Chapter 18
Sometimes, there are moments in life when a person must rely not on reason, but on instinct.
Even someone as rational and emotionally detached as Sigmund knew instinctively that this was one of those moments.
His reason told him it was impossible. Yet his intuition whispered something entirely different—
that the man standing before him was not Josef Pomozein as he knew him.
Maybe I’ve gone mad.
It would’ve been natural. After all, he had lost Arnulf—the person who meant everything to him.
From the very first moment they met at the academy—when they greeted each other and Arnulf’s calm smile met his eyes—Sigmund had known his life would revolve around that man.
At first, he had thought it was admiration.
Arnulf was a man whose neat features and detached expression still somehow radiated warmth.
And it wasn’t just a feeling—Arnulf truly was a gentle man. Though he often seemed indifferent, he was always there in moments that mattered.
Despite being a prince, he wasn’t arrogant. He was diligent, considerate, and naturally drew people to him.
Sigmund soon realized that what he felt wasn’t mere respect or loyalty—it was love.
He wanted Arnulf all to himself. He wanted those eyes to look only at him.
When he understood that, Sigmund chose to hide his feelings.
Arnulf walked a lonely, burdened path—Sigmund couldn’t bring himself to add to that weight.
Even if it meant his love would never be known, he couldn’t let go of him completely.
Naturally, he kept watching him. How could he not?
When you love someone, you want to know everything—their laughter, their tears, their pain.
So Sigmund memorized everything about Arnulf: his expressions, habits, even the way he fought.
He knew how Arnulf reacted when embarrassed, when happy, when sad, or when afraid.
Sigmund prided himself on knowing him better than Arnulf knew himself.
Was it just my imagination?
No. He had known Arnulf for years—he couldn’t be mistaken.
The first time he saw “Josef” fight, he thought it was a coincidence. That someone like Josef couldn’t possibly move that way. Yet disbelief gave way to doubt.
And when he saw it again earlier, the suspicion grew undeniable.
Is that really Josef?
What clinched it was a particular move—a unique technique that only Arnulf or Sigmund could perform.
When asked how he knew it, Josef had merely said he’d “picked it up while fighting.”
Ridiculous.
By now, Sigmund was sure he wasn’t the crazy one.
“Lost your memory, Lord Josef? Is that true?”
Baron Preang looked completely taken aback as he questioned “Arnulf.”
Arnulf nodded without hesitation—it was, in a way, a relief for him to have that excuse.
“I see. Well, it’s understandable after what you’ve been through,” said the baron, nodding as if in sympathy.
Arnulf glanced toward Sigmund. The violet eyes looking back at him seemed deeper than usual, as if hiding a storm of thoughts.
That face… Sigmund always looks like that when he’s troubled.
Having spent so much time together, Arnulf could still read him.
Perhaps sensing the gaze, Sigmund’s eyes refocused and met his.
“Baron Preang,” Sigmund said calmly, his tone suddenly sharp. “Then tell us—was Lord Arnulf’s cause of death simple drowning, or was it suffocation due to an allergic reaction?”
Arnulf froze. He hadn’t expected that question—from Sigmund, of all people.
If it had been an allergic reaction, suspicion would fall directly on Josef, the last person with Arnulf before his death.
“Hm…”
Baron Preang hesitated, his gaze flickering briefly to Arnulf before shifting away.
Arnulf had a feeling he knew what the baron would say.
“No. There was no allergic reaction.”
Arnulf’s body was already buried in the ground—there was no way to verify the truth anymore.
Sigmund surely knew that. So why ask? Did he have a reason to suspect something?
Of course he did—Sigmund was the cautious type.
Arnulf wondered if Sigmund might already know something about his true identity… and if more questions would follow.
“I see. Understood,” Sigmund said quietly.
To Arnulf’s surprise, he didn’t press further. His expression remained composed and unreadable.
Why?
Why wasn’t he asking more?
Arnulf soon realized—oh, right. The Queen had ordered the case to be closed.
Even if Baron Preang had known the truth, he wouldn’t dare to speak it. Especially not if it would open up a new political mess.
