The portraits of the North’s grand dukes through the ages.

One in full armor, one in formal dress, one with a hand resting on a sword. The clothing changed with each era, but the faces, without exception, were concealed beneath hardwood masks.

The painter rendered their dignity, their bone structure, even the scars on the backs of their hands with exacting detail, yet the faces were left unfinished to the last.

Did the thought of painting them ever even cross anyone’s mind? Before Vivian confirmed the truth a short while ago, she herself never dreamed that the cursed mark might be revealed to the world, even within a painting.

“None of them have faces.”

Vivian murmured.

“They’re not supposed to.”

Renard’s answer was composed. It was the voice of someone whose grief wore away long ago.

“It was that way from the family’s founder. The portrait at the far end is the founder. He was also the first to bear the cursed mark. After him, all who carried the blood of the North lived without a face and went into their coffins without one.”

Vivian looked up at the oldest portrait at the end of the gallery. A figure from roughly five hundred years ago. It meant that until this painting faded to its current pallor, through all the years that passed, not a single person, not even once, thought to verify the truth beneath the mask.

The facts didn’t matter. Belief was truth. The very idea of wanting to verify whether the curse was real ran counter to the accepted truth of the world.

Fear passed down through generations became a force of its own and placed a hardwood mask over the face of a newborn. Where an ordinary portrait gallery served as a display of a family’s glory, to Vivian’s eyes this gallery was a record of centuries of indoctrination and blind faith.

“Why did no one ever check?”

She murmured the words without thinking, and Renard turned his head slightly.

“Check?”

“Whether the cursed mark actually exists. Over such a long stretch of time, you’d think at least one person would have been curious.”

Renard went quiet, seemingly choosing his words. Even behind the mask, a note of bewilderment came through in his breathing. It was clearly a question he never imagined hearing.

“……Wanting to check is itself an act that invites disaster. Like you……”

The moment the words left him, his shoulders visibly locked up. A clouded breath spread through the cold air of the corridor.

“Forget what I just said. I wasn’t trying to blame you. I have no intention of blaming you. You bear no fault.”

“You bear no fault either, Grand Duke.”

“That’s not true.”

Renard shook his head, clearly unwilling to say more, and stepped forward first. Vivian nearly laughed. What she did that morning, the thing no one attempted in five hundred years, the act that was itself said to invite disaster, she did. And what she found beneath that mask was not disaster.

He thought he was at fault? An original sin of being handsome? A joke the preening men of the capital’s social world tossed around came floating back to her. Vivian pressed her lips together and hurried after Renard.

The next stop was the study. Unexpectedly, it was a large and very well-ordered space. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, and the brass rails from which the ladders hung were free of a single spot of rust. The books with spines worn white were mostly on the subject of war.

Military strategy, fortification, chronicles of the North, and atlases so old their titles were unreadable. Walking slowly between the shelves, Vivian’s gaze stopped at the far end of the room. Unlike the other shelves, it was a cabinet with a glass door and a lock.

The black leather covers visible through the glass bore no writing whatsoever, but Vivian knew the habits of noble families well enough. These were the family records. Curiosity stirred, but she decided it was out of the question and turned to examine the shelves on the other side. Just then:

“Do you like books?”

Unexpectedly, Renard spoke first. When Vivian turned, he was already flinching back half a step. The words he added sounded like an excuse.

“……I just meant to say, if there’s anything you need, you can take it and read it. You don’t need my permission for anything here. It all belongs to the Grand Duchess now.”

“Anything here?”

Vivian glanced slightly toward the glass cabinet. It was a mischievous question.

Renard’s answer didn’t come easily. She could feel his discomfort, but Vivian didn’t withdraw the question. She wanted to see how far it meant something that he spoke to her first.

“……That one isn’t interesting.”

For an excuse that took so long to arrive, it was far too feeble. Vivian let out a small laugh.

“I’ll be the judge of whether it’s interesting. You’ve already read all of them, haven’t you, Grand Duke?”

“……Yes. All of them.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Renard answered with a sigh. In that sigh, Vivian thought he might have been searching for a way to undo the curse.

Did he go through every record the family accumulated over five hundred years, alone? But the fact that he came away with nothing was proven by the sight of him now.

“Someone else reading them might see things from a different angle.”

“I’ve already read them thoroughly enough.”

“When your thinking tilts one way, it doesn’t easily come back.”

Instead of answering, Renard turned and walked away. It was an undignified retreat for a man with the reputation of a war hero. Rather than press him further, Vivian closed her mouth and followed quietly.

A few steps in, she noticed something. The scales inside her shifted without her realizing it. She was feeling sorry for him before she even reached a verdict on whether he was sincere or putting on an act. The cold of the North was sharp, yet somehow she felt herself growing softer by the moment.

Fortunately, before her thoughts could go any deeper, the cold of the North hit her full in the face. Renard pushed open a door two steps ahead of her. The training grounds.

The wide courtyard was paved with stone and had no roof. A thin layer of snow covered the ground, but toward the center, dark earth showed through clearly. It was trodden every day, leaving no chance for snow to settle.

The paths equally bare of snow told the story of Renard’s life. The handles of the wooden practice swords hanging along the wall were worn smooth without exception. Objects long handled. Their sheen was similar to that of Renard’s mask.

“I’ll show it to you, but it’s dangerous, so don’t come in.”

“I don’t see anything particularly dangerous.”

“I’m here often.”

Vivian swallowed the urge to correct him.

“Do you train in the early morning?”

“Usually I’m here until midmorning.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

The shape of Renard’s life, when he wasn’t on the battlefield, came into clear focus before her. From evening through the following morning, the dark earth trodden so often that snow never got the chance to settle.

If the ballroom floors of Petrasia held the accumulated weight of Vivian’s life, then Renard’s life was likely layered into the sand and stone of this training ground. Thinking of it that way, the desolate scene felt just slightly familiar.

“It’s strange.”

“What is it this time……”

“You seem like a different person out here, Grand Duke. The way you speak, the way you move, you look far more at ease than you do inside the castle.”

Vivian answered quickly, for the sake of a Renard who was already bracing himself for whatever explosive question she might ask next.

Was this one uncomfortable too? Renard’s gaze moved toward the practice sword rack. She expected him to deny it again. But the voice that followed was the most relaxed it had been.

“Out here I know what I’m supposed to do. When a blade comes, I block it. When I see an opening, I cut. It’s clear.”

He paused briefly.

“But outside of here, I’m not sure.”

Vivian was briefly at a loss for words. The guard she barely managed to put back up just before entering the training grounds was disarmed in an instant by Renard’s honesty. She didn’t like that, so she said what she wanted to say.

“I’d like to see you with a sword in your hand sometime.”

Renard turned his head. The gaze behind the mask settled on her without looking away. He seemed to be gauging whether she was joking or sincere, but what Vivian found more amusing was that the training ground was the one space where he could look at her directly.

“It’s the most famous sword in the empire. It would be a shame to come all the way out here as a bride and never get to see it.”

“……It’s not worth watching.”

“I’ll decide that for myself too.”