#018. Letter
Albert Bowie arrived at the ducal estate in a haggard state. The guards and soldiers tried to support him, but he violently shook off everyone’s help.
“Stay away! All of you, get lost!”
A constant wave of nausea churned in his stomach. His head throbbed as if it might split apart, and his body felt unbearably sick.
As though it had been branded into his mind, the true face beneath the helmet would not leave his memory.
It was a being that should not exist in this world—something horribly cursed.
But who would believe such a thing?
In a world where even magic had vanished, where the only remaining mage was the Second Princess, any tale of a cursed monster would be dismissed as madness.
On this earth where fantasy had withered away, speaking of such a thing would only make him sound insane.
Albert Bowie dragged his weary body into his room.
His room—where a warm candlelight and a bed awaited him.
Outside the window, the sunset blazed. The cross-shaped pattern cast by the window bars spread across the wall, forming a burning red cross.
There, he knelt in thought.
His weak faith could not even support prayer. He had to find the answer himself.
Clearly… his orders were to monitor the Second Princess and, if possible, kill her.
But at the same time, an overwhelming fear issued a different command.
Follow the princess’s orders and kill the duke. If not—…
“Ugh… aaagh!”
In his memories, the blue glow of the monster’s eyes—standing behind the princess’s small frame and looking down at him—tormented him.
If he killed the duke, he would be branded a noble murderer and hunted forever. That was not all.
His family would likely be executed. Even his young daughter.
“That… I cannot allow…”
But there was no guarantee that the monster’s sharp blade and grasp would be any more merciful than the strict laws of the kingdom.
If he failed to obey the princess’s orders—…
There was no telling what that monster might do. To Albert Bowie, the creature that had removed its helmet was the very embodiment of all evil and curses.
What if his family were tormented by an eternal curse? Or torn apart and hung upside down from the branches of a tree in the Brown Forest?
No matter what choice he made, a miserable end awaited him.
At that moment, something came into his hand.
His own longsword.
A perfectly rational and complete solution to all this—yet one that was utterly horrifying—flashed through his mind.
Sir Albert Bowie drew his sword.
The longsword bestowed upon him by His Grace, the Duke of Étranger, when he appointed him to the Order of the Raven Feathers.
The sword’s name was “Sir Forlorn.”
It meant “the solitary knight.”
Considering that members of the Raven Feathers Knight Order were never remembered by anyone, it was a fitting name.
Now, that sword would mark his most solitary death—his final moment.
Without hesitation, Bowie grasped the blade. A searing pain spread through his hand. Blood ran along the steel.
His arm trembled violently, but he raised the sword high.
He closed his eyes.
After a brief, final moment passed, he never opened them again.
The next day, Anastasia Étranger had no difficulty confirming Sir Albert Bowie’s death.
Because the duke himself broke down her door and entered her room.
The deduction was simple.
If he killed the duke, his family would suffer retribution. If he turned a blind eye, he likely could not endure the spike of fear that Artorius had implanted into his soul.
The only thing he could do was take his own life to protect his family and abandon his duty.
Moreover, there was one decisive clue: the longsword held in his left hand—Sir Bowie’s weapon, the “Sir Forlorn” she had seen in the Brown Forest the day before.
The duke ground his teeth as he spoke in a low, vicious voice.
“…Was this your doing?”
The Duke of Étranger had fair, glossy golden hair and green eyes. Even now, he had aged well; in his youth, he must have been even more handsome.
Anastasia shrugged, entertaining trivial thoughts.
“My father was the kind of person who blamed me for everything that went wrong. I must have forgotten.”
Crack.
The sound of grinding teeth echoed faintly through the room.
“You certainly speak well, Anastasia.”
The sarcasm carried a sharp malice that he made no effort to hide.
At that moment, Artorius, who had been seated in a sunken armchair, rose to his feet.
Though the mansion’s ceilings were high, his height nearly reached the chandelier.
His eyes burned with a chilling blue light.
The Duke of Étranger flinched under the unhidden killing intent directed at him.
“Then let me ask you this.”
Anastasia stood up from the bed where she had been sitting. She swept her disheveled hair back with one hand and looked at him with eyes as deep as the ocean.
“Answer my question first—”
His question was irrelevant.
“Was it your doing?”
The Duke of Étranger froze for a moment. The unsettling sensation that her gaze was piercing straight through him overwhelmed him.
