As the train came to a stop at Southfirth Station, the passengers who had been standing idly began to move in a flurry.

Paul, who had been gazing blankly at the cloudless sky, adjusted the strap of his military bag and stepped forward with a light heart.

With winter’s biting cold now gone, the air was filled with the scent of flowers and fresh grass. The deepening warmth of spring made everything feel brighter—lighter.

Thinking back on his short but fulfilling journey, Paul walked along the familiar roads of his hometown, a tune slipping naturally from his lips.

“Oh my goodness—Paul! You’re safe!”

As he entered the town, he was greeted by Mrs. Margaret, who recognized him at once and hurried over.

She looked him over in delight. Compared to the day he had left for war, he had grown broader, sturdier—more like a man.

“I’m fine, ma’am. Not a scratch on me.”

“We were all so worried! Even after the war ended, there was no word from you. And then Old Man Marsili said you suddenly went off traveling nearby—I didn’t know what to think!”

“I was stationed at a southern military base as a supply soldier. The coastal village nearby had the most incredible scenery.”

“Oh? So—did you meet a nice girl while you were there?”

Mrs. Margaret narrowed her eyes playfully, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

Paul shook his head, laughing.

Nearby merchants, hearing the commotion, began to gather.

“Paul? You’re back?”

“My, you’ve become quite the strong young man!”

Surrounded by the lively crowd, Paul scratched the back of his neck, smiling shyly.

It was only then, exchanging warm greetings with the people around him, that he truly felt he had come home.

A breeze passed through.

Carrying a rattan basket filled with butter, bread, and sweet strawberries—things she had bought on an errand for Marsili—Rive walked quietly, the gentle warmth of spring brushing against her.

But at the sound of laughter ahead, she slowed.

The cheerful voices of the crowd mingled with the soft spring breeze, rustling the hem of her dress.

“Oh? Lizzie!”

Mrs. Margaret, who had been ruffling Paul’s now longer brown hair, tilted her head and waved.

“Lizzie, come here! Paul’s back!”

The crowd’s attention shifted, following her gaze.

Paul, still smiling, turned last—

“…Wow.”

The smile faded from his lips, replaced by stunned silence.

Their eyes met.

Rive, holding her basket in one hand, tucked her wind-tousled golden hair behind her ear.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, almost at the same time, they both looked away.

Paul’s ears turned bright red.

“Ma’am… do you know her?”

“Of course I do. She’s staying at your house.”

“…What?”

Paul leaned in, whispering, and Mrs. Margaret chuckled before walking toward Rive.

Paul watched cautiously, his gaze flickering with restless uncertainty.

‘How can someone… be that radiant?’

He rubbed his eyes again and again, as if unable to believe what he was seeing.

“This is your first time meeting, isn’t it? This is Old Man Marsili’s only grandson.”

“…I see.”

“Paul, what are you doing just standing there? Go on, greet her!”

The gathered merchants burst into laughter at his stiff, awkward posture.

“Look at him—he’s fallen for her already!”

At someone’s teasing shout, Paul’s face flushed as red as a ripe apple.

Only then did Rive fully realize who the man before her was.

“Hello.”

Her voice was soft, clear—like the gentle sound of water flowing over a stream.

Paul swallowed hard.

“Hello. I’m Paul Burnett. You’re… Lizzie, right?”

Rive lowered her gaze to the large, sun-tanned hand he held out to her.

When she looked up, she saw his bright, dimpled smile—paired with an awkward, almost embarrassed laugh.

The sight of it made her let out a small, unexpected laugh.

Quickly, she lifted a hand to cover her lips.

Their first meeting unfolded in a subtle, fragile atmosphere, drawing the amused attention of those around them.

The spring breeze, warm and sweet with the scent of strawberries, gently tousled Paul’s hair.

The wind that had once carried winter’s chill no longer felt cold, and Paul knew it.

***

“They say Naitale Grandly has been thrown into a detention camp.”

Banton swirled the brandy in his glass and let out a quiet chuckle.

Leaning back in his chair, he watched Andrew from behind as he loaded the rifle without a word.

“They say he’s grinding his teeth, swearing he’ll kill you.”

