* * *

An arranged marriage was one of the unavoidable consequences of being born into the nobility. Marrying for love was virtually impossible; once the elders of the family made their decision, the children had to obey.

They had no right to refuse. No, refusal was unthinkable in the first place. Rejecting a marriage decided by the elders, by the head of the house, was tantamount to rejecting one's own family.

A marriage alliance was not all love and beautiful blessings. On the contrary, it was a matter so weighty and solemn that there was no room for either.

A military alliance between two houses meant that countless lives depended on it, and the marriage embodied that alliance.

Whether the couple loved each other was therefore not a consideration at all. Not even when they were young.

Harald was walking through Torvik with Adela, a daughter of House Windale. Harald was fourteen; his fiancée, Adela, was eight.

A maid accompanied Adela. A little farther behind, Gidwin and Tommy followed as guards.

A cool autumn breeze blew, and all of Torvik smelled of baking barley bread.

Few homes had kitchens, so at harvest time, bakers baked bread in great batches in outdoor ovens. Even bread had its season.

Once that season passed, people had to brush off the mold and eat bread gone hard as stone.

“Is the walk tiring you?” Harald asked.

His eight-year-old fiancée looked up at her maid, who discreetly raised one finger.

“Um... I'm fine.”

“Are you hungry?”

Once again, Adela looked up at her maid, and once again the maid raised one finger.

“Um... I'm fine.”

Harald sighed inwardly, but decided there was nothing to be done. He could easily guess the reason.

Before coming out today, Adela had received instructions from her mother and her maids.

No matter what happened, she was to choose one of just three answers: “I'm fine,” “Thank you,” or “I'm sorry.”

They had instructed her this way because even an eight-year-old had to conduct herself as a nobleman's daughter, yet she was still too young to have mastered all the rules of etiquette.

Besides, their houses had been enemies for so long that a certain pointless pride lingered. She could not disgrace the family. Youth was no excuse for that.

After a moment's thought, Harald said, “I'm feeling a little hungry myself. Let's buy something tasty to share.”

This time, the maid held up two fingers.

“Um... Thank you.”

Harald smiled faintly. He did not particularly dislike Adela. She did not seem dim-witted, and there was something endearing about the effort she was making.

What occupied his thoughts now, however, was the first battle of his life, fought so recently. It kept replaying in his mind.

Highlanders with madness in their eyes. Severed limbs, screams, battle cries, hunger, utter exhaustion. And the deaths.

Harald had trained hard enough, but none of it had helped. The uneven ground threatened to trip him at the slightest misstep, leaving him unable to properly use the swordsmanship he had learned.

All he could do was grit his teeth, raise his shield, and either shove forward with desperate force or thrust as hard as he could.

He had barely managed to keep up. Watching his father lead the soldiers through it all had given him a new appreciation of the man.

And Wid. He had never imagined meeting Wid as an enemy on the battlefield. War was such a cruel, heartbreaking thing.

But what had that presence in the final battle been? So overwhelming, so utterly unapproachable that he could scarcely believe it even as he watched.

Some said an Einheri had come at the king's command to end the war. Others said a dead god had briefly manifested.

Yet for some reason, Harald felt that presence had been Wid. Others scoffed at the idea, but that was simply how he felt.

Harald bought freshly baked bread, fish, cheese, and a few other things, then went down to the river. Merchant ships sailed on the water, while nearby reeds swayed in the autumn wind.

Ancient ruins stood there too, a reminder of the relentless passage of time.

They spread a cloth over a flat rock, laid out the food, and ate. The maid picked the flesh from the fish, while Harald tore pieces off the soft barley bread and drank the wine he had brought.

Adela took little bites, her small hands busy over the food, but she must have been hungry: both the amount she ate and the speed at which she ate it soon increased noticeably.

“My lady.”

At the maid's quiet admonition, Adela seemed to realize her mistake and went back to nibbling.

“It's quite all right. Make yourself comfortable. Like this.”

As if demonstrating, Harald deliberately took a large bite of bread. Adela glanced back at her maid, and only when the woman nodded did she relax and eat freely.

