Maximilian had an older brother who was the rightful heir to the family title. Even if his brother, frail and sickly, were to die, there were already two nephews – Tristan and Liriette – who could inherit the title of Marquis. It didn’t matter to him whether it was Tristan or Liriette who became head of the family.

Wouldn’t that be all right? If he couldn’t win recognition, he was prepared to live in obscurity with her. With no ambitions beyond surviving battles and winning victories in war, it was a thought he could easily entertain.

He was nothing like his father, who, despite having two sons, was obsessed with the lack of a daughter to marry into the Emperor’s family, consumed by his relentless political ambitions.

Perhaps it was because of this father – for Maximilian had grown up watching his father, already a man of immense political influence in Solam, strive for even greater power – that he had no desire to remain in Solam.

“When I return from the war, let’s get married and live in Ronahame. What do you think, Petunia?” 

Petunia looked at him with a clouded expression. He had no intention of returning to Solam. What would await him there would be nothing but his father’s thunderous scolding. The thought of enduring his father’s fiery temper and living in Solam did not appeal to him.

If Petunia’s status was an issue, he would find someone willing to lend her a title. One of the more discreet methods occasionally used by nobles who wished to marry lovers of common birth was to adopt the woman into the family of another noble, or as the ward of a high-ranking cleric with a prestigious title rivalling that of nobility.

This was what Maximilian intended to do. It wasn’t common practice, and he was well aware that society would frown upon it. But he had no intention of staying in Solam. He dreamed of living quietly with Petunia on a quiet estate like Ronahame, owning nothing more than a modest villa where they could lead a peaceful life together.

He didn’t care if their child was a boy or a girl. But… 

“Pe-Petunia is dead. The child she gave birth to also died… shortly after birth.”

The war had lasted too long, and his time as a prisoner had dragged on even longer. He loathed himself for abandoning a pregnant Petunia. He cursed the life of the knight who had forced him to return to the battlefield, unable to protect his wife and child. 

If only he had known… he would have told Petunia his real name, not just his middle name. He had hidden it because he wanted to be just a man to her – not a Knight of the Shield, not the second son of the Marquis of Clepassé. He had wanted to be nothing more than her lover. 

And now it was too late.

Tears streamed down his face, unstoppable. For over a decade as a prisoner of war, he had clung to the hope of reuniting with Petunia and their child. Those ten years had been filled with relentless torture, backbreaking work and the constant specter of death. He had seen comrades succumb to fever and disease, but he had gritted his teeth and endured, determined to survive and return to them.

But now…

“It is true. This… this grave is Petunia’s. The baby is buried with her. She… she was so tiny…”

The trembling voice of the man leading him broke the silence. Sitting on his horse, gripping the reins tightly, Maximilian stared down at the speaker. The man’s small frame and hooked nose were familiar – Tom Hooper, wasn’t it? He remembered seeing him occasionally at the cabin back in the day. 

Tom had explained that Petunia’s mother had once saved his life, which had created a bond of loyalty and gratitude between him and the Ropennin family. Surely there was no reason for him to lie.

And yet the truth was crushing him. The tears continued to flow as Maximilian dismissed Tom and fell to his knees, utterly defeated. His body shook as if all strength had left him. He had rushed here the moment he had been released in a prisoner exchange, only to find this.

His vision blurred as overwhelming grief consumed him. A deep, thunderous wail erupted from his chest, echoing through the quiet surroundings. He pressed his hands to the ground and sobbed uncontrollably, the weight of all he had lost threatening to crush him.

He clawed at the grass growing over the unmarked grave, ripping it out in desperate handfuls as he beat his chest.

‘Petunia. My Petunia… How could the child have followed you? Why couldn’t the gods have at least left my child with me?’

Was there any reason to breathe? Any strength left to go on? Without you, my nymph, my beloved lady… 

The tears dripped heavily onto the long grass, soaking the earth beneath. He didn’t care that dirt and grass found their way into his mouth as he sobbed uncontrollably, his cries echoing in the empty space around him.

***

“After that night and the dawn I spent by the grave, I returned to the mountains to arrange for the grave to be moved. When I stopped by the hut, there was no sign of anyone.”

Maximilian looked at him with fiery, unrelenting eyes. The heat of his anger and despair swirled in his mind, turning every coherent thought into a chaotic mess. Memories burst forth, colliding haphazardly in his mind. Fists clenched, nails digging into the palms of his hands, he stared down at Tom, who had fallen to his knees, trembling.

“Tom…”

“I… I…”

“That night… the grave I knelt before, the one I cried over until I was hollow… was that really Petunia’s grave?” 

The voice was as cold and sharp as the frost. Swan stood frozen, staring at the Marquis. Her father’s name had been Theodor – or so her mother had told her. Beyond that she knew nothing. Her mother had once said he was a knight, but as Swan grew older she stopped believing it. He must have been just a traveller passing by the cabin. Certainly her father couldn’t have been a man of noble birth.