Eyes that could not be deceived.
Just days ago, she had been an eighteen-year-old girl crying and longing for love, foolishly hoping to become part of the family.
And yet, the moment she turned nineteen, she had changed.
“…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Behind him, Artorius let out a scoff, but the duke could not even respond to it.
Cold sweat trickled down his back.
“If that’s how it is… then I don’t know what you’re talking about either.”
A faint smirk formed on Anastasia’s small lips.
At that moment, the duke’s patience was completely exhausted, and anger overcame fear.
Srrrng—!
From his grasp, Sir Forlorn revealed its black blade.
“I intended to spare you if you behaved, but that won’t be necessary. If I keep you confined, I can draw out your blood for a long time.”
At that moment, six knights entered through the shattered doorway.
All of them wore matte black armor devoid of shine.
Members of the Raven Feathers Knight Order.
The gazes of these “crows” who had lost their heads were filled with killing intent.
But none of them expected to lose.
“Artorius.”
There was no need for her to act herself. At her call, the prince who had become a monster drew the forgotten holy sword from his back.
“You may kill everyone except my father.”
Her tone was as casual as throwing a frisbee to a dog.
The arrogant sight of the frail, small girl sitting back on the bed and crossing her legs made the crows grit their teeth.
Soon, the duke gave his order.
“Bring her to me.”
Indeed, they were the most skilled and talented swordsmen of the family.
Five of the six charged at Artorius, striking at his arms, legs, and face with their blades.
The remaining one rushed directly at Anastasia.
They were masters of killing who followed orders without regard for their own lives.
But Anastasia easily deflected their killing intent.
She had once endured even Artorius’s murderous intent at Aquila Fortress, and had slaughtered countless soldiers during the war against the Sered Kingdom.
Back then, she had vomited in horror, unable to sleep at night, weeping endlessly.
But like iron that becomes stronger after being heated and hammered, Anastasia’s now-frozen soul had become as sharp as a blade.
“A flock of rabbits rushing a wolf.”
Artorius offered a brief assessment.
He threw the holy sword at the attacker aiming for his face, pinning him to the wall, then grabbed the throats of the two charging at his arms.
Though their blades pressed against his hands, they did not cut him.
“W-why…!”
A body steeped in the abyss for two hundred years had become a monster immune to blades.
Smirking, Artorius slammed the two he was holding into the remaining attackers charging at his legs.
“Ghhk—!”
Cries rang out one after another, followed by a brief flash of yellow light from behind.
“Anastasia, are you alright?”
Artorius turned calmly.
Anastasia stood unharmed, not a single drop of blood on her.
The one who had rushed at her lay scorched and collapsed, struck down by lightning that had burst from her fingertips.
“If you want to kill me… you’d at least have to be someone like you, Artorius.”
Artorius smiled with satisfaction as he strode toward the wall.
As he brushed past the frozen duke, the longsword Sir Forlorn slipped from the duke’s weakened hand with a clatter.
The cursed prince pulled his embedded sword from the wall.
On his way back, he picked up Sir Forlorn and handed it to Anastasia.
“…Why this?”
“A trophy.”
The duke remained silent. Artorius spoke as if making sure he heard.
“If you’re going to learn swordsmanship, you should use a properly forged blade.”
She liked it.
The longsword of the man who had attempted to kill her on her father’s orders.
Merely carrying it would surely serve as a profound humiliation to the duke.
Anastasia gripped Sir Forlorn and leisurely approached him.
“…Are you trying to kill me? If you do, you won’t—ghk!”
It wasn’t a stab.
She simply slapped his mouth shut with her open left palm, silencing his outburst.
But for the duke—who had spent his life ignoring and mistreating her—the humiliation of being struck by Anastasia caused his fist to tremble.
“Be quiet. Chattering away first thing in the morning. Breaking down doors, making a mess of the room.”
Her tone sounded like she was reprimanding a subordinate.
“…What?”
Anastasia removed the scabbard of Sir Forlorn from his hand and sheathed the blade.
Then she grabbed the duke by the collar and pulled him down.
“…I don’t particularly want to kill you.”
Their eyes were forced level, and her whisper struck like a wedge.
“You deserve to suffer more than death.”
At that moment, a loud voice rang in from outside the window.
“A personal letter from His Highness, First Prince Louis Yanpotz has arrived!”
