Chapter 48

It rained that day.

When Erhen, having heard the news at the estate, rushed to the scene with the servants, Maximilian’s body was already being recovered from the shattered carriage. His brother, whose head had been crushed on one side, lay with his eyes peacefully closed, as though he bore no resentment for his sudden death.

Even though an umbrella was held over the body, the strong, swirling wind washed the blood-stained face of Maximilian with rainwater. Amid the tears and wails of the servants busily working to clean up the accident, Erhen stood frozen in front of his brother’s corpse, as if nailed to the ground.

He vaguely remembered reading in some text about ancient magic that could revive life. Or was it magic that turned back time?

He didn’t know. He knew nothing.

Even if he did know, it wouldn’t matter. On the first day of Tyche’s Moon, no magic could be used. No—magic aside—there was nothing he could do.

The time when the coffin was prepared for his brother and the funeral was held remained a hazy blur. He thought about what had been the last thing he said to his brother.

He thought he had lashed out, asking how long he intended to live like this. Maximilian had merely responded with a bitter smile. Watching his brother board the carriage, Erhen had felt he had something to say, but his pride had stopped him from running after him.

And that became Erhen’s last memory of his brother.

***

“How is it? The world you dreamed of.”

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

Five years had passed since his brother’s death, during which Erhen inherited the title of Marquis and became Michael’s shield, helping him prepare for the coup. The tyrant was overthrown, and peace returned to Rohadin.

It was the world Maximilian had wanted to give to his family. Fortunately, Erhen had been able to uphold his brother’s legacy.

“I’m not exactly the best uncle, but Danielle is growing up well, and I’m getting by without any major issues.”

There was a slight lie in that statement.

“And now…”

The faint sound of rustling grass interrupted him. Erhen, his hand instinctively gripping the revolver at his waist, slowly turned his head.

Standing there was—

“Ah, I’m not too late, am I?”

Charlotte approached, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and pressing her hat down with the other to keep it from flying off in the wind.

Erhen shot to his feet. His flustered reaction was partly due to Charlotte’s sudden appearance, but also because it brought back memories from three years ago.

Back then, she had shown up with a similarly unsure expression.

“How did you…”

“I know exactly what today is.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Contract or not, I’m still officially your wife.”

Charlotte smiled softly at the flustered Erhen. Her smile brought back the image of her three years ago, when she had stood in front of him, her face flushed red, muttering complaints.

As she reached the memorial, Charlotte brushed off the weeds clinging to her skirt and tidied her outfit. The previous year, she had visited without running into Erhen, which had been a relief—or perhaps a misfortune. Quietly, Charlotte swallowed the secret she couldn’t share with him.

“May I pay my respects?”

“Of course.”

At Erhen’s reply, Charlotte carefully placed the bouquet on the grave marker. Clasping her hands above her waist, she bowed her head in greeting.

Three years ago, she had done the same. With his permission, she had offered her respects, then looked up at Erhen with her lips pressed together and whispered softly.

“I’m sorry.”

It was an apology for fighting with Erhen that day, not knowing what kind of day it had been for him. In truth, the fight wasn’t much of a fight—Charlotte had been yelling, while Erhen had simply ignored her.

“I shouldn’t have said those things, no matter how angry I was.”

Her sincere apology, carried by the breeze, reached his ears clearly. Watching her flushed cheeks and clear eyes, Erhen had realized something.

On the day his brother had died.

He should have stopped his brother before he boarded the carriage and said what needed to be said.

“Alright.”

His calm voice resonated softly.

“I’m sorry too.”

It was a simple phrase, yet one that required immense courage to say—courage he hadn’t realized he needed. And he certainly hadn’t expected that the person to awaken that courage would be his wife, bound to him by a mere contract.

Gazing at Maximilian’s cross, Erhen murmured once more.

“…I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry, brother.

I didn’t mean it when I yelled at you.

I’ve always… wanted to thank you.

Erhen’s muttering prompted Charlotte to ask curiously.

“Why are you apologizing when I was the one who got angry?”

He wasn’t talking to her, but Erhen swallowed his words and looked at her with a faint smile.

And now, three years later, it was the same. His blue-gray eyes captured her face as he smiled.

“Maximilian would be happy.”

“I hope so.”

Watching Charlotte smile back at him, Erhen silently completed his earlier thought:

And now, I’ll try to be happy too.

