Chapter 18
It wasn’t anything new. Hadn’t they witnessed similar scenes every year? Even at his funeral, it had been the same.
In the face of a sudden death, the royal family and nobles had been too busy calculating their own interests.
Disgusted by the sight, he had left the palace.
He had wanted to go far away—anywhere far from the capital…
“…!”
Just then, a headache suddenly surged. At the same time, Heivan dropped the umbrella he was holding and staggered. Fortunately, before anyone else noticed, Fedwin, who had been standing behind him, stepped forward and caught the umbrella.
“Your Grace, are you alright?”
Fedwin held the umbrella over Heivan and asked in a low voice, careful not to be overheard. Heivan took a deep breath, nodded, and held out his hand.
“I’ll hold it.”
But Fedwin stood firmly by his side instead of handing the umbrella back. Heivan didn’t scold his stubborn knight, knowing it was out of concern.
He gave a faint smile to Fedwin and rubbed his temple with his hand. His gaze darkened.
Whenever he tried to recall his erased past, this headache always returned. As if someone had forcibly sealed his memories—and whenever he tried to unearth them, something would push back hard.
“…”
Heivan unconsciously turned his head to the left. A child stood alone among the adults.
Sniff.
Plita tightly clenched her small hands and rubbed her eyes. Seeing that, Heivan’s brow furrowed. He first assumed she was sleepy. It was natural for a child to be bored or drowsy after standing still for so long.
‘It’ll be a problem if she starts whining about being sleepy.’
He wasn’t unaware of the gossip surrounding the child’s mother. If Plita made even a small mistake now, the tongues would wag endlessly.
Heivan sighed and turned toward Plita to gently caution her—but before he could move, someone by her side tilted an umbrella and bent down.
…That woman.
The one named Roze.
She whispered something softly to Plita and took out a handkerchief. Holding the umbrella with one hand, she gently wiped the tears from the child’s eyes with the other.
‘…She wasn’t sleepy—she’d been crying.’
Only then did Heivan realize his misunderstanding. Roze continued dabbing at Plita’s wet eyes, then gently patted her back.
“Sniffle…”
Comforting someone who’s crying usually makes them cry even harder. Plita was no exception—she clung to Roze’s skirt and started to sob louder. Loud enough for the sound to reach even Heivan.
“Roze… sniff…”
“…My lady.”
Roze looked flustered but soon knelt down and hugged Plita with one arm, gently soothing her again. It was then that Heivan, quietly observing them, walked over.
“It would be better to take the child inside.”
A low male voice suddenly came from above. Roze, patting Plita gently, tilted the umbrella slightly and looked up.
Instead of the stormy clouds, a large black umbrella appeared in her view—and behind it stood the man holding it.
“Ah, Your Grace the Duke.”
Roze hurriedly tried to rise, but Heivan stopped her with a gesture and turned his gaze to Plita. The child, still in Roze’s arms, looked up at him. Her eyes were slightly swollen and red—anyone could see she had been crying.
“She’s been crying.”
“Yes. The young lady was saddened by the late king’s passing.”
“She… was saddened?”
A strange light flickered in Heivan’s eyes. He had asked casually but was taken aback by the unexpected answer. He stared quietly at Plita. She looked back at him—and began to sob again.
“Sniffle…”
Tears welled up in her round, pale green eyes. The sight was oddly unfamiliar.
Why?
Heivan wanted to impulsively ask her that question. Her tears were sincere. Unlike the others here, who were merely putting on an act, she truly mourned the king’s death.
Why…?
And so, Heivan couldn’t understand his daughter. She was undoubtedly his child, yet seeing her cry felt like watching a stranger.
“You…”
Do you even know whose death you’re mourning?
He swallowed the question before it could escape his lips. There was no need to ask a child. What could a five-year-old possibly understand?
At that age, she likely didn’t even comprehend the concept of “death.” How could she mourn someone she had never met, who died before she was even born?
Most likely, it was just the gloomy and somber atmosphere that scared her.
Heivan tried to rationalize her tears that way. But just then, Plita—still in Roze’s arms—stepped toward him hesitantly.
“…?”
Heivan’s brow furrowed as the child grabbed and tugged on his trousers. But Plita, unfazed, tugged a couple more times—then began patting his leg gently with her small hand.
Just as Roze had done to comfort her.
“Daddy… brother…”
“…?”
Heivan frowned deeper at her confusing words. Plita flinched at his expression but continued patting his leg.
“Because Daddy is Brother… sniff… it’s sad. Daddy is… hic…”
Her words were incomprehensible. She spoke through sobs, all jumbled up, making it harder to understand.
And yet…
For some reason, hearing those confusing words made his chest ache.
“…I explained it briefly to the young lady earlier.”
At that moment, Roze stood and quietly spoke to Heivan. His blue eyes shifted from the child to her.
“I told her that the late king… was Your Grace’s older brother. But the young lady isn’t used to formal titles yet…”
Roze clarified why Plita had called him “Daddy Brother,” then fell silent. Rain trickled down the slanted umbrella. Heivan stared at the water pooling at Roze’s feet, then slowly looked back to the child still patting his leg.
“Daddy Brother,” huh…
Heivan let out a faint chuckle. To a young child, honorifics were indeed difficult. It was understandable if she confused ‘older brother’ and ‘uncle.’ Still, to outsiders, it would likely be seen as a mistake from someone “of low birth.”
Heivan clenched his jaw and stepped back. The child’s small hand, which had been patting his leg, now hung in the air—touching nothing before falling back down.
It felt strange. Like something had squeezed his chest and then let go. Much like how Plita had just grasped the air and let her hand fall.
“Take the child inside.”
He couldn’t quite describe the foreign feeling. Nor could he accept it calmly. Unable to handle the unfamiliar comfort, Heivan turned away—
—and simply repeated what he had said before.
“You take this too.”
Thud. A large bag was thrown at her feet. From the sound alone, it was clearly heavy. Roze, her arms already full, looked up at the bag tossed in front of her.
The maid accompanying the duchess’s household sneered at Roze and asked with an insolent tone:
“What? Don’t want to?”
“No, it’s not that…”
“Then hurry up. Why are you so slow? And yet you think you deserve to be the young lady’s personal maid?”
Grumbling and glaring at her, the maid left the room with only a small bag in hand. Her steps were light as if she carried nothing at all. Roze sighed as she watched her leave and then picked up the bag thrown at her.
“Ugh…”
The luggage she was already carrying was heavy enough. Now with this big bag added on, a groan escaped her lips. Still, Roze gritted her teeth and managed to drag it out of the room.
The hallway was crowded with staff gathering their belongings. Some of them were the duchy’s maids. Holding small bags or parcels, they chatted among themselves—but threw glances Roze’s way when they saw her.
One of them muttered in a slightly concerned tone:
“Shouldn’t we help her?”
“Leave it. She’s the personal maid of the young lady, she’ll manage. After all, she was chosen by the duke himself.”