Still, Arnulf couldn’t help but feel a strange disappointment.
He reached for his wine glass in frustration. Tiny bubbles rose in the pale liquid—it looked like sparkling wine, light and crisp.
But just as he was about to drink, his hand hesitated for a split second.
Sigmund noticed. His eyes darted immediately to Arnulf’s glass—the same drink as his own.
Sigmund reached for his own glass, lifted it lightly, sniffed the aroma, and sipped.
For the briefest moment, his eyes widened—then his expression returned to normal.
He calmly set the glass down again and looked straight at Arnulf.
Arnulf, after a moment’s pause, put his own glass down without drinking.
A faint smile curved Sigmund’s lips.
It was the moment when suspicion solidified into conviction.
Arnulf lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Finn watched anxiously from the side.
Ever since returning from the gathering last night, Arnulf had been like that—dazed, silent, and lost in thought.
What in the world happened?
Finn fidgeted, restless, but there was nothing he could do.
“Lord Josef, please eat something!” he finally said, almost pleading.
Arnulf’s unfocused eyes turned slowly toward the sound.
“Huh?”
Even his voice sounded hazy.
“You need to eat breakfast,” Finn said gently.
Arnulf blinked, realizing for the first time that he’d been lying there motionless since waking.
Normally, he’d start his day with light training, but not today.
It all stemmed from last night—from his encounter with Sigmund before leaving the club.
“Josef.”
He had just brushed off Baron Preang’s attempt to keep him longer and was heading out, eager to breathe some fresh air.
He didn’t need to turn around to know who had called him.
Arnulf stopped and turned. As expected, Sigmund was standing there.
“…Sir Sigmund.”
When Arnulf had said he was leaving, Sigmund had only kept sipping his drink.
That very drink—peach-infused wine—that Arnulf hadn’t touched because of his allergy.
And yet, Sigmund had deliberately drunk it.
Watching that had felt… strange.
Sigmund was one of the few people who knew about his peach allergy—and out of quiet empathy, he usually avoided such foods himself.
To see him drink it now so casually—did it mean he’d always liked it but had stopped because of Arnulf?
The thought made something twist faintly in his chest.
It reminded him of a similar thought he’d had earlier that evening—right before standing up to leave.
But now Sigmund, the man he thought had ignored him, was following him out.
“Shall we move somewhere quieter to talk?”
Arnulf hesitated. “Can’t we talk here?”
Sigmund smiled faintly. “We could. But I don’t mind moving. You might, though.”
He had a way of making even simple words sound like subtle threats.
When he was on your side, he was the most reliable ally imaginable—but as an opponent, he was formidable.
Sighing inwardly, Arnulf nodded.
Sigmund led him around to the back of the building—unlike the grand main entrance, this side opened onto a small, well-kept garden.
He found a secluded corner, away from all eyes.
“Josef.”
Arnulf glanced around again. The manicured hedges formed neat walls that blocked view and sound alike. It was an ideal place for a private conversation.
Is this Baron Preang’s property? he wondered vaguely, when his name was called again.
“Yes, go ahead.”
Arnulf answered politely, though his gaze wandered elsewhere, feeling oddly uncomfortable.
“We’ve known each other for quite a while, haven’t we?” Sigmund asked.
“…So I’ve been told.”
Arnulf barely caught himself from saying we used to.
Sigmund nodded as if nothing was amiss.
“Good. Let’s continue to get along. We’ll be seeing each other often.”
“…What?”
What the hell does that mean? Seeing each other often? It almost sounded like a threat.
Arnulf was so startled he spoke informally without realizing it.
Sigmund didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he didn’t care.
“I’ve been too distant until now,” Sigmund continued with a faint smile. “From now on, let’s be… closer.”
He smiled then—beautifully, almost artfully, as if painted into existence.
A smile that could charm, or destroy.
“So, Josef,” he murmured softly. “It’ll be better if you stop hiding and show me everything.”
The cryptic words sent an uneasy flutter through Arnulf’s chest.