“….”

“Calls you the murderer who killed his sister.”

Bang!

The shot rang out.

A flock of startled birds burst into flight from the edge of the Sergia forest. Smoke curled from the barrel, and somewhere in the distance, a beast let out a mournful cry.

An uneasy silence settled.

Andrew, still holding the rifle, turned back.

Banton smirked, raising his glass before draining the brandy in one go.

“Savage. Truly savage.”

“If you’re done talking, then leave.”

“I was planning to. Didn’t come here to see you, anyway.”

Setting his glass down, Banton stood, brushing off his trousers.

Andrew gestured to the servant launching the clay targets, signaling a break. The servant bowed at once, understanding.

Andrew approached with steady composure, set the rifle onto the stand, and unbuttoned his jacket before taking a seat.

Behind them, servants stood at a respectful distance.

“I never thought I’d see this side of you. Should I be honored?”

A breeze passed through, easing the stillness in the air.

Banton studied him in silence.

Andrew took a cigarette from its case and placed it between his lips, his brows tightening slightly as he lit it.

“What are you talking about?”

Smoke drifted upward, dissolving into the air.

Leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, Andrew tilted his head back, blinking slowly with tired eyes.

The sky above was an endless blue—too clear.

Perhaps because of that, his mood felt all the more wretched.

“You can’t focus on anything.”

“….”

“The great Captain Blackwood missing a shot? That’s not a mistake. That’s deliberate.”

Banton gestured toward where the last shot had gone, his expression narrowing.

Andrew drew deeply on his cigarette.

His disheveled black hair shifted in the wind, falling across his forehead.

Another gust came.

He closed his eyes slowly.

“I told you already—leave.”

His mood refused to lift.

At times, fragments of memory—of his wife—would surface, leaving behind a strange, unfamiliar feeling.

But he never gave it meaning.

To admit that her absence affected him now would be to acknowledge a confusion he refused to name.

Routine helped him push those thoughts aside but not as much as he had expected.

“I’ve heard my sister’s losing her mind. I wonder who I should thank for that.”

“….”

“She’s grateful you took her in… but she never expected to be treated like this.”

The cigarette burned down between his fingers.

Andrew flicked it into the ashtray, adjusted his tie, and stood.

Banton’s expression, which had grown stiff, shifted back into his usual teasing smile.

“You two were lovers once, weren’t you?”

It was something he had meant to say for a long time.

Watching his sister slowly fall apart, powerless to help her, had left him with nothing but frustration.

Even without Heather’s request, Banton had planned to step in—to speak to Andrew himself.

He swallowed dryly.

“So?”

Andrew’s flat voice cut through his thoughts.

Banton tilted his head, rubbing his forehead.

“I know my father forced your hand—made you take her in. And for that, I’m grateful.”

“….”

“But she must have held onto some hope. You accepted her again. Even now, it may sound ridiculous—but Heather truly regrets what she did back then.”

His voice, steady at first, faltered toward the end.

Seeing his own reflection—so desperate—in those calm, unyielding eyes, Banton let out a self-mocking laugh.

What was the point of any of this?

“She’s waiting for you.”

Even if it made him shameless, blood still ran thicker than anything else.

“It may sound ridiculous in a situation like this, but… I still think there’s no one more suited to stand beside you than her.”

Andrew, who had been staring into the depths of the forest, reached for the rifle resting on the stand.

With steady, unhurried movements, he loaded the magazine.

The cold scrape of metal cut sharply through the suffocating air.

Raising the barrel, he pulled the trigger without hesitation.

His form—flawless, refined through relentless training—was almost elegant in its precision.

Bang!

Another deafening shot echoed through the forest.

A bird, its wings flailing, dropped heavily to the ground.

Banton’s expression darkened as he watched.

“Regret.”

Andrew’s voice was flat, the word drawn out slowly—as if he were tasting it.

“Maybe that old marquis should hurry up and die.”

“….”

“Only then will this damned, tangled mess finally come to an end.”

Andrew gazed at the fallen target in the distance—now completely still, no trace of life left.

Then, at last, he turned his head toward Banton.