The idea that he could be the Marquis Clepassé was even more inconceivable. After all, her mother’s grave had never been moved, and no one had looked for her when she was growing up. How could the Marquis be her father? 

Swan steadied her wavering gaze and met his.

“The grave that was moved to the Clepassé family crypt.”

“That’s…”

The Marquis looked as if he were about to strike, his anger barely contained. Tom’s fear was palpable, but Swan felt the room spin. The thunder of her pulse in her ears was dizzying, sapping her strength as she struggled to make sense of it all. 

She needed to calm him – to intervene – but her body felt too heavy, her thoughts too confused.

Swan almost collapsed, but Atlion quickly stepped forward to catch her. He called for the nursemaid to take Mirabella, then gently cradled Swan in his arms. His hands brushed her cheeks repeatedly, his lips pressed gently to the corners of her eyes, the tenderness making her nose sting with emotion.

“Forgive me… I’m so sorry.”

Tom murmured, bowing his head. 

The Marquis’ gaze burned with unrelenting intensity, his anger restrained but unmistakably sharp.

“Speak.”

The Marquis commanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Whose grave have I moved?” 

He seemed to be holding himself back with great difficulty, his clenched jaw betraying his barely contained rage. 

Tom, trembling and with his head hanging low, tightened his lips. Slowly he raised his head. His tearful eyes met Swan’s and it was then that the tangled memories in Tom’s mind began to unravel, thread by thread, into a coherent story.

“The tomb you moved, my lord, belongs to Her Majesty the Empress’s grandmother – Petunia’s mother.”

Atlion looked at him intently. He hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Swan might be the biological daughter of the Marquis Clepassé. At first glance, there hadn’t seemed to be any resemblance. But now, seeing them side by side, it was hard to deny certain similarities.

Atlion brushed a hand across Swan’s pale cheek. She looked as if she might cry at any moment, her eyes red and shining like apples. He turned his sharp gaze to Tom, who was kneeling before the Marquis.

“Her Majesty’s mother has no grave, only ashes.”

“Then what of the child…?”

“I beg your forgiveness! I have committed an unforgivable sin, my Lord! And so have you, Your Majesty!”

Tom shouted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The Marquis’s face twisted, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief.

Swan watched them and began to remember fragments of her childhood. She had only been ten when her mother had died. There was no way she could have lived alone in the cabin. She had stayed there, eating, sleeping and trying to manage the work in the house where her mother had breathed her last.

Eventually Tom had offered her a place to stay, insisting that she couldn’t live alone. It was the only time she had ever left the cabin. Living in the village had been overwhelming, but as a young child, the thought of staying alone in the house where her mother had died had been far more terrifying.

She had probably stayed with Tom for a year or so. It made sense that if the Marquis had come to the cabin during that time, he would have found it abandoned.

When had that been? Maybe late spring, just before summer. She remembered Tom bursting into the village brewery where he had been drinking, hastily dragging her away and hiding her in an empty wine cask.

At the time, Swan had been drying herbs in the sun, confused by his panicked expression and sudden urgency. She hadn’t even had a chance to ask why she had to hide. His face had been so etched with fear, and everything had happened too quickly for her to question him. 

Then he sternly warned her not to come out until he returned and hurried off. It was the first time Swan had seen Tom with such a look on his face. Although his face was flushed from drinking, his mind seemed sharp and focused.

So Swan stayed hidden in the wine cask, waiting for him to return. Her heart pounded as she wondered if something had gone terribly wrong.

“Then, then…”

“If the surname Ropennin is unique to that village, then, Your Majesty, I am your true father.”

The vision Swan had struggled to steady began to spin. Her surroundings faded into a white haze as she lost her balance. She heard Atlion call, “Swan!” His voice sounded far away, like an echo.

She wanted to tell him that she was all right, that she just felt a bit faint, but that she would be all right soon. But her body refused to respond. From head to toe, she had no strength to move. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t lift herself up. 

The whiteness before her eyes began to form a familiar silhouette, faint but unmistakable. Someone she had missed so much that even the longing itself had faded, leaving her unsure whether what she felt was longing or loneliness. A figure she had always longed for.

‘Mother.’

Mother, why did you leave so early? Father was looking for you. He thought Grandmother’s grave was yours. He knelt before it and wept. So we weren’t abandoned. We weren’t a family that didn’t come together. It was just… just a long series of missed opportunities.

The faint outlines slowly gathered and became clear. Swan looked at her mother. Black hair, eyes like leaves, delicately cut and set, and a radiance so bright and fierce it seemed to light up the world around her. 

Her mother – Swan’s nymph, her sanctuary.

Tears fell. She thought she had shed so many tears for her mother that she could no longer cry. But strangely, the tears kept coming. Even though she was a mother herself, with a young daughter…

‘Mother…’

Her heart pounded painfully and she curled up into a ball. Her cold fingertips clenched and unclenched as she hiccupped. Warmth embraced her. Swan whimpered and burrowed into it. Her sobs grew louder. Even her breathing hitched and rattled, making it impossible to stop. 

But as if all was well, a large hand stroked her gently.