“I’m sorry.”

No matter how many times she pleaded, the result was the same. The servant of the Clavier family refused to allow her even to approach the embassy. All they did was help Amelia into a carriage and send her off.

Back at the castle, Amelia spent a long time in the courtyard, her gaze fixed on the stalk growing from the daffodil bulb buried near the tree. It had grown taller since she last left the castle.

The steward offered to relay any messages she wished to send, but Amelia shook her head. That was something she wanted to do in person when she met Philip.

*If only I hadn’t been there.*

The long tail of guilt coiled around her ankles like a shadow, making her feel it would never let go. If she hadn’t come to Olstein, Helen wouldn’t have had to leave Brienne, Admiral Licht wouldn’t have been humiliated, and Philip wouldn’t have been hurt.

The sight of herself, fearfully avoiding the bloodstains left at the east gate, filled her with hollow, self-deprecating laughter.

The journey alone to Sarnica to meet the Crown Prince, then back by ship—what could Philip have been thinking during those long days? Why had she been so arrogant as to believe everything would turn out fine?

*I was selfish.*

Philip had been acting for her sake. In contrast, how shallow had her resolve been? Embracing the weight of her regret, Amelia climbed the steps of the mansion one by one.

Her bedroom, now cloaked in darkness, felt more cozy and familiar than before. Winter had mellowed to the point where there was no longer any need to keep the fireplace burning through the night. By the dim light of a candle, Amelia gazed out the window, which resembled the bars of a prison or the wooden frame of a cradle, and watched the scenery throughout the night.

She repented and repented again for allowing herself to be swept away by the fleeting hope that she could escape this place. She regretted whether her selfishness had led to these outcomes. Now, there was only one thing she could do.

Near dawn, a thorny sense of responsibility compelled her. Though it had already ensnared her firmly, Amelia had been deluding herself into thinking she had forgotten it. As Amelia, now resolute in her decision, looked out, the edge of the morning sun illuminating Olstein’s castle reflected in her eyes.

—

Some people were as they appeared, inside and out. Henrik watched the band of robbers beaten half to death by the guards and thought, ‘Good.’ It was fortunate that they were as pathetic as they looked.

The three thieves, drunk and sprawling in the backyard of the tavern, were hauled into the forest, which had grown dim with the setting sun.

As soon as Henrik grabbed them by the scruff of their necks, the robbers began to sob and spill their confessions without being asked. They claimed they had done it for ten gold coins and bore no ill will toward the nobleman they had targeted, who seemed vulnerable. They had been instructed only to beat him just enough to render him unconscious. After the deed, fear had driven them to drink themselves into a stupor.

Though curious about who had hired them, Henrik could glean no useful information. The robbers trembled and repeated that it was someone in a black robe who had paid them. Even a few punches only caused them to spit out clumps of dark red blood.

“What should we do with them?” a subordinate asked.

Henrik picked up a shovel he’d taken from the tavern. The men’s necks were severed without a sound. Using military-issued weapons could leave unnecessary traces, and Josef wouldn’t want that.

“Burn them,” Henrik said.

His gaze fell on their bodies. If buried under a pile of straw and set alight, the fire might be mistaken for a hunter’s campfire in the forest.

The two guards, accustomed to disposing of corpses during wartime, efficiently arranged the bodies and lit them like firewood. Soon, the acrid scent of burning flesh filled the air.

Henrik considered an old trunk lying nearby. After a moment’s thought, he decided it should also be burned to eliminate all evidence. Opening it, he found it empty—every last shirt presumably sold, leaving only a single sheet of paper on the bottom.

Henrik unfolded the paper, marked on its surface with the Sarniacan royal seal.

“Permission for Amelia Przhemysl of the Duchy of Brienne to seek asylum in Sarnica.”

“…”

“The status of Amelia Przemysl is guaranteed by Crown Prince Miguel Kaft.”

Below the text was a red seal matching the emblem on the document, attesting to its authenticity.

Recalling Josef’s order to keep a close watch on Amelia, Henrik folded the asylum permit and slipped it into his pocket.

—

Lost in a dream he couldn’t recall, Philip continued counting the patterns on the ceiling with clouded eyes.

For the first time in a long while, his head felt somewhat clearer. Adjusting his pillow, he raised his upper body from the bed.

Feeling gradually returned to his limbs, which had refused to obey as if both bone and muscle had vanished. The maids, who frequently entered to change his bandages, visited less and less.

Though he comforted his weeping mother, his heart felt as empty as a void.