Their leisurely meal continued for a while. Gidwin and Tommy, who had come as guards, sat plucking at the grass as though bored.

Then someone called to Harald from behind.

“Harald?”

Harald was taking a sip of wine. Turning, he saw a familiar face.

The newcomer wore a navy-blue gambeson with a sword at his waist, and carried an axe with its blade wrapped in cloth.

His hair was golden as sunlight on a clear day, his eyes the color of the sky, yet his overall appearance evoked a dark red rose.

They were the same age and had grown up together, but what had happened over the past five months? He seemed so much closer to a grown man now. That was the impression Harald had.

“Wid.”

“Who's that?” asked Knut, standing beside Valeri.

“The heir to Winslow.”

“Oh, so that's him.”

Knut was, after all, a legitimate son of the ducal house, and had heard various things about Harald over the years. In particular, his second brother Guttorm had tried every means to bring Harald to the ducal household as something of a hostage.

Gidwin and Tommy rose with their hands on the swords at their waists. They recognized Valeri too, so they were not overly wary. But neither did they welcome him as they once had.

Arne and Skard, who had followed Valeri, gave the two cold stares. As though sensing the tension, Valeri spoke.

“They're my friends. There's no need to be on your guard.”

“Even so, weren't they our enemies until just recently?”

“The war is over, Arne.”

“Then I'd appreciate it if they disarmed and gave us some distance.”

“Hey, why don't you disarm?”

“Tommy.”

Harald stopped him by calling his name.

“... Who is he?”

Adela stared wide-eyed at Valeri as she asked her first question. In all her eight years, she had never seen anyone so handsome.

The maid was too entranced by Valeri herself to reprimand her.

Yet when asked who he was, Harald could not readily answer.

Valeri spoke as though he understood Harald's hesitation.

“Can you still call me your brother?”

Harald looked away and thought for a moment before answering.

“... Yeah. But I don't think I considered how you felt before. I understand a little better now. Things in this world aren't always simple. I know now that childish sulking won't accomplish anything.”

War changed people, from the preparations through to the fighting itself. Viewed kindly, it was growth; viewed less kindly, it was scarring. It depended on what one went through.

The excitement when the summons came. His father's deliberations over whether he, Winslow's sole heir, should take part. The process of steeling himself for death once the decision was made. Tending his equipment. His mother's tears. The long march. And the battle.

Valeri merely smiled faintly, with an ease only the strong could possess.

Wid, you always seemed mature for your age, Harald thought, but now you've become a grown man entirely.

Just what road had he walked? What battles had he fought?

Valeri glanced at Adela beside Harald, then moved on.

“I have business at the citadel. I'll be going.”

He walked away with steady steps. Whether out of consideration for Harald and his friends or because their relationship had grown distant, he gave them a wide berth as he passed.

Out of reach of a sword's point.

Many soldiers belonging to the earl's household roamed Torvik. Security was not especially tight, however. Some chatted with their comrades, spears resting against their shoulders; others casually shopped at the market.

The heavily guarded places were the homes of those who had served Duke Sven closely. They were being held separately, to prevent them from gathering their strength.

Ordinary people, in other words, did not seem to be suffering any particular harm.

Thanks to that, Valeri and his companions reached Torvik Citadel without being stopped.

There were guards at the gates here. At the approach of armed young men with swords at their waists, they frowned and blocked the way.

“Who are you?”

“Knut. Third young lord of the ducal House Viðing.”

Hearing a name he had never expected, the gate guard stood blankly for a long while before finally managing an answer.

“... W-well, how... Ah, you cannot enter at the moment...”

“You intend to stop me from entering my own home?”

“My apologies. P-please, just a moment. Please wait a moment. I will report this at once.”

One of the guards hurried into the citadel.

A short time later, Æthelred, Earl of Winslow, came rushing out with his knights. The sight of Knut shocked him; then the sight of Valeri shocked him all over again.

Knut regarded Æthelred with a fierce, haughty gaze, utterly unlike the way he looked at his friends.

“The war is already over. Why are your troops occupying the city and the citadel?”

