Black smoke billowed in various places. Only ash and embers drifted across the ruins, where once a majestic palace had stood, radiating grandeur. Now, no trace of its former glory remained.

Amid the scorched remnants stood a man, his figure as dark as the shadows that seemed to cloak him. He blended seamlessly with the desolation surrounding him, as though he was a natural extension of the destruction he surveyed.

“…”

The man’s eyes swept over the devastation he had wrought. Nothing had survived. The kingdom’s ruler, its symbols, and its history—all had perished. Only the remnants beneath his feet bore silent witness to the kingdom’s past existence, and even those would soon be erased.

At length, the man began walking, his steps slow and deliberate. Debris from the collapsed buildings caught at his feet, but he did not falter. Behind him, the sounds of battle—shouts and the clash of weapons—continued unabated. The noise was deafening, yet to him, it felt distant, as though it were happening in another world.

He stopped where the throne had once stood. Before him lay the broken remains of a chair, now unrecognizable. Its backrest was snapped, one leg shattered, and the throne collapsed. The man stood there, unmoving, as if rooted to the spot.

Duke Effenberg, please spare me. I’ll give you whatever you want—the kingdom, even.

He hadn’t responded. Words had felt meaningless. Instead, he had dragged the king from his seat and ended his life with a single stroke. The blood that had stained his hands back then had long since dried.

Now, as he stood before the remnants of the throne, his face betrayed no emotion. There was no triumph for a successful revolution, no weight of the responsibility he would soon bear, no pity for the ruler he had once served, nor hatred for the cause of this kingdom’s ruin. His face, serene and blank, revealed nothing.

“…Brother.”

The voice of another intruded into the world that had felt solely his. He turned his head, his expression unchanged.

Their gazes met, each face shadowed by its own darkness. Neither bore the expressions of heroes who had triumphed in revolution.

“It’s time to go,” she said.

“To where?”

Was he genuinely unaware? Lette’s face twisted in frustration.

Though the king was dead, the battle was not yet over. Soldiers loyal to the crown still resisted. While their morale was broken and the fighting was little more than a cleanup operation, it was too early to lower their guard. The leader, who should make rational and calculated decisions, couldn’t afford to be lost in thought in such a place.

“You know where,” she replied, exasperated.

“No, I’m asking sincerely.”

“Brother!”

“I was only ever the revolution’s shadow. My role is finished.”

“Shadow? No one sees you that way. Even if you want it, the people will hail Ruben Effenberg as the hero of the new kingdom.”

Ruben remained silent. Lette felt tight in her chest, not because she didn’t understand him, but because she understood all too well. She, too, had once held similar hopes.

But the outcome was the ruin before her.

When Bailey’s sole princess died at Effenberg’s estate, the king used her death to demand their loyalty. Ruben had feigned compliance, drawing closer to the king, waiting for the moment to sever his life.

Drunk on the illusion of controlling Effenberg, the king had hidden behind Ruben even as the revolutionaries stormed the palace. And when Ruben dragged him out and made him kneel, what had he felt then? The king was executed in the square, and the kingdom crumbled without resistance. Soon, a new kingdom would rise under the banner of a saintess. That was all that remained of the future.

The hope she had once clung to so desperately was nowhere to be found in that vision.

Yet, they could not remain stagnant. Even without hope, the future persisted. No matter how heartless or cold, life demanded they endure.

But look at the man before her. He seemed determined to stay, to bury himself in these ashes, to make this ruin his grave. Lette could no longer contain herself, her voice trembling with anguish.

“Please, stop this.”

What was there to stop? Ruben had done nothing. That was his only regret—doing nothing. Not acting, not even trying to know. And so, in the end, he had lost her.

Even now, his hands remained stained with the blood she had coughed up that day. No matter how much he washed them, the stain would not fade. Conversely, no matter how much other’ blood he spilled, it could not cover hers.

But that wasn’t all. The hell he endured as he helplessly watched her succumb, her breath stolen by the poison Euresica over a week, still held him captive. He remained in that hell. Whether his eyes were open or closed, she lay before him, serene and still. Even if he gouged out his own eyes, he knew he would see her in the blindness of his world. He was trapped in a void where neither reaching out nor shouting could bridge the distance.

“How long do you intend to remain stuck in the past?”

“…”

“No matter how long you grieve, the princess won’t know. The dead are just… dead.”

Lette squeezed her eyes shut as she forced the words out, her voice heavy with pain.

She was entirely correct, yet her premise was wrong. It wasn’t a matter of his will. Ruben wasn’t clinging to life because he wanted to. He had never had a choice to begin with.

Could he forget?

The small attic room at the eastern end of the Effenberg estate. The sunlit window and the tea table beneath it. The warm teacup still steaming. And here, sitting in the chair, slowly crumbling. Not a single detail could be forgotten. Nor should it be. His life after that day had been nothing but an endless repetition of the despair he’d felt, powerless to do anything but watch.

Sometimes, he wished he could forget, tormented by the vividness of the memories. But then, the thought of genuinely forgetting her terrified him. He would berate himself mercilessly for even considering it.

He must not forget. He could not forget.

And yet, there were moments when he wished he could. Moments when he hated himself for wanting to.

“You have to move forward now. You can’t keep standing still.”

“That’s your task, not mine.”

“Brother!”

Tears welled in Lette’s blue eyes. She wasn’t immune to sorrow. Losing hope had been just as agonizing for her. Yet she had kept moving because they bore the future left behind by those who were gone. They couldn’t forget that. They had to honor the lives that had been risked for this future.

The living had to move forward. The living must.

“This is the future she dreamed of,” Lette said, her voice breaking.

“…”

“It’s the future she entrusted to us.”

Yes, it was. It was the future she had envisioned as she gave her life for it. Not just her life—she had sacrificed everything: her existence, her dignity as a person, and her worth as a human being. She had given it all to ensure this future.

He couldn’t abandon it. He had to live. His duty was to bring the future she had dreamed of into reality. That duty had driven him to this point, pushing him to survive each day without her, no matter how agonizing it was to keep his eyes open.

Everyone worried about Ruben, who couldn’t find even a brief rest in sleep. Some had begun planning for a future without him, anticipating his collapse. He had pushed himself relentlessly, showing no regard for his well-being, as if caring for himself were a grievous sin.

The upright and principled knight he once was had vanished. His once-handsome features, firm and resolute, had grown gaunt and brooding. His vibrant eyes now seemed mired in darkness, like the depths of a swamp. His vitality was gone, his expressions erased, and his shadows deepened. Though alive, he seemed deader than living. To anyone who looked at him, he was a man closer to death than life.

“I don’t know much, but I know this,” Lette whispered. “The man you are now… isn’t the man she hoped you’d become.”