The trunk containing his asylum permit had vanished without a trace. He wished that the attackers had demanded money instead—he would have given them whatever they asked. The document, worthless to them, was invaluable to him.

“Young master, may I come in?” a maid’s voice called from outside the door.

As she opened and closed the door, Philip caught a sense of commotion in the hallway. For someone who had endured days of silence due to his father’s rage, Philip asked,

“What’s going on?”

“Is something wrong?”

The young maid, still with a youthful face, flinched slightly at Philip’s question and tightly pressed her lips together, shaking her head.

“I-I’ll take a look at your wound.”

Her hands, inspecting the bandages, were skillful, but her expression betrayed clear unease. The young maid was too inexperienced to hide her master’s awkward demeanor.

“What’s the matter?”

“…”

“Did the head maid scold you?”

Even with a smiling face, the maid shook her head vigorously in silence. Then, hastily gathering the tray, she rushed out of the room. The door closed a little louder than before, and through the gap, Philip distinctly heard the words “Brienne something or other.”

Philip instinctively sat up, only to be struck by a stabbing headache. He clutched his forehead.

“Brienne?”

‘Amelia? No way.’

Philip, though doubtful, gathered all his strength to get out of bed. Pulling back the sheets, he swung his legs down, each step toward the door an exhausting effort that left sweat beading on his forehead. The path from bed to door felt interminably long.

Finally, he grasped the door handle.

“But if the young master finds out…”

The servant, who had just been speaking such words, froze upon seeing Philip and covered his mouth.

“That’s why we must get rid of that lady or whoever she is right away! Madam specifically ordered not to let her in! If she keeps insisting, we’re to threaten her with the guards!”

“What are you talking about?”

The head maid, who had been pressing the servant, turned to Philip and jumped in surprise.

“Y-young Master!”

“Who are you trying to chase away?”

Philip’s unusually stern voice left both of them speechless.

“Is it Amelia?”

“My Lord…”

The head maid, who had quickly lost her nerve, tried to explain. She pleaded with Philip to rest, reminded him that Count Clavier had strictly forbidden anyone from being let in while he was away, and expressed concern that his still-fragile mother might collapse again if she knew Amelia was here.

Having listened to the head maid’s explanation, Philip spoke firmly.

“Let her in immediately.”

His tone made it clear he wouldn’t move until Amelia was allowed in. The head maid sighed deeply and nodded.

—

“Philip.”

Amelia’s voice was as soft as a feather. Philip opened his eyes, which he had closed to steady his dizziness.

“…It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Philip muttered as he saw Amelia sitting beside him, her gaze level with his.

Amelia, offering no reply but a smile, seemed different somehow, both in her attire and demeanor.

Perhaps it was because she had grown thinner or because she carried an air of faint sorrow; her face appeared more mature. The thick cape she had worn through winter was replaced by a shawl that wrapped around her, and the fine gold earrings glinting between her hair gave her the look of an Olstein noblewoman of high standing.

“How are you?”

“Almost fully recovered.”

Philip spoke brightly, but Amelia didn’t smile.

“…I’m sorry.”

Amelia’s voice, laced with guilt, pressed heavily on his chest. It was the last thing he wanted to hear. He hadn’t wished for that expression either. Philip offered a wry smile.

“I didn’t go to Sarnica just to hear you say that.”

“I know.”

“I was so close.”

Philip’s voice faltered as tears welled up in his eyes.

“Losing the asylum permit like that… I’m so useless.”

To leave the country, one needed both exit and entry permits. For Amelia, who was held as a hostage, this was even more critical. Without those documents, they couldn’t escape. Philip’s plan had crumbled, and his promise to make Amelia smile had failed the moment they reunited.

“Philip, don’t say that. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Amelia spoke as if consoling him.

“If we’re assigning blame, then I’m just as at fault.”

She said that if she hadn’t come to Olshtine in the first place, Philip wouldn’t have been hurt. If anything, her inability to help him was equally to blame. Her words left Philip unable to voice further self-reproach; he knew it would only burden her more.

“…Philip.”

Amelia placed her hand gently over his, which lay limp on the bed.

“Do you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“You said I should give my answer after you returned.”

Philip’s mind fumbled through memories, and soon his face flushed slightly. He recalled the clumsy, overconfident proposal he had made and the embarrassing words he had written in a letter.

“W-why bring that up now…”

“Let’s get married.”

Amelia softly held his hand, her voice steady.

“Marry me, Philip.”