The same night that Marianne was paralyzed, Aaron became the head of the family. The headship ceremony which normally took hours was conducted in twenty minutes, and Aaron had returned to the battlefield before the sun had even risen.

  It was a terrible era, and there were times it truly felt as if the Order, and by extension Varant, would be eradicated.

  There was no Saintess to heal the knights, who had to search deep in their sinew for courage. Whatever way they could, they had to rekindle their diminished auras—and for many of the knights, it meant shedding their kinder selves.

  Fontaine knew just how much the knights had sacrificed—far more than could be seen.

  From his days as Aaron’s young squire, to being the eldest knight in the Order, Fontaine had never failed to watch over the family of his liege and dear friend. That was why he understood better than anyone else how the mistakes of one generation perpetuated to the next.

  It was as if the sorrow of Marianne’s death was passed down, an invisible inheritance that stayed long after the woman herself was forgotten.

  “Camille, I am only this insistent because I fear for your safety!” Ennieux shouted. The inflamed passions of the duel below had slowly risen to the mezzanine above, till a second fire between mother and daughter seemed on the verge of breaking out. “You are an insufferable child when you act so ‘wise’! I should never have let you join the Order!”

  “Varant needs knights, mother,” Camille said, her voice calm, yet maddeningly placating. “There are only so many who can use holy aura. Not all of us can be so timid.”

  “Camille—” Nicolas began.

  “How chivalrous! How noble, indeed! You fancy yourself a protector just like your hero Aldous, is it?!” Ennieux screamed. “What a fine job you did while your cousin faced execution!”

  “Mother—” Nicolas tried to interrupt again.

  Camille’s face finally twisted into a glare.

  “A terribly easy thing to say for someone who’s never fought for this duchy,” she said spitefully. “It was because of the knights and Saintess Celine that you could ever sleep peacefully! Have you no shame, mother…? What circumstances do you think drove Aldous to depravity?!”

  By this point, Renea and Sophie had shrunk quietly into their seats. They had never heard Camille get this loud.

  But Nicolas was in an even worse state, shivering terribly as his mother and sister fought. Even with his exceptional build and height, he looked like a terrified young boy.

  What had started a rather mild squabble had escalated to a conflagration so fast.

  “Then be like Aldous! Assault Ailn, why don’t you?! Get yourself to the gallows, I care not! Why should you ever imitate a coward like me?!” Ennieux’s screaming voice slowly shifted into a wail, and her bitter expression scrunched up into anguish. “Go to the wall and die honorably, if you’re so inclined! Then you’ll be a truer eum-Creid than I’ll ever be! What else is our family good for, except leaving and never returning?!”

  Ennieux’s voice cracked and faltered, dissolving into sobs. Camille watched, her face frozen in the distraught look of a daughter who had made her mother cry for the first time.

  Ailn breathed heavily. He really was about to pass out, and he made the mistake of getting distracted by the galleries.

  ‘It is you who should learn how to shut the hell up, Your Grace!’

  ‘Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Hypocriiiite!’

  There was going to be a reckoning once he became duke. Was there seriously not a single person cheering for him? Where was Kylian?

  ‘The match is yours, Ailn! An exciting opportunity lies ahead of you! Nightwriter says so!’

  …Well, there was Ceric. But really, what about his family? Why wasn’t he hearing Renea’s tearful cheers of gratitude?

  Now that he looked at the mezzanine, it seemed pretty somber. At a glance all he could see was a pained Camille and a weeping Ennieux. Wait, was Ennieux crying for him?

  Just as he thought that, he caught sight of an arc of holy aura, flying in from the side to strike him across the face. He barely raised a hand in time, but the force made his own fist strike across his face.

  “Looks like… you hit yourself… you imbecile…” Sigurd, still on one knee rasped out a chuckle. He couldn’t even stand, but his eyes weren’t dead, and bands of holy aura emanated from him.

  Ailn immediately ran in, dodging and blocking almost every blow of Sigurd’s aura. A solid strike hit him in the gut and nearly took his breath away, but he still managed to pull Sigurd into an armbar.

  Sigurd screamed in pain, and his continuous emanation of holy aura seemed to flag in response.

  “Sorry, Sigurd. I’ve gotta cut this short,” Ailn said.

