———
The night air in Vient cut to the bone. The wind carried the scent of gently falling snow, coating the cobblestone streets with a thin layer of white.
Arthur's blue coat fluttered as his horse, a majestic black Friesian, pounded the cold ground with a heavy trot. Behind him, the silhouette of the Stico mansion slowly faded, swallowed by the darkness of the night.
Soon, Jilld caught up. Her old brown warhorse drew in a steaming breath, as if complaining along.
"Arthur! You're in too much of a hurry!" she exclaimed, her voice half annoyed, half anxious. "At least explain where you intend to go!"
Arthur glanced up. His eyes burned resolutely in the flickering light of the streetlamps.
"If the rumors about the northern route are true, I can't just sit there listening to the nobles' nonsense. I have to see for myself."
Jilld was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"Hmph… I knew it. You haven't changed—always choosing to intervene rather than argue."
However, atop a towering oak tree at the side of the road, someone noticed. A young man dressed shabbily, like a wanderer without a destination, lowered himself with agile movements.
He landed almost soundlessly, then began to follow the horses' pace.
His hand gripped a short dagger tightly; his eyes were sharp, never leaving the backs of the two young riders.
Arthur felt a strange vibration. His instincts—the fruit of a childhood as the Archduke's son, tempered by intrigue and ruthless training—screamed with alarm.
He leaned forward, speeding up the horse.
"Jilld," he said quietly but meaningfully, "we're not alone."
Jilld matched his pace, his gaze sharpening. "You feel it too, don't you?"
Arthur simply nodded.
The snow thickened, and the torches flickered dimly in the wind, making the shadows of the trees move as if alive.
Arthur looked down, noticing horse tracks in the frozen ground. They all led north—the same direction as the caravan that had been reported missing.
He gritted his teeth. If this is true about the caravan, I must know about it. Andalus's honor must not be tarnished before the Emperor.
At the next bend, Arthur pulled on his horse's reins. The black horse hit the ground, coming to a sudden halt. Jilld hurried to follow.
And over the whistling wind, the sound of a third footstep was clearly audible—light, swift, but not concealed enough.
Arthur raised his voice, firm and echoing through the snowy tree trunks.
"Enough hiding! If you