Chapter 25
At that moment, somewhere far away, the sound of laughter drifted faintly. It soon vanished, but it carried Grace back to a memory of the past.
She was standing in a vast wheat field, her small hand clasped in her father’s. She couldn’t remember why, but that day she had laughed so hard that her sides hurt.
“You’re laughing so much your belly button might fall out.”
The sound of her own bright laughter from that day still lingered vividly.
Grace recalled that innocent laughter for a moment, then leaned forward and blew out the candle flame. She headed to bed, lying on her side as she pulled the blanket over her head and curled up tightly around a large pillow. She could only fall asleep if she completely covered herself with pillow and blanket like that.
Her blinking eyes wandered toward the fireplace. The logs he had given her were burning warmly, filling the room with heat.
As naturally as a breath, she thought of him. She could almost feel the warmth of his arm wrapped around her back, and the strong pull of the bowstring they once drew together. That phantom warmth—like a mirage, both there and not—slowly lulled her into sleep.
When she closed her eyes, a golden field of wheat spread wide before her.
Once everything is over, I’ll go back to that wheat field where Mother and Father walked with me. I’ll breathe in the fragrance of the grain… and laugh again, just like that day.
At the same time, Walter was lying in bed as well when he felt himself being dragged into a deep sleep. He realized he was dreaming—but he also knew he had to wake up.
Yet, no matter how strong his will, it was impossible.
Inside the sticky swamp of dreams, he was nothing but a helpless child.
The former Duke of Richmond—so much like Walter’s father—stood above him, smiling gently.
—Your Highness, from this moment on, you must live as Walter. Act like the son of Richmond, hide who you truly are. That is the only way to survive.
The man’s black eyes curved in a smile, but tears clung to their edges.
Walter shouted with all his might:
That he was mad. That he had let his own son burn alive in his place. How could he do that, what madness could justify it? Was this really the only damned way?
But, like always in these dreams, no sound came out.
—If you act so sensitively, people will notice. You and my son are far too different in character.
The old Duke looked at him with grave worry, then sighed as if he had no choice.
—If you cannot fully hide it, then at least speak as little as possible.
—……
—Please, survive. Save His Majesty. And return to your rightful place.
With those words, the man stepped back and bowed deeply to him. Then he turned. A small boy and a tall, straight-backed woman with a sorrowful face approached his side. The three of them faded slowly into the darkness.
Walter screamed himself hoarse calling after them, but they never returned.
As the Duke had warned, killing his true nature was never easy. So instead, Walter reduced his words to the bare minimum, burying his true self. Eventually, the lines blurred—until he wondered, Who am I really?
Whenever Eliza’s tearful cries came back to him, it felt as if he were inside a raging inferno again.
No—he was already burning.
At some point, he found himself lying on scorched black ground. Acrid smoke blotted out the sky, soot filled his lungs. He longed for cool rain to fall and put out the fire.
And then—
—You have always been my compass. My anchor.
A graceful voice poured down over the flames like rainfall.
—Because of you, I was able to endure.
The fire engulfing him receded as if it had been a lie. Walter finally drew a ragged breath.
And then she appeared. A woman, her presence as fresh as new leaves. Grace.
She gazed at him with unwavering eyes and spoke softly:
—Rise.
Her whisper was like the wind, sweeping away the unbearable heat, the ashes, the smoke.
And in the next moment, her rose-colored lips parted, releasing the name he had lost long ago.
—Ares.
Walter’s eyes flew open.
Hovering at the border between dream and waking, he panted harshly—and again, the voice rang in his ears.
—Ares.
Blankly, he stared at the empty air. Then, covering his eyes with his hand, he began to laugh. A brittle laugh, sharp as the cold winter wind.
But just as suddenly, the laughter died. Raking a rough hand over his face, he muttered fiercely:
“…What a strange dream.”
Slowly, he rose from bed. His gaze drifted toward the door of Grace’s room.
In the blackness, he seemed to see her image flicker like a phantom—her shining golden hair, her white rounded forehead, the golden brows, the green eyes bright as spring leaves, her slim cheeks marked with a soft dimple.
Walter’s eyes darkened, as deep as the abyss.
“You said… you endured because of me?”
The words shook him violently.
“I was your compass… your anchor?”
He stepped forward, stopping before the black door. Resting his forehead against it, he closed his eyes.
Now he understood why she had always felt different to him.
Grace had seen the real him—the man behind the mask of guilt he wore to survive. That mask had always felt suffocating, like being crammed into a tiny box. His throat had always been parched.
And now, her clear eyes filled his mind.
The mask cracked.
Piece by piece it crumbled—until finally it collapsed in ruin.
At that very moment, the pale light of dawn seeped through the window.
In that dim new world, Walter found himself smiling without meaning to.
That same night, Flora could not sleep.
She kept thinking of Walter—his towering physique radiating authority, the steady gaze he had given her, the perfect sculpted features, and that deep voice that seemed to scrape her very heart.
Every man who had courted her until now had lacked something. If he had good looks, his character was frivolous. If his personality was decent, then his family was unimpressive, or his face displeased her.
But Walter—Walter was perfect.
When she imagined him gazing at her with eyes full of affection, a rapture unlike anything she had ever known swept over her.
Clutching her racing heart, Flora vowed:
“I will become the perfect Duchess.”
The Duchess of Richmond.
Flora Richmond.
The more she repeated the name, the more it felt like fate itself.
She was the cherished only daughter of Count Rewen, the closest ally of Marquis Rinko. And the Marquis and Marchioness of Rinko treated her as though she were their own child. For five years now, the Rewen family had been living in the Richmond ducal estate. To Flora, the Duke’s castle was already like her own home.
Among the young nobles who would one day dominate the northwest’s social circles, she was already admired, nearly revered.
Seizing control of the inner chambers of the Richmond household—such a thing would not be difficult for her.
Before the sun even rose, Flora leapt out of bed and summoned her maids. Their faces looked oddly pale, but she paid it no mind.
“Go bring me the book of the Ducal House rules and customs.”
They hurried to fetch the heavy tome. It was so thick that just looking at it made one sigh. Skimming the first few pages, Flora idly flipped through before asking:
“And what about her? Does she even know how to handle cutlery properly?”
The arrangement of a single main plate with the full set of formal cutlery had been Flora’s own idea.
The maids smiled weakly, their hands trembling as they answered:
“Sh-she… sort of managed to, my lady.”
“B-but it was awkward.”
Flora’s lips curled with disdain.
“So she rushed to learn last-minute? Pathetic.”
“A-ahaha, yes indeed…”
“And what about her dresses, jewelry—anything worth showing off?”
“She didn’t have much jewelry, my lady. And her dress was just… ordinary.”
Flora’s lips curved higher into a satisfied smile.
“Bring me the new dresses and jewels I bought.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Flora was absorbed in her elaborate preparations when an unexpected summons arrived.
The Marchioness herself had called for her.