  “This isn’t ov—AGHHH!” Sigurd screamed yet again.

  Twisting it away from Sigurd’s torso, Ailn broke his arm. Finally, Sigurd’s aura dissipated. He was completely helpless.

  With Sigurd’s screams, the jeers in the arena went completely silent.

  “You really might have knocked me out otherwise,” Ailn muttered.

  “...It’s… not over,” Sigurd said hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. His holy aura flickered weakly, as pitiful now as Sigurd himself. It reached out toward Ailn, but Ailn swatted it aside with ease—like splashing through water, the aura shattered against his palm. “Not until… I give up or die…”

  “...I underestimated your drive, Sigurd,” Ailn admitted. With the threat gone, he released Sigurd’s broken arm, stood up and gave his defeated brother space. “But we're done here. I’m starting to look like the bad guy.”

  “Don’t you get… our mother is dead because of our sister…?!” Sigurd’s hoarse voice cracked.

  Ailn didn’t respond to the statement.

  “Tell me… why,” Sigurd said. Even in his anguish, fury still managed to rush across his face “Justify it…!”

  Tired and sighing, Ailn sat down in the dirt, a few feet away from Sigurd.

  “Do you even want to disown her?” Ailn asked.

  “The royal… family…forces our hand…”

  “Accepting arbitrary demands just tightens the leash around our neck in the long run,” Ailn shrugged. “I’m sure you know that.”

  “Our sister made her bed…Why should she… escape consequence?”

  “...She was nine, Sigurd,” Ailn said quietly. “Kids mess up.”

  “If she were anyone else—!”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Ailn said. “A commoner would probably be executed for what she did. All things considered, you were being pretty light on her.”

  “Then—”

  “Sigurd, you seem to think I care about what's fair,” Ailn said. “I don’t. I’m doing what I want. I get to, because I won.”

  Sigurd’s eyes shook at Ailn’s blunt statement. He’d finally lost all his energy.

  “...What you… want?” Sigurd muttered, right before he finally fainted from pain and exhaustion.

  Nearly half a day had passed by the time Sigurd finally stirred. His eyes drifted to the window, the darkness outside telling him midnight was fast approaching.

  To his bafflement, he found himself in the amphitheater's salon, lying on a leather chaise longue. His head was rested against an even cushion softer—a pillow of wool, luxuriously stuffed with down.

  “What the devil…” Sigurd made to rise but jerked instinctively when he put weight on his arm—the one Ailn had broken. Yet it had been mended, the pain almost entirely gone. “Who placed me here…?”

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  “Sigurd…?”

  His attention shifted, spotting Renea seated nearby in a wooden chair, her eyes heavy with sleep as she rubbed at them. It appeared she had waited, watching over him all this time.

  No, she wasn’t the only one. Across from him, a couch held both Ailn and Sophie, fast asleep. Ailn was slumped forward, arms crossed, while Sophie’s head had drifted lightly onto his arm.

  Sigurd grimaced. The girl was drooling in her sleep. Considering the time it must be, she must have already participated in the adoption ceremony.

  That would mean she was now Sophie eum-Creid.

  “Where is everyone else?” Sigurd looked for the signs of knights.

  “Sir Dartune is keeping watch outside, while we wait for the coach of state to return,” Renea said. “I told Ennieux and her family to go ahead, because I was afraid of moving you. It’s just us, here.”

  “Why would they possibly wait here?” Sigurd asked warily. “Did Ailn wish to be there when I woke so he could mock me?”

  “Ailn wished to have you dragged to his cottage and have you wake up in peasant’s clothing,” Renea said, looking extremely cross. “He… went too far. I made the both of them stay here with me despite their protests.”

  Renea’s hands clenched rather fitfully as she stole an admonishing glance toward the two middle siblings.

  “I would have beat him to an inch of his life were I the winner,” Sigurd growled, honest about his intentions.

  “Then… perhaps he didn’t,” Renea smiled sheepishly. “Let us be grateful then that we’re all well.”

  Sigurd had little to say in response, feeling oddly mellow despite everything. He was still trying to process the events.

  “I lost, did I…?” Sigurd muttered to himself. A surge of resentment rose through his being, yet quickly dissipated. “Then…”

  He cast a skeptical look at Renea. It was hard to direct his frustration at her, especially when she was being so kind, yet he couldn’t say his feelings were entirely benevolent.