Erhen gently took Charlotte’s hand.

“Have you eaten?”

“You keep asking me that—it’s starting to make me suspicious.”

“Huh? About what?”

“Hmm… Never mind. Anyway, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have work at the research institute. I’ll probably be at the palace until the afternoon.”

“Then let’s go on a date in the evening!”

“Well, I’m honored to follow such a command.”

As they chatted, they retraced their steps back along the path. In that fleeting moment—

Thank you.

Charlotte turned around at the sound of someone whispering. But all she saw was Maximilian’s grave marker.

“What’s wrong?”

Erhen, who had wrapped an arm around her shoulders instead of holding her hand, asked gently.

Did I mishear?

Tilting her head in confusion, Charlotte looked at Erhen and grinned.

“It’s nothing. I think I just imagined it.”

She shrugged and resumed walking.

It was strange. Even though she was sure the sound had been a trick of the wind, her heart felt inexplicably warm.

***

The wrinkled hands of an old man tilted an amber-colored bottle of liquor. Accompanied by the sound of liquid pouring, whiskey filled the translucent glass halfway before he set the bottle down. The filled glass was handed over to the person sitting across from him. The old man tilted the glass in front of him toward his lips.

“So, what brings you here at this late hour?” 

Oliver Hughes, a strong candidate for Speaker of the House, directed his question toward Dietrich, who sat before him. Dietrich also raised his glass.

“Does one need a reason to visit their teacher?”  

“I didn’t think you’d ever say such a thing.”

Oliver chuckled heartily and took another sip of his drink. Late in the evening, Dietrich had arrived unannounced, claiming to have some fine liquor and inviting Oliver for a drink. Although Oliver suspected Dietrich had already had a drink or two elsewhere, he momentarily set aside the fact that they were both rivals for the Speaker position and welcomed his former pupil into his home—reminiscent of ten years ago.

Dietrich’s life had begun to unravel when his sister was forcibly taken to the imperial palace under the pretense of being selected as the Empress, only to lose her life. Though Dietrich narrowly escaped death due to being abroad, the Rohadin Empire had become nothing short of hell for him. 

But as they say, the dawn comes after the darkest night. The era of Rufus had come to an end, and with the successful coup by Grand Duke Düsseldorf, Dietrich’s circumstances began to improve. Upon returning to Rohadin, Dietrich started engaging in charitable work, earning public favor, and eventually being recommended for a seat in the House of Representatives. 

Upon becoming a Representative, his radical speeches quickly captivated progressives. Now, Dietrich had become a contender for the Speaker position, directly opposing Oliver. 

Oliver spoke candidly.  

“There’s talk of revolutions across the continent, but I don’t believe innocent blood is necessary to create a happy world. In that sense, I’ve come to deeply respect His Majesty these days.”  

“……”  

“Reforming the Senate to allow commoners to participate in politics is no easy task.” 

He chuckled again, remarking on how His Majesty had personally humbled the noble class. Meanwhile, Dietrich, holding his glass, gently swirled it, listening to Oliver’s words in a way that could be interpreted as attentive or dismissive.

“It doesn’t matter who becomes Speaker between us. Let’s work together to bring the winds of reform to Rohadin.”

Before Oliver could finish his sentence, a sneer appeared on Dietrich’s face.  

Ha. Hahaha. Hahahaha!  

The sneer turned into loud laughter, echoing through the parlor. Oliver looked at Dietrich as though he had gone mad. Eventually, the laughter ceased.

“That’s the problem with you, Teacher.”  

Oliver didn’t have time to grasp the meaning of Dietrich’s words.  

“……?”  

Cough. Suddenly, Oliver coughed up blood and collapsed to the floor. The old man’s trembling hands clutched his chest as if grasping at an invisible rope. 

“Why would a King be necessary to create a nation where people can live with dignity? I’ll never understand your perspective, Teacher.”  

“Dietrich… you… scoundrel…!”  

The old man struggled to force out his words. Unlike Oliver’s empty glass, Dietrich’s glass on the table remained untouched, not a single drop consumed. 

“Damn it.” 

Oliver cursed under his breath as he collapsed. Dietrich approached the fallen man, leaning down to whisper mockingly into his fading ears.  

“With the respect from your pupil, I’ll send you off peacefully, Teacher.”