It was him.

Raflia recognized him immediately. The one who had been leaning against the wall at the party, observing dispassionately as others appraised her.

His gaze was so cold that she had no choice but to avert her eyes.

Though she had only seen his face twice, it somehow felt familiar.

Was that why she couldn’t look away? For a moment, Raflia forgot what she was going to say and just stared at the man.

Thump, thump—her entire body vibrated with her heartbeat.

Was it fear? But he had saved her, so there was no reason to be afraid.

“If you have nothing to say, I’ll continue.”

The man turned back to the motionless body and kicked it again, this time with both hands in his pockets.

Alarmed, Raflia cried out:

“S-stop! Stop it.”

Lesion halted his actions again at the woman’s words. He continued to stare at the Herriot family’s swine.

Twitch—the fingertips moved. Cough—now he spat out the dirt that had filled his mouth. He had been pretending to be unconscious.

“He might die at this rate, don’t you think?”

The woman gradually approached from behind. That unidentifiable fragrance suddenly wafted toward him.

“I’m fine, really.”

At those words, Lesion suddenly furrowed his brow.

Fine? What did it matter if she was fine? As if he had intervened for her sake…

Lesion looked at Raflia with a strange expression. The soft moonlight illuminated her large eyes.

Her gaze was even more distinct because of the darkness.

For this insignificant illegitimate child?

He had heard somewhere that certain scents could evoke nostalgia.

“Have I seen you before?”

He asked the woman who was busy avoiding his gaze. She hesitated for a moment, then said in a small voice, “No…”

Raflia didn’t dare raise her head. It was because of his frowning expression and the gaze that seemed ready to devour her. Instinctively, she shrank back when she saw it.

Just then, another carriage rushed toward them from the distance. A window opened, and a man shouted:

“D*mn it all! I’m freezing to death! What are you doing? Why did you suddenly turn back? The villa is just a stone’s throw away!”

The carriage circled around the two of them before stopping. Then another younger man shouted:

“Duke Bronski! It’s almost midnight!”

Bronski…? Raflia froze in shock upon hearing that name.

She slowly raised her head to stare at the man before her. And like being struck by lightning, memories flashed through her mind in succession.

The burning school building and the man standing alone with it as his backdrop. The cold gaze on his backlit face.

Raflia furrowed her brow. The man before her perfectly matched the face of the Bronski she knew.

A younger face, from when he had just become a young man.

The woman’s face began to harden rapidly. Lesion observed her expression. From shock to sadness, and from anger to… disgust.

Lesion let out a scornful laugh. Where was her fear now, replaced by such intense disgust?

At what point had he evoked her disgust? Was it because of the Herriot family’s eldest son, beaten to a pulp? Or was it because of the various notorious rumors attached to the name Duke Bronski?

Whatever it was, it was no longer Lesion’s concern.

He turned around. The coachman of the Herriot family carriage had long since fled, from the moment Raflia was dragged away.

“Where do you plan to go?”

With his back to her, he took out a cigarette case from his inner coat pocket and put a cigarette in his mouth. Then he lit it with a match. He took a drag and exhaled. Acrid smoke rose in wisps.

At that moment, the woman’s scent was temporarily erased.

Raflia didn’t answer his question. She just bit her lower lip.

“Hey! I’m freezing. Let’s go quickly…!”

Torio’s boisterous voice echoed throughout the factory district. Lesion nodded toward their carriage.

“Get in. We’ll take you as far as we’re going.”

“I’ll pass.”

The woman’s voice, much heavier than before, came back.

He turned around again to stare at her. This time, she didn’t avoid his gaze, almost defiantly.

Lesion continued to stare at her as he took a few more drags of his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and crushing it under his shoe.

“Suit yourself.”

And without lingering, he walked toward the carriage and said:

“Go to a church. That’s the only place that will take you in if you appeal to their mercy.”

He jumped into the carriage. Afterward, the carriage quickly left the factory district, leaving the woman alone.

Raflia glared at the carriage until it was out of sight, and then at some point, she exhaled.

It felt as if his cold gaze was still watching her. She still couldn’t believe it, but she had to acknowledge it.

It really was that man. Lesion Bronski… the one who had caused all her past to die in flames.

* * *

He descended the steps of the Central Court in the capital city of Petre. Blue sky—it was a beautiful day. Journalists, like baby birds waiting for food, held their notebooks and looked up only at him.

Camera flashes popped. Lesion walked through the burst of light with an indifferent expression.

“Another divorce?”

“Step back!”

As Baneld Harper, the journalist who followed Lesion like a stalker spewing all sorts of gossip, approached with a sly smile, Deveron blocked him.

What was the reason for the divorce? Was it true he had confined his wife to a mental hospital? Was he aware of his notorious reputation? The journalists bombarded him with countless questions, blocking his path.

“The first wife in a convent, the second in a mental hospital… how can I not love Colonel Bronski?”