  “I’m still your sister, yes,” Renea said, her smile widening despite her best efforts to restrain it. She glanced away quickly, seeming to think her cheerfulness over his loss was discourteous.

  “I see,” Sigurd said. And nothing more.

  He simply rested back against the cushion, to stare at the ceiling.

  There was nothing that Sigurd had to apologize for. However poorly they may think of him, he had only acted fairly, and in Varant’s best interest.

  “Sigurd…” Renea interrupted his thoughts.

  Sigurd glanced over to meet his sister’s eyes and saw they were filled with tears. The resentment that had faded began to course through him again. If she believed shedding tears would make him feel contrite, then she was wrong.

  “I have no apologies, Renea,” Sigurd spat. His voice rose with a tone of bitter warning, “Everything I did—”

  “Sigurd, I’m sorry.”

  Tears streamed down her face. Sigurd stopped mid-sentence.

  “I’m… truly sorry for everything, Sigurd,” Renea bowed her head, as she fought to keep her voice steady. “And I am truly grateful… that you protected me in your own way.”

  Renea’s tears dripped onto the salon’s silken floor. And her head dipped further, with a shuddering breath. “I hope… you’ll forgive me one day. For what I’ve done. And I beg you… to accept me as part of this family despite how I failed Varant and our mother.”

  Sigurd felt a knot in his chest as he heard her honest plea.

  “Because… I still want to be your sister,” Renea whispered.

  “... I’m not the duke, Renea,” Sigurd said, listlessly turning away. “That decision is out of my hands.”

  She simply nodded her head and bit her lip.

  Not wishing to continue an emotionally trying conversation, Sigurd scanned the room for any manner of distraction.

  On the low table in front of Ailn and Sophie was a chess board, with a game in progress. More fetching to Sigurd’s eye, however, was the goblet of candied fruit.

  He rose to retrieve it.

  “Oh, I’ll get it for y—” Renea began.

  “I’m well, Renea,” Sigurd said, dismissively. He was famished, though. Normally such a thing would be too sweet for him, but he always felt almost debilitatingly hungry when he abused his holy aura. “What the…” Sigurd glared at the chess board.

  “They… were bored and acting petulantly,” Renea said, tilting her head at his glare. “I asked for this to placate them or I would’ve gone mad.”

  “The both of them are terrible,” Sigurd scowled. “What in the world was Ailn’s strategy?”

  Both of his rooks were on their starting squares. He hadn’t even castled.

  Sophie’s isolated pawns and overextended queen demonstrated she was an amateur, but at least it was sensible.

  “Ani got arrogant after defeating Sophie with a number of trick mates,” Renea said. “Then, when that stopped working, he began panicking, thinking that odd moves would be unpredictable.”

  Ani? No, that’s not what mattered now.

  “How in the hell did this fool best me?” Sigurd gritted his teeth, his voice rising as Renea desperately shushed him so he didn’t wake the two.

  Having just returned to the castle, Nicolas escorted Ennieux to the lord’s chamber, while Camille walked with Fontaine back to the barracks.

  They proceeded in silence, Camille expecting the knight to admonish her at any moment. Chafing at the thought of leaving her emotions unattended, and having them disturb her through the night, she eventually brought on the topic herself as she neared the barracks.

  “...Sir Fontaine, surely you see my perspective on this,” Camille said. “My words were unwise, but they were not untrue.”

  Raising his lantern between them, Fontaine gave her a look of gentle reproach.

  “It’s certainly true, Camille, that if fear kept every knight far from the wall, this duchy would have long vanished,” Fontaine said. He glanced wistfully up at the stars as if he were looking for something. “Is it a sin for the capable to hide away? It may well be.”

  “Then as a eum-Creid, my mother has wasted her talent,” Camille said bitterly. “She acts a child. How am I to respect such behavior?”

  Fontaine’s steps slowed, as his gaze dropped from the stars to Camille. He gave her the same searching look he’d directed above. Then, a soft smile.

  “She is a child, Camille. All of you are children to this old knight,” Fontaine said. “I held your mother when she was an infant.”

  “That doesn’t mean…” Camille was flustered. It was a nonsensical statement. “Then everyone is a child, so long as there’s an old man around.”

