperation that grew harder to bear. Clues to the Crown Prince surfaced unexpectedly – in the territories surrounding the Black Mountains. These lands were home to unofficial, unregulated guilds that operated without the sanction of the lords or the city nobility, and had close ties to rogue factions.

These guilds, of course, traded in all manner of contraband forbidden by Imperial law. Their funding always came from stolen goods.

The discovery of the Crown Prince’s armour in their possession was completely unexpected. Parts of it had even been destroyed. However, the most startling revelation wasn’t the condition of the armour, but the fact that the Crown Prince’s memory had been broken.

“Your Highness.”

The Crown Prince, now dressed in new armour with a cloak draped over his shoulders, turned his gaze to Raoul. The two stood face to face, their physiques similar and their heights almost the same. However, the Crown Prince was slightly taller and broader, radiating an unmistakable authority.

Raoul reflected on the Crown Prince as he had first appeared—a shadow of the man he once was. The Crown Prince, once a sharp and imposing knight whose powerful muscles from shoulder to thigh exuded strength and agility, bore no resemblance to the figure he had encountered in that decrepit ruin.

It felt as if someone with vaguely similar features had been placed before him—a mere replica of the real prince. Yet the moment he saw those piercing, almost otherworldly eyes…

The Crown Prince is still the Crown Prince.

Yes, there was no doubt. He was the Crown Prince, even if he had fathered a child with a rural woman from a remote, forgotten village—something that should never have occurred. Raoul bit his lip, the sharp tang of blood spreading across his tongue. He could now understand why Lady Amiens had broken down in such anguish. It was an unimaginable, unacceptable reality, one that defied all reason.

With a slight shake of his head to clear his thoughts, he turned his gaze to the man before him—the commander of the Crimson Lily Order, Solerium’s supreme military leader, and the Crown Prince himself.

The man who had returned was flawless, his appearance so perfect that it seemed impossible that he could have lost his memory. How could someone so immaculate, without a single visible flaw, forget who he was? Raoul’s expression darkened. Could it be that she, this woman, had done something shameful to his master? Had she defiled him with her filth?

On the night they found him in that dilapidated cabin, the Crown Prince had spoken those words—he had admitted to losing his memory. After falling from a cliff, the accident had left him unable to remember his past.

When he spoke, he was not the man Raoul once knew. There was a looseness to him, a languid air that felt unfamiliar. But now, as he stood before the royal standard-bearer, his presence was undeniable. He was the same Crown Prince Raoul had once pledged his life to serve.

“Raoul.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You said the skirmishes are ongoing?”

“They are small in scale, Your Highness.”