Baneld mocked as he held up the front page of a newspaper.

[The Prodigal Son Returns… The Fall of Duke Bronski]

Along with the sensational headline, the newspaper featured the handsome face of the duke in military uniform.

Baneld was trying to provoke him. As if granting his wish, Lesion frowned and gave him a cold look.

“Find another photographer.”

After saying just that, he pushed through the crowd of journalists, got into his carriage, and left.

Baneld let out a hollow laugh as he watched. Amidst all the commotion about his divorce, was that all he had to say?

Lord Resford looked at the picturesque Duke Bronski sitting across from him. A pearl tie pin gleamed on his black tie over a gray suit.

He took out an envelope from his pocket and handed it to him.

The duke, who had been looking out the window, took it and asked:

“What is this?”

“Your vacation is over.”

The letter bore the royal crest. A black eagle glared at him fiercely. His expression immediately soured.

“They’re making a fuss as if they’ve been waiting for this.”

Lord Resford laughed as he watched the man rub his face tiredly.

“At this rate, you’ll become a wedding ring collector.”

The letter stated that Colonel Bronski was invited to the royal palace banquet commemorating the victory. The sender was Queen Xenia.

Despite being the king’s son, the tone was extremely courteous, as if inviting a guest rather than family.

“What excuse will the queen use to marry you off this time?”

Lord Resford asked. The man didn’t answer and put the letter in his inner coat pocket.

“She should match her own son who can’t even keep his staff in check… at this rate, there will be another illegitimate child in the royal family.”

He glanced at Duke Bronski.

“It’s just a matter of time.”

He muttered, looking at the man who seemed unbothered by the word “illegitimate” as he sat askew, staring out the window.

Duke Bronski gazed at the aircraft flying above the buildings that were quickly passing by.

The placard it was trailing fluttered in the wind.

[1st Anniversary of Victory Over the Great Kingdom of Buleco]

Whether from the queen’s side or his own, an event befitting that phrase would be prepared.

Raflia stared at the phrase. It was a phrase she discovered while looking at the aircraft through the train window, curious about it.

As they approached Petre, the capital of the Kingdom of Buleco, she could see factory districts spewing smoke, glossy buildings, and that placard. But her curiosity was short-lived as her attention was inevitably drawn to the word “victory.”

One’s victory is another’s defeat. As a native of the defeated Kingdom of Corantia, she couldn’t view that phrase kindly.

The kingdom had been devastated by a long war that lasted over five years. Even the rural province of Rozantin and the Rozantin family had become impoverished responding to the government’s demands for war funds.

The existing wealthy could reduce their luxuries and still manage three meals a day, but ordinary citizens had only one meal… During the height of the war, many starved to death.

After the war, to pay the enormous reparations demanded by Buleco, the nobles and even the royal family had squandered their wealth and had to reach out to foreign capital.

Blood was still flowing from the wounds where aircraft bearing the Buleco royal crest had dropped bombs across the Kingdom of Corantia.

The Rozantin family selling Raflia to the Herriot family due to financial problems was in the same vein.

However, the mistress of the Rozantin family, unable to abandon her pride as nobility, sent Raflia instead of her legitimate daughter, Herezia. The Rozantin family thought they had partially restored their crumpled pride through this. It was ridiculous.

Raflia looked at the approaching splendid cityscape of Petre with detached eyes.

The war had truly changed many things. Status, power… it had completely overturned and ravaged people’s lives.

Raflia was silent for a moment. It was because she remembered that night. She resented herself for feeling grateful to him for a moment.

Grateful? That man had simply wanted to beat someone who annoyed him. Such a person couldn’t know justice or conscience.

She unfolded the small table attached below the window. Then she took out a notebook and pencil from her bag.

The letter began with “Dear Miss Frolia.” She wrote that she was thankful for the warm shelter and food, and that thanks to her, she had been able to rise from despair and safely arrive in Petre.

Raflia had gone to the church that night. After hearing her story, the pastor and his wife told her to stay at the parsonage for as long as she wanted.

Miss Frolia was the only daughter of the pastor couple, a devout, cultured, and elegant girl of the same age.

During the ten-day period, the two became incredibly close, and Frolia asked Raflia to write a letter when she safely arrived in Petre.

Raflia wanted to cherish this connection, as it had been quite a while since she had such a mature and compatible friend.

By the time the train arrived at Petre Central Station, the letter was completed.

[I’ll be waiting for the day we meet again. Raflia Rozantin.]

After putting the finished letter in her coat pocket and gathering her belongings, a conductor rang a handbell.

“Final stop.”

Ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling. Even those who had fallen asleep from the long journey woke up at the sound and gathered their belongings.

Petite Raflia was pushed by the crowd disembarking from the train and found herself stepping onto the platform.

After pushing through the crowd to reach the central station building, she saw a vast waiting area and shops filling the high ceiling.

‘I feel like throwing up…’

That was Raflia’s first impression of the magnificent central station building.