The knights’ heavy armour clung to their tall, lithe frames, and their sharp features matched their cold, distant gazes. Swan had just begun to nurse the child when the commotion began. 

Earlier that morning, the man had left the cabin without breakfast to check the traps he’d set in the forest at dawn. He hadn’t returned yet. 

Out of nowhere, the sounds of commotion broke the silence. The clash of metal echoed outside, filling the air with an uneasy tension that made Swan hunch her shoulders. She braced herself, waiting for the door to open. And then this – 

“Where is His Majesty?”   

A man in armour, a red cloak draped over his shoulders, spoke. His tone was steeped in arrogance, each word brimming with unspoken menace, sharp enough to be felt without a direct clash.

“What…?” 

Swan, cradling the swaddled baby in her arms, stared at them quietly before parting her lips as if to answer. The golden-haired knight – or rather, the golden-haired soldier – remained silent, his seething gaze burning with suppressed rage. Then, with a dull clang, a piece of metal was thrown to the ground. Swan instinctively tightened her grip on the baby. 

The emotions she believed had faded after hours of weeping the previous morning resurfaced, welling up beneath her eyes. She hesitated, her lips trembling faintly as she looked at them. While their unfamiliar faces were hard to decipher, their intentions were unmistakably clear.

“Have you ever been to Solam?” 

The question he had asked her just a few days ago lingered in her mind. Was it still relevant now? If she’d known their parting would be so soon, she wouldn’t have been so brusque. She wouldn’t have pretended to be indifferent, as if he belonged to her. 

‘As if it didn’t hurt in the end…’ 

“We know you stole this.” 

“…….” 

“Where is His Majesty?” 

The question cut through the air like ice. Swan’s eyes fell to his waist. The long black scabbard hanging there was unmistakable – it matched the one she had found hidden in the storeroom when she first saw him. Crimson leather, polished to a shine, with a finely embossed crest. The cloak draped over his shoulders and the silver-grey armour, cold and shining, left no room for doubt.

They had come for him. 

“This wretch dares…!” 

One of the men gripped the hilt of his sword. The sharp, crunching sound of metal rang out. Swan, frozen with fear, stumbled backwards as one of the older knights behind the angry golden-haired man pushed him aside and stepped forward to block her. 

“Sir Raoul!” 

“Stand back, Alexis.” 

Unlike the fiery, boiling rage of the golden-haired knight, the man now in front of her – this “Sir Raoul” – was like a bottomless, black well. His cold, unreadable presence was far more disturbing. So much so that Swan almost wished she could face the younger knight instead. 

The way he looked at her wasn’t the way you looked at a fellow human being. 

It was the look reserved for something insignificant. Something that could be crushed without hesitation or remorse. 

To someone like him, cutting down a commoner would barely register as an offence. A single stroke of his blade and it would be done – just a quick slash and a turn of his heel, leaving nothing behind.

Swan remembered Tom’s story of his father being beheaded by a knight’s sword. He had described the terror in his father’s eyes, how he had wet himself before his head was severed and how he had rolled lifeless on the ground. She couldn’t help but wonder what it must have felt like – or what the knight’s face must have looked like as he looked down from his saddle at the gruesome scene.

Her lips quivered silently, parting but unable to form words. The knight looked sharply at the squire who held the reins of his horse. Moments later, heavy, mud-caked boots stomped into the cabin.

“Ah!” 

Men more suited to a battlefield than a simple cabin snatched the baby from Swan’s arms. Only then did their cold, unyielding eyes turn to the infant.

Trembling uncontrollably, Swan was forced to her knees. It was obvious that she had recently given birth – her body still bore the signs of exhaustion and weakness. The baby, little more than a fragile bundle of life, wasn’t even a month old.

Yet her gaze remained piercing, as cold and unforgiving as frost, even as it rested on the helpless child. The squire, who had carelessly tossed the swaddled infant onto the bed as though discarding a mere object, now stood before Raoul. His pale, angular features, close-cropped gray hair, and icy blue eyes exuded an unsettling chill.

The baby began to cry, her tiny chest rising and falling with uneven sobs. The poor quality swaddle unravelled as the infant wriggled, exposing the inner layer of cloth. The knight’s expression twisted, as if disgusted by something that should not have come into contact with him. His gaze was questioning, as if he wondered why there was a baby in the cabin.

