* * *

Torvik, the capital of Nordlanding, one of Duke Sven’s directly governed domains, was a city that seemed to lack any particular coherence.

Before the Nords had settled there, Astrians had lived on the site. Before the Astrians, other people had lived there, and traces remained of people who had lived there even earlier.

No one knew when humans had first made their home there. Torvik had taken shape through generations of repairs and additions, without those traces ever disappearing entirely.

Its most recent chapter of history began during the War of Founding. After the Nords landed, Torvik was the first place they used as a base for their full-scale invasion of the kingdom.

The city was named after the thunder god, one of the dead gods, and its name meant Thunder’s Anvil. It also embodied the hope that the mighty ringing of its hammer would resound throughout the kingdom.

Torvik Citadel stood where the two rivers flowing through the city met. Built in ancient times, the stone castle had served as a fortress then, just as it did now. It was Duke Sven’s residence.

A little way down the hill on which Torvik Castle stood, its imposing scale as a fully equipped military stronghold became apparent: barracks, stables, smithies, outbuildings, and even a garden.

The citadel’s courtyard dwarfed the one at Winslow Castle.

The area around the gate was built of solid brick. Some stretches of the walls were brick, while others were sturdy log palisades. Sections that had crumbled over the long years had been patched with timber.

At any rate, in both historical significance and practical utility, it was a citadel fit for a duke whose standing rivaled a king’s.

A narrow path ran through the garden inside the citadel. Following it to the end brought one to a clear pond, where rare and precious fish swam, displaying their many colors.

Beside the pond crouched a middle-aged man draped in wolf fur. He scattered a handful of feed, and the fish crowded together, frantically eating what floated on the surface.

The feed vanished in an instant. Even so, the fish continued jostling one another, reluctant to leave.

Only when some time had passed and they were about to disperse did the man scatter more feed. The fish ate even more fiercely than before.

As he quietly watched them, someone approached and addressed him in a low voice.

“Your Grace.”

The man crouching beside the pond feeding the fish was none other than Duke Sven. He answered without even turning toward the person who had called him.

“... Hmm.”

The man, who appeared to be his adjutant, knelt on one knee beside him to bring their eyes level, then took out a small wooden box.

He opened it. Inside lay a severed nose: the nose of Geir, who had been sent as an envoy.

Duke Sven had already heard the report. He knew that Geir had lost his nose and been blinded during an instructional sparring match. This was the evidence.

The duke studied the nose in the box for a moment, then picked it up and tossed it into the pond. The fish swarmed over it at once, pecking at it.

The adjutant closed the box and tucked it inside his clothes as he spoke.

“Should we not take action? He went there as your envoy.”

“It was a sparring match, was it not? And I hear he was the one who proposed it.”

“True, but... is this not a matter of prestige?”

A duke had sent an envoy to a vassal, and that envoy had been blinded and had his nose cut off. Taken at face value, it could be seen as a challenge to the ducal house.

“Prestige? Whose prestige? Ketil, do you think mine has suffered?”

“Not at all. Who would dare?”

“Then there is no need for me to reassert it, is there?”

“Then you intend to let this pass?”

“Let it pass or not, we did gain something from this.”

“... You mean the bastard?”

“Yes. That boy could make a useful piece on the board.”

“He certainly seems to possess exceptional natural talent. But would he take our side?”

“What do you think, Ketil?”

“Persuasion would be better than threats.”

Duke Sven smiled and shook his head.

“You still have a long way to go.”

The man called Ketil looked deeply crestfallen.

“... Forgive me.”

“No, there is nothing to apologize for. The answer is that a highly capable bastard is nothing but a threat to his house’s future. Even if we leave him alone, he is a seed that will grow into internal strife in time.”

At Duke Sven’s words, Ketil felt as though a light had dawned before his eyes. Such was the extraordinary depth of the duke’s insight and designs.

“Of course... I have learned a great deal.”

“Still, it takes someone of your caliber to understand. The others would not even grasp it.”

The duke spoke as though to reassure his adjutant. There seemed to be a touch of personal feeling in his words, for Ketil—whose full name was Ketilmund—was Duke Sven’s son by a concubine.

The distinction between a bastard and a concubine’s son lay in whether the child was born outside a recognized union. Put simply, a concubine’s son was the child of a concubine rather than the lawful wife, while a bastard was the child of a woman who did not even hold the status of a concubine.

Quietly pleased by the duke’s words, yet looking somewhat embarrassed, Ketil replied,

“You praise me too highly, Father.”

Duke Sven scattered more feed for the fish with a faint smile. Geir’s nose was now so ragged that its original shape was barely recognizable.

“Still, it would be better to give him a little support than simply leave him alone. He will need to grow a little too big for his boots before he can truly rebel.”

“By support, you mean...?”

“I mean I will nurture him myself. Would it not be a sight to see, sending him back to Winslow afterward? Bring me that bastard. Let me have a look at him.”

“Understood.”

Ketilmund paid his respects to his father and liege lord, then departed.

The fish in the pond remained enthralled by the feed the duke scattered. Even when he scattered none, they seemed unable to escape his grasp.

Night insects chirped, and nocturnal birds cried mournfully, as though yearning for someone.

A brilliant full moon hung in the cloudless night sky, bathing the world in deep blue.

Unlike other nights, a full-moon night made the surroundings as clearly visible as early morning. Yet its peculiar colors made the world feel unfamiliar, stirring an uneasy sense that something chilling lurked somewhere in the darkness.

Indeed, one had to beware of werewolves on nights of the full moon. Anyone who ventured out rashly merely because they could see well might meet with some terrible fate.

AWOOOO...

