It was a look that seemed to ask, How could someone like you—a mere commoner—possess such an item? It was something far beyond the reach of someone of his station.

At that time, Tom had no idea what family crest was engraved on the armor or what it represented. He only came to understand the truth the previous night.

The cabin.

It was when he found himself standing in front of the man who should have ascended to the throne, greeting him at the entrance to the cabin.

“Where are you going?”

Tom’s flushed nose twitched as he spoke, clutching a bottle of rum tightly in one hand. According to Atlion’s temperament – or the letter of the law – the hand holding the rum should have been severed. Perhaps, like his father, Tom’s head would have been chopped off and sent rolling.

Swan looked at the man who had been like a foster father to her, her eyes dry and empty. She knew she had to leave. Just as it had been everywhere else, there was no place for her—or the Ropennin family—in this village. The only reason her family had managed to survive here for three generations, despite the harsh and unwelcoming land, was because of people like Tom—kind-hearted to an almost absurd degree.

“And with a baby, no less…”

“…….”

“A child without a father… What on earth…”

The man muttered, stumbling over his crude words before clucking his tongue and cursing. Swan just stared at him with hollow eyes. He took another swig of rum and suddenly shouted, his voice harsh and commanding.

“Just stay here!”

Swan, still gazing at him, spoke in a low whisper.

“I’ve already told them everything.”

“T-told them what?”

“The armor, the Crown Prince’s armor…”

“What?”

“After you left… I told them everything. From the very beginning, it was as though I had been the one hiding it. You only did what I asked.”

“You… you…”

“When His Highness first came looking for the armour, it was still in your possession, but I asked you not to return it. I told them it was I who asked you to hide it. Later, when I became pregnant with Mirabella, I told them you sold it as stolen goods because I begged you to. I made sure they knew none of this was your fault.

“You—!”

“I’m sorry, Uncle.”

What was the point of confessing now, after all he had been through? Swan blinked, her eyes empty. She was a person unworthy of love – she understood that much. She was the kind of woman no one could ever truly love. Not Mirabella’s father. Not Tom. Not anyone.

A woman like that… could never make a happy home. Swan had always known that. Whether Atlion despised her for it, she couldn’t say. Perhaps the reason he had never shown her the slightest trace of affection was that he had seen through her completely.

Everything she had done to hold on to him – the lies, the pregnancy she had used as a desperate anchor – it was all so transparent. Swan lowered her head briefly before turning quickly and leaving the house.

Tom, drunk on rum, stumbled after her and tried to catch her. When he managed to grab her sleeve, Swan finally whispered, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Thank you for everything… for taking in the witch’s daughter.”

“That… that man, do you think he’ll even stay with you? Someone like him? They say he’s the Crown Prince!”

Swan looked at Tom calmly, her expression clearly conveying the message: “No matter what, especially not to the Crown Prince, you won’t send me to him.” She stared at Tom for a long moment before slowly shaking her head.

It didn’t matter to Swan if she didn’t live with Atlion. She wasn’t leaving to be with him either. She gripped Tom’s hand tightly and gave him a calm, reassuring smile.

Tom trembled and soon tears began to fall as he sobbed. 

***

Swan was at the back of the procession, moving slowly and struggling to keep up. As a result, she had little opportunity to rest. Once in the camp, she quietly watched the soldiers from a distance before reluctantly settling down near the remains of a dying fire.

Although she had been in large crowds before, this was the first time she had camped with such a group. Sharing bland soup with strangers she didn’t know, surrounded by tightly packed tents… And everyone was a man. Swan kept her head down, avoiding their glances, her focus on the fire as it consumed the dry logs.

Mirabella, wrapped in her swaddling clothes, would cry out occasionally. Some of the men, their weathered faces etched with curiosity, looked at the baby with intrigue, surprised by her presence.

One day, when Mirabella started crying, someone asked, “Whose baby is this?” Swan didn’t know how to answer. To explain would mean recounting everything—why a woman with an infant was following the procession—and she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

Eventually, they assumed she was a camp follower, a woman providing services to the soldiers, and smirked at her with disdain. Once that rumor spread, Swan could no longer bear to sit among them.

The hardest part was finding a secluded spot to nurse Mirabella away from prying eyes. Each time the baby, warm and restless in her arms, paused nursing to cry, Swan would hear rustling nearby, making the already difficult task even more exhausting.

After enduring such struggles, Swan finally arrived at Atlion’s encampment. Kneeling in front of his tent was a woman clad in a pale crimson gown, its vivid hue a striking contrast to the dreary surroundings.

The gown, full and rounded like a flower bud about to bloom, was pressed into the muddy ground. The woman knelt as if under tremendous strain, her ghostly pale face turning to look at Swan. Her tear-streaked cheeks, now drying, left her appearance disheveled.