No doubt he was curious about the child’s father.

Swan’s teeth chattered as fear clawed at her. A chilling thought took hold – she might lose her life before her husband returned, her neck cut by the sword the knight seemed ready to draw. If she died – if her head rolled across the floor – what would he think?

Would he feel nothing? Would his face be indifferent? Perhaps it would.

“H-hngh, h-heuk…” 

Swan suddenly burst into tears. A sharp pain radiated from her lower body, as if blood was pooling and her womb was sinking. The stinging sensation made her twist her shoulders, but the men holding her tightened their grip to make sure she couldn’t break free. She felt a warm, wet liquid trickle from beneath her. Her face flushed with heat as her eyes darted around, fear and anxiety filling her gaze.

“We’re looking for His Majesty.”

“I-I don’t understand what you’re saying. I’m just a l-lowly woman…” 

“Ah, yes, that makes sense.” 

The man blinked slightly, as if to say, “I didn’t realise you were so lowly.” His calm and emotionless face, despite the looming threat of violence, sent a shiver down Swan’s spine. It reminded her of him, terribly. After all, they were the same kind of people – cut from the same cloth, sharing the same rank. So even if he was holding her, even if she was carrying his child…

A long sob escaped her lips on its own. 

A broken sob slipped from her mouth. 

“I’m talking about His Highness Atlion.” 

“…….” 

“If the late Emperor hadn’t died so suddenly… or if he hadn’t been forced to campaign in such haste, His Highness, the Crown Prince, would have rightfully taken the throne.” 

Swan’s lips moved slightly, her tear streaked face framed by the redness of her swollen eyelids and lips. Raoul’s gaze bored into her, dark and unyielding. Her green eyes, wide and fearful as she tilted her head back to look at him, were like those of a deer caught by a predator. 

A creature panting and gasping, caught between fear and caution. Raoul had driven such helpless creatures to their deaths countless times. His gaze finally fell on the crying infant. Its tiny limbs flailed as its chest heaved so violently that it seemed on the verge of convulsion.

Then he looked down at the woman who had been forced to her knees by the squires, her collar gripped tightly. Her green eyes flickered with a strange light. Raoul watched the shifting reflection in her large eyes before turning away.

“We pay our respects to His Highness, the Crown Prince.”

The grip on her collar was released and Swan was thrown to the ground. Her jaw throbbed from the merciless grip that had nearly cut off her circulation. Pain radiated through her shoulders, her stomach – her whole body ached relentlessly.

The men who had scattered mud throughout the cabin were now kneeling in unison, all facing the same direction. They were bowed low, one knee on the ground and their heads bowed, as if they were taking part in a sacred ceremony. Swan blinked and stared at the man who had appeared before her.

Blinking, Swan shifted her gaze to the man who had just appeared.

Atlion….

Atlion, was that his name? She wasn’t sure. Words like Your Highness or Crown Prince were unfamiliar to her – terms she’d never encountered before and could not immediately comprehend.

But one thing was unmistakable: he wielded overwhelming authority. The men who had trampled her and her cabin now bowed before him as if they were mere insects

“If the late Emperor hadn’t died so suddenly… or if he hadn’t been forced to join the campaign in such haste, His Highness the Crown Prince would have rightfully taken the throne.”

If the late Emperor had lived, if he hadn’t been rushed into battle… That must mean that this man was a prince. And if events had been different, he would be Emperor now.

She raised her head. So lofty, so dignified… 

He was a man beyond her reach. Someone she could never hope to touch, whose presence she could barely share, even in the same room. 

Her wet lips trembled slightly. A sharp, searing pain tore through her stomach. She staggered, wiping at her crimson skirt, tears streaming down her cheeks. Eventually she began to bleed profusely. Though she was used to the sight of blood as a herbalist, to see it flow from her own body left her mind blank.

She dragged herself across the floor, her skirt dragging behind her, towards a towel. A pair of firm footsteps stopped in front of her. Swan swallowed hard, unable to lift her head, waiting for the figure to pass. Instead, a large hand lifted her gently.

“Ah…”