  “Indeed,” Fontaine said. “... Even that wretched Aldous. A not small part of me refuses to let go of the memory of when he was but a boy of great bravery. Now, the man is a terrible sinner, waiting for his judgment.”

  He frowned, and in the lamplight his wrinkles were hard to ignore.

  “I truly do not understand what you wish to say, Sir Fontaine,” Camille said, unable to hide the impatience in her voice.

  “I hardly know myself,” Fontaine said, as he seemed to consider something. Then, he smiled sadly and gestured with his lamp, the two of them continuing on their way to the barracks. “...Do you know when a knight’s holy aura begins to fail them, Camille?”

  “Of course, I do. When terror strikes them.”

  “...It is when they have children,” Fontaine said softly. “Or perhaps, when their love of their child seizes them with fear. Duke Aaron passed away when his aura dimmed at the thought of leaving his anxious daughter behind.”

  Camille felt a painful quiver in her chest, though for what reason she understood not. She had never heard the exact circumstances of her grandfather’s death.

  “Of all people, I should know my mother was doted on,” Camille said uncomfortably. “The late Duke Aaron’s personality softened with her birth.”

  She did not wish to say it had unduly twisted Aaron’s principles. Not to Fontaine of all knights.

  “It is the truth that he softened,” Fontaine admitted. “Not because of what he lost… It was what he reclaimed, by loving your mother dearly. The last ten years of his life, Duke Aaron found happiness again.” The old knight’s face gave a small tremor. “And… with it, guilt.”

  “...Towards?”

  “Towards his deceased sons,” Fontaine said. “Towards Saintess Celine, who still could not comprehend herself as anything but the protector of Varant. And towards your grandmother the Duchess Anne, to whom he had never properly expressed his love.”

  They had arrived at the barracks. Fontaine blew out his lantern, as now there was plenty of torchlight.

  Camille felt her feet stilled, pensive and unwilling to have the conversation end here. Yet she did not know what she even wished to ask Fontaine; she could hardly request he stand out here in the cold while she fidgeted for questions.

  Fortunately for Camille, he gave her one last thought unprompted.

  “You should know Camille that Aaron’s death—” Fontaine of all people had dropped the duke’s title, “no one has heard of it, nor thought of it more than Ennieux.” His eyes reflected profound regret. “And with every whisper, and self-recrimination, her control of the divine blessing only slipped further away.”

  He gave her a moment to consider his words, before gently adding: “Your mother was ten when Aaron died, Camille.”

  “But Saintess Celine had marched to the battlefield at seven—!”

  “...So she did,” Fontaine said. He only looked sadder now.

  Silently, Camille stared into the darkness of the bailey they’d just traversed. All the while, the old knight waited patiently for her. It must have been terribly difficult for his bones.

  “May I… borrow your lantern?” Camille asked, finally. She flushed as she did so. “I—I wish to take a walk.”

  He gave her a warm smile as he handed her his lantern.

  Watching her struggle with a flint to relight the lantern, then briskly walk off in the direction of the keep, Fontaine found himself once again yearning for his youth.

  When Elise had passed away fourteen years ago, he became the last knight left who’d lived through those terrible times.

  So much had been lost. So much had been given. Few remembered, and none should ever understand what it had been like.

  Fontaine was lonely.

  When he stood quietly in such frigid weather with none company but himself, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were still that squire who accompanied Aaron and Elise… a young boy in the cold, waiting for his departed friends.

  Yet he did not rush toward death, no matter how he longed to see them again.

  There was only one thing stronger than Fontaine’s wish to return to the past. It was his sincere hope for the future.

  From the outside, it would look rickety. What did it matter if a young duke kept his siblings together, or that a mother and her children learned to understand each other?

  To Fontaine, it mattered the world.

  The noble house he watched over, the descendants of his friend, to this day protected this duchy and empire. And there was one thing Sir Fontaine desperately wished for them.

  He wished to see them grasp the happiness that they protected. To guard something, and be able to love it too, in spite of the fear it brings. Aaron had not been able to do it. Nor Celine. But perhaps these children might. Then, this castle truly would have its slice of heaven.

  It was just an old knight’s dream, which held together through time and strife—much like a certain cottage in the woods, built so many decades ago.