A wolf’s howl sounded far in the distance. It carried all the way to Winslow Castle.

Unable to sleep even at this late hour, Earl Æthelred sat brooding in his study. The wolf’s howl could not reach the depths of his troubled thoughts.

Then came a knock at the door. It opened, and Valeri entered the study.

“You sent for me?”

“...”

Despite Valeri’s greeting, Earl Æthelred said nothing for some time. At last, after a long silence, he spoke as though his feelings had spilled out.

“That was rash.”

He meant the blinding of the envoy and the cutting off of his nose.

Valeri’s natural talent—no, surely the boy was a genius. But the trouble he had caused was a separate matter from his skill or talent.

As the earl responsible for his house and lands, Æthelred could not help worrying.

“Well, I don’t think so.”

Valeri’s answer was indifferent. Æthelred was taking the matter seriously, yet the very person who had caused it was behaving like this. The earl’s brow creased involuntarily.

“... What in the world must I do to curb this rebellious streak of yours?”

At the words “rebellious streak,” Valeri gave a low, incredulous chuckle.

“A rebellious streak? That is precisely your problem, my lord.”

“What?”

“Your failure to see the heart of the matter. Would it have been better if I had only beaten him up a little? Could we then have moved on without displeasing the duke? Let us say we could. What then? The next time the duke devises another scheme, will you simply muddle through that as well?”

Æthelred had never imagined that Valeri would turn on him like this. His bewilderment soon gave way to anger.

Just as he was about to speak, Valeri continued, denying him the chance.

“No matter how diligently you patch a leaking house, it all comes to nothing when a storm strikes. You must make sweeping repairs, even if it means tearing out the foundations of the pillars. Or demolish the entire house and build anew. Or seize someone else’s house. Your problem, my lord, is that you lack the nerve to do any of those things.”

“...”

Perhaps Æthelred had missed his moment to rage, or perhaps the scathing criticism had left him speechless. Whatever the reason, the anger that had surged within him subsided again.

“Allow me to give you the answer. First, form an alliance with the Earl of Windale. Harald is not yet betrothed, so he could serve as a valuable diplomatic asset. If you bring the Earl of Revi into it as well, the duke will not be able to treat you so lightly. Should the need arise, you might even raise an army and test your strength against his. If that does not appeal to you, the second option is to kill the duke. We are not the only ones dissatisfied with him. Nor is that dissatisfaction confined to his vassals. He may appear skilled in intrigue, but there is nothing beneath that veneer. A man who rules by sowing discord and division eventually loses the trust of those beneath him. Assassinating him would be surprisingly easy. Now, which of those two options do you prefer?”

Words scarcely anyone would dare utter, alternatives so radical as to be shocking, poured out without hesitation. Earl Æthelred could barely collect himself.

He was certainly a capable man. Moreover, he did his utmost in everything.

But in Valeri’s eyes, a ruler needed decisiveness above all else. Unfortunately, Æthelred lacked that quality. He merely worked diligently within the limits of what he already possessed.

To Valeri, who had endured an age of turmoil—the war of royal succession—and emerged its ultimate victor, all these circumstances surrounding House Winslow were trivial.

To be frank, Earl Æthelred was no more than a provincial lord to him, and even Duke Sven was an easy opponent compared with his truly formidable enemies.

“Even when a storm strikes, yes, you will do your best to meet it. But if you cannot avoid it, why not raise a storm yourself? You simply do not have what it takes. Do you?”

At some point, Valeri had dropped all deference from his speech.

Æthelred wondered what on earth had come over the boy. He was reeling from the shocking things he had heard, and overwhelmed by the sheer force of Valeri’s presence.

The earl had always maintained his composure, but this time he could not. He even stammered.

“... Y-you, Wid, you...”

Paying him no heed, Valeri clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked away.

Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the study, but one corner lay in shadow so extraordinarily deep that nothing seemed to exist there but blackness. Valeri went and stood in it.

The dense shadow covered half his face.

As Valeri turned toward Earl Æthelred, a light shone from deep within his eyes. It was the very sacred radiance said to be passed down only to the princes of House Vǫlsungr.

Meeting that gaze, Æthelred felt a chill seize his head. Gooseflesh ran down his spine. But the surprises did not end there.

“Valeri. Valery Helgisson. A man of the Vǫlsungr clan, great-grandson of Sigurd the Dragonslayer, grandson of the founding king, Sigmund the Avenger, and the fourteenth son of His Majesty the reigning king. I am neither a bastard nor Wid. You know that as well, do you not?”

Æthelred’s whole body jolted as though he had been struck by lightning. His hands trembled like aspen leaves.

Valeri watched him for a moment before speaking. Whether because of the atmosphere or because they had always been so, the shining eyes of House Vǫlsungr seemed less sacred than chillingly eerie.

“Does having a prince in your care frighten you? Do you find it a burden? In your place, I would have used it as a powerful card to play. But you could not. And you never will.”

Valeri’s voice was calm, with a calmness so sharp it seemed capable of cutting anyone who touched it.

Yet, listening closely, one might have heard something sorrowful in it, perhaps even a trace of regret.

But Earl Æthelred was far too overwhelmed to notice such subtleties.

“That is the tragedy of you and me. You are not a vessel great enough to contain me, Æthelred.”

With that, he left the room.

The moment the study door snapped shut, all strength drained from Earl Æthelred. He gasped for breath, as though he had been unable to breathe all this time.

He reached for a drink to steady himself, but his hands were still shaking so badly that he had to give up.

He slumped back in his chair. His senses would not return. Even when enough time had passed for him to recover himself, nothing changed. The helplessness was too profound.

Sadly, not even the gentle moonlight could comfort him.