* * *

Dawn arrived like a long-awaited guest.

Valeri rose as usual and went through his routine, beginning with straightening his bedding, before leaving the annex. The world was a deep blue, as though submerged in water.

The cool air seemed to wash his lungs clean. He spotted a dark silhouette near the barracks and walked toward it. Sure enough, Arne was standing there.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“No. I only just came out myself.”

Arne tossed him a heavy training vest. Valeri caught it against his whole body, nearly toppling under its weight.

They put on the vests and began running. A pleasant spirit of competition stirred between them as they took turns pulling ahead.

By the time they finished all five laps, Valeri wanted nothing more than to drop everything and lie down. Morning was breaking in earnest.

The two went to the training ground to spar and agreed to meet again after washing. Arne was off duty that day and had promised to show Valeri around the city.

On his way back to the annex, Valeri glanced over his shoulder. Knut, the third young lord, was still confined in the iron cage.

He was not watching Valeri now. He hung so limply that he looked dead.

Unlike the barracks, the annex offered the services of servants. Every morning, they filled the bath with heated water, and Valeri washed there.

He dressed again, draped a short cloak over his shoulders, buckled his sword at his waist, and went outside. Once again, Arne was already there waiting.

“Where do you want to go first?”

“Let’s start at the square. I’ll give you a rough explanation there, and then we can look around each place.”

True to his word, Arne began at the square, then showed him the gambling dens, slums, brothels, sawmills, cemetery, docks, and even the water supply, sewers, and reservoirs, built so long ago that no one knew when they dated from.

He also explained things worth knowing—and things to watch out for—when living in the city: thugs belonging to one brotherhood or another, this gang or that, assorted guilds, merchant companies influential enough that even the duke could not ignore them, and people connected to Viking clans.

These were the various skilled trades and private armed groups, the sorts of people who might become allies in a crisis—or enemies.

Each had a role within the community, and a certain balance of power seemed to keep a measure of peace. The duke served as the central pillar of that balance in this city.

Sometime after noon, they bought braised herring and grilled vegetables from a street vendor to fill their stomachs.

They sat down to eat among some overgrown ruins. Surprisingly, the cage on the watchtower was visible even from here.

Squinting for a closer look, Valeri saw that the third young lord, who had lain limp as a corpse that morning, had roused himself and was now sitting slumped in the cage.

“You can see it even from here,” Valeri said.

“It’s meant to shame him.”

“So when does the third young lord get out?”

“How would I know? That’s up to His Grace.”

“I take it he’s been causing trouble for quite a while?”

“When he was little, he cut open a servant’s belly, claiming he was looking for a watermelon thief. I wasn’t here then. I heard about it from someone else.”

“Incredible.”

“But part of me feels sorry for him, too.”

“Why?”

At Valeri’s question, Arne glanced around, even though no one was nearby, and whispered in his ear.

“The third young lord has a different mother from the eldest and second young lords. And she was beheaded. Right in front of him. His Grace had it done.”

The third young lord was not a concubine’s son. Duke Sven’s first wife had died young, and the lawful wife he took afterward was the third young lord’s mother.

She had been beheaded when the boy was six. The duke had not had a wife since.

“... Why?”

“I don’t know that either. Some say she tried to poison the eldest and second young lords. Others say she had an affair. Only the people involved would know the truth. Don’t go telling anyone.”

“...”

Valeri looked toward the cage once more. The third young lord resembled a kitten wasting away on the roadside, slowly dying.

Mother. To Valeri, that word was something unfamiliar, something that seemed forever beyond his reach.

Perhaps that was why a corner of his heart ached for no reason.

But what could he do? He forced the feeling aside and went on eating.

As they finished their meal, Valeri smiled faintly and said to Arne,

“You’re far too trusting, Arne. I’m actually a spy, you know. A spy for Winslow. And here you are, spilling all these secrets to me. So trusting. Far too trusting.”

“... What?”

“Ha ha, I’m joking.”

“Hey, you’re not, right? You really aren’t?”

“I told you I’m not. Hmm, but maybe I am?”

Valeri teased him, contradicting himself at every turn. The despair twisting Arne’s face was a sight to behold.

“You can’t do that to people, Wid. Some things you can joke about, and some you can’t. But you really aren’t, right?”

“Ha ha ha!”

Valeri threw his head back and laughed.

After seeing most of the city, the two returned to the citadel. Dusk was giving way to evening.

“See you tomorrow.”

Valeri said his farewell for the day, and Arne raised a hand in reply as he headed toward the barracks.

Valeri returned to the annex, ate, washed, and prepared for bed. Just then, someone knocked at his door.

KNOCK, KNOCK.

Quietly reaching for the sword propped beside the chest of drawers, Valeri spoke.

“Who is it?”

At his words, someone carrying a lantern cautiously opened the door.

“Master Wid, His Grace summons you.”

Valeri had expected to be called for a private audience sooner or later, so he rose and followed the man.

But instead of heading toward the castle on the hill, his guide led him toward the watchtower.

They crossed the quiet courtyard, the servants and other employees having all retired for the night.

Inside the watchtower, cobwebs clung to the corners, and a desolate air suggested the place was poorly maintained.

The staircase spiraled upward, its end hidden, perhaps because it was evening. Only a pitch-black abyss lurked overhead.

Each floor had wooden flooring where sentries could stand watch through the windows.

Yet there were no belongings or signs of anyone having stayed there. The watchtower was intended for emergencies, and there had been no need to use it for many long years.

After a long climb, they nearly reached the top, where Duke Sven stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out a window at the city by night.

At this height, the wind came gusting inside. Three or four bodyguards stood near the duke.

“I have brought him, Your Grace.”