Æthelred hastily collected himself before answering.

“... There has been an unfortunate incident. His Grace passed away while the duchy was still unsettled in the aftermath of the war. We had no choice but to commit this discourtesy in order to maintain order.”

“For that, I am grateful, Earl of Winslow. But it does not explain why I am barred from my own home.”

“Of course you are not. This happened in the course of the guard's duties. I beg your indulgence. Please, come inside. I shall escort you.”

“Where is my brother?”

“... The eldest young lord is in the castle on the hill. We are taking particular care to ensure he suffers no discomfort, apart from being unable to leave the castle.”

Listening quietly behind them, Valeri had to admit that the matter had been handled neatly. From justification to procedure to administration, there were no gaps. Nothing seemed open to reproach.

A less discerning man might have disposed of the eldest young lord at once and installed the third as a puppet duke. But that would inevitably have brought trouble later.

If the king subsequently demanded to know who they thought they were, choosing a successor without authority and killing their liege lord's legitimate son, their houses could truly be ruined.

And it need not even reach the king. The neighboring great lords might launch military provocations themselves. It would provide an excellent pretext for swallowing the duchy.

In any case, Valeri and his companions were allowed inside the citadel. Arne, Skard, and Yorik looked around, tense yet filled with fresh emotion. Strangers now occupied the place where they had lived for years.

They headed toward the hill. The knights accompanying them as an escort had effectively surrounded them. They kept so close that it was difficult for the friends even to whisper among themselves.

There was courtesy, but no goodwill. Earl Æthelred was somewhat deferential toward Knut, but he was not bowing to him completely.

It was rather like a contest between someone who possessed only legitimacy and someone who possessed power but lacked legitimacy.

Valeri and his companions climbed the hill to the castle. Having visited after killing the Ballsack Opener, they did not find it entirely unfamiliar.

But the family's treasures—the spoils passed down through the generations—were gone. Earl Æthelred had sold them to raise funds.

The castle had always been chilly and bleak, but now it felt emptier still.

They were shown upstairs. The Earl of Winslow stopped before a room and knocked.

KNOCK, KNOCK.

“Lord Gunnar, it is the Earl of Winslow.”

“...”

There was no response from within. When the door was cautiously opened, Gunnar came into view, his huge body curled up on the bed as though weary of life itself.

The others waited outside while Knut entered alone.

He stood watching Gunnar for a long time, but Gunnar would not lift his head. He did not seem to know who had come in. Nor did he wish to.

“Brother...”

After waiting, Knut called to him in a very small voice. Gunnar, who had lain as still as the dead, jerked his head up.

Perhaps he had lost his appetite and gone without food. His cheeks were so hollow that his cheekbones jutted out.

His eyes trembled violently at the sight of his younger brother.

Knut spoke.

“I thought I'd regret it if I didn't say this before one of us died. You did nothing wrong. It was my fault. Back then, I should have just said no.”

At his brother's words, tears streamed from Gunnar's sunken eyes. His lips moved, but no words came. He only reached out and drew his hand back, as though longing to go to him.

Knut stepped closer and took that hand. Though Gunnar had grown thin, his frame was so large that the difference in the size of their hands was striking. His face crumpled completely as he wept.

At last, the brothers pulled each other into an embrace. Knut seemed almost swallowed by that enormous body.

The older brother buried his face in the younger's shoulder, soaking it with tears as he spoke.

“I'm sorry... I was just, just such a fool. I should have done it alone. Even afterward, I could have killed him, but it took so long. I'm sorry...”

Knut, who had been desperately holding himself back, burst into tears too.

“No. I didn't understand. I was so ignorant. I'm sorry, big brother.”

The brothers kept apologizing to each other. Before long, Gunnar began to sob like an animal.

The door closed. Valeri had shut it. Even through the closed door, their crying could still be heard.

Everyone was silent. But while Arne's, Yorik's, and Skard's eyes reddened, Valeri's remained calm and still.

It was not that the brothers' reconciliation failed to move him. His feelings about brotherhood were simply complicated in many ways.

Hadn't he killed them all? Even their children. Every last one.