She was beautiful—but nothing more. Just beautiful. Swan, still trying to make sense of the scene, limped uncertainly around the perimeter of the tent. A squire spotted her, relief lighting up his face as he hurried into the tent.

Moments later, Atlion stepped out. His piercing blue eyes burned with a deadly intensity, and a dark, seething energy surrounded him, fierce and unyielding.

“My lady, my lady…”

The maid who had been crouching beside the kneeling woman, massaging her legs as she sniffled, jumped to her feet in horror at the sight of Atlion. His gaze lingered briefly on the kneeling woman before shifting to Swan.

Clutching Mirabella tightly to her chest, Swan flinched, her shoulders shaking. His eyes were cold and piercing, as if they had slain countless enemies before landing on her.

She hesitated for a moment, then gave a small bow and started to turn away. But before she could take another step, Atlion’s hand closed around her wrist. Swan was dragged into the tent, unable to resist his grip. Inside, the kneeling woman stared at Swan with reddened, tear-filled eyes.

“Wait, wait…”

His grip was unyielding, impossibly strong. Swan struggled to free herself, her breathing quick and shallow, but finally she bit her lip to hold back any protest. His gaze bore down on her like the edge of a blade. Her jaw tensed as her vision blurred under the pressure and the bundle in her arms began to slip, forcing her to readjust her grip.

She glanced around the tent, now empty but for the two of them, and reluctantly broke the silence.

“Perhaps I should step outside…”

“I didn’t assign you to the 4th Battalion. So why were you following them?”

“What… what do you mean?”

“I told you to ride in the carriage. Did I not?”

Swan’s lower eyelid trembled as she blinked through her blurred vision, her mind completely blank. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Atlion, clearly losing patience, shouted, “Raoul!” His voice was sharp and commanding, filled with anger.

Swan’s already flushed cheeks grew hotter as she stiffened, her expression tense and determined. Raoul, who had been waiting outside, entered the tent, dragging Renéee behind him. Her hands were tied and she looked like a criminal being led to court.

Swan hesitantly lifted her gaze to Renéee but quickly looked away again. Renéee’s once-elegant pink satin gown, with its intricate pleats, was now a crumpled mess.

Even her shoes, styled to resemble fully bloomed peonies, were in disarray. The woman, dressed in a way that seemed fit for a grand ball, now looked as if she had been dragged through the filth she had once called the cabin.

“Explain yourself.”

“About what?”

Raoul’s gaze hardened, his eyes dangerously cold at her insolence. He was like an unyielding wall of ice. But Renéee was his cousin, which made the situation more delicate. She was the beloved niece of the late Emperor, who had adored her, and the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Amien, who had taken over the management of the Imperial household in place of the Empress Dowager, who had been left frail by the loss of her husband.

Given her position, Renéee had no reason to fear anyone. She had always been the cherished darling of the imperial family, fulfilling the role of a beloved princess in the princess-less Solerium Empire. It was no surprise she could stand her ground, even before the Crown Prince.

But still…

“Did my command sound meaningless to you?”

Renéee looked at him, her defiant gaze blazing with audacity, an act as bold as it was reckless. Outside the tent, her maid sniffed and muttered softly, “My lady…” This was a situation that could have erupted long ago.

For once, Atlion’s anger was clearly visible. Was it because his wife and child were involved? Could it be that, despite her humble origins, she was still his wife? Raoul couldn’t make sense of it.

If it was about events from the time when Atlion had lost his memory, couldn’t he just let it go? Or was it the existence of the child that burdened him? Perhaps it was because a woman, no matter what her status, was still a woman. To turn his back on her would be contrary to a knight’s principles – was that the reason?

Raoul’s head spun, his thoughts tangled. He could fully grasp Renéee’s defiant stubbornness, even if it bordered on absurdity. The very idea of the imperial family accepting a commoner as the Crown Prince’s wife was enough to make his head ache. It was tempting to dismiss the marriage entirely, declaring that a union without the bishop’s blessing wasn’t valid and erasing it as though it had never happened.

“Fine.”

Renéee choked out, her voice shaking with emotion.

“I hated that woman! That’s why I did it!” she shouted.

“You told me to ride in the same carriage as her? With someone like that? A lowly commoner? A woman who clung to you when you lost your memory—or worse, who might’ve made you lose it? Why should I have to endure that? Why?”

Her voice rose to a furious pitch, practically shaking the tent as she screamed. But then, exhausted and trembling, she began to sniffle, her flushed face resembling that of a sulking child. Instead of feeling crushed, Swan found her mind strangely blank, perhaps clouded by the heat radiating through her body.

Her blistered feet burned with pain. She glanced briefly at Renéee, still caught up in her tantrum, then lowered her head. The tip of her injured foot, where the nail had fallen off, was streaked with blood.

“That will not change,” Atlion said firmly.

“You will travel with Swan.”

“What?”