“Mm.”

The guide hung up his lantern and leaned against the wall at the stairway entrance, almost as though blocking an escape route.

Duke Sven stood in the wind, glanced briefly at Valeri, then turned back to the night view as he spoke.

“Are your accommodations comfortable?”

“Yes. Thanks to your generosity, I’m doing very well.”

“Good to hear. Come here.”

The duke beckoned him closer. As Valeri approached, he saw Knut, the third young lord, inside the iron cage just outside the window.

Unable to lean against anything because of the inward-pointing spikes, he crouched there watching them.

“Does this brat look comfortable to you?” Duke Sven asked.

Rather than answering at once, Valeri looked at Knut. Knut stared steadily back.

His feline eyes made even an idle gaze look like a glare, but he did not seem to be watching with any real resentment or malice.

Perhaps that made him all the more formidable. He had spent two days high above the ground, battered by fierce winds without food or water, yet harbored no particular resentment.

Valeri thought he knew why. Someone whose heart had once died could recognize another whose heart was dead.

At a glance, he recognized Knut, the third young lord of the ducal House Viðing, as one of his own kind.

An anger that was cold rather than hot, calm rather than fierce. Dry and desolate. Its source was emptiness, not the burning desire for revenge.

Valeri understood that better than anyone.

“Well, he might somehow survive three days, but I think he’ll die if it goes beyond that.”

At Valeri’s dispassionate answer, Duke Sven turned toward him, looking slightly surprised.

After all, the boy was Sven’s own son, which should have made the question difficult to answer. Yet Valeri showed no trace of discomfort or confusion.

The duke liked that about him.

“Then how long must I keep him locked up before he comes to his senses? When will those glaring eyes of his learn to behave?”

“They look well-behaved enough to me.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s simply how they look.”

“Hmm...”

Duke Sven considered this for a moment before getting to the point.

“I have a certain concern. Would you help me with it?”

“I will.”

“Without even hearing what it is?”

“Whether I succeed or fail, it is only proper that I answer with results.”

Duke Sven threw back his head and laughed, as though thoroughly amused and even more pleased with him.

“Good, good... I won’t beat around the bush. I have a rotten tooth, and it’s been there quite some time. His name is Creed, a fellow known as the ‘Ballsack Opener.’ Filthy even to say it. At any rate, there is a city called Gringen not far from here, from Torvik. Kill him there for me. There is no deadline.”

Anyone could see that he meant to test Valeri. It was no scheme or trick, but something of a natural next step now that Valeri had come to the ducal household.

It was, however, an exceptionally difficult task. Though Gringen was close by, it belonged not to the duchy of Eldeira but to the neighboring margraviate of Dunbria.

Like most neighbors in the world, the Duke of Eldeira and the Margrave of Dunbria were on poor terms. Thus, he could not send troops into Gringen.

Moreover, Gringen was known as ‘Despair’s End.’ Situated in marshland, it was difficult to subdue, and all manner of criminals, hounded from one refuge to the next, often drifted there as a last resort.

Duke Sven had hired contract killers on several occasions, but under such circumstances, every attempt had failed.

The problem was that the man was inflicting financial losses on the duke through his interference with trade. As the duke had said, he was nothing short of a long-rotten tooth.

Still, whether Valeri succeeded or failed, Duke Sven stood to lose little. Either way, he could gauge the extent of Valeri’s abilities.

There was, however, one fact Duke Sven could never have guessed in a lifetime: Valeri knew Gringen well.

Before returning to the past, he had spent roughly three years hiding there after the king’s death.

“Will you help this old man?”

“I will.”

Valeri answered without hesitation.

At first hearing, his decisiveness was refreshing. But Duke Sven thought he answered so confidently only because he had arrived recently and knew little of the place. With such outstanding skill, he would naturally have confidence to spare.

Capturing Creed, the so-called Ballsack Opener, would take more than skill at arms. Watching Valeri answer without understanding that, the duke also thought that the boy was certainly still young.

His defeat of the enemy rather than flight when Ketilmund was murdered showed courage, and bringing back evidence suggested a measure of judgment. Yet he was rash—that was Duke Sven’s current assessment of Valeri.

Naturally, he did not let any of that show. Instead, he began with praise.

“I like your decisiveness.”

“In return, please allow me to select the men I need.”

“Of course. I will also provide whatever equipment and funds you require, without limit. But understand that I will be deeply disappointed if you fail.”

“Understood. First, let me name someone I wish to take with me right away.”

“Already? Shouldn’t you assess their abilities first? Every knight has different skills and strengths. Some excel in the field, others at fighting in cities. Each has his uses.”

“That isn’t what I meant. To begin with, I would like to take the young lord.”

“... Who?”

Duke Sven asked as though wondering whether he had misheard.

“Young Lord Knut.”

Valeri pointed to Knut in the cage outside the window. Knut was still staring at him, just as he had from the start.

For all his seasoned cunning, even Duke Sven had apparently not expected this. He looked back and forth between Valeri and Knut several times.

“Why?”

“There seem to be several misunderstandings between us. I would like to clear them up.”

It was a lie. In truth, Valeri had judged that if he were to kill Duke Sven, the third young lord would be his most powerful weapon.

The duke’s thoughts did not reach that far. He took Valeri at his word.

Finding it both somewhat absurd and rather amusing, he let out a disbelieving laugh before speaking. The possibility that his own son, the third young lord, might be in danger seemed not to concern him at all.

“Ha! Very well, do as you please. You there, release Knut.”

And so the kitten was set free.

Perhaps because he had spent two days starving high above the ground in the fierce wind, he merely watched Valeri for a moment after his release, then crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Valeri closed the window through which the harsh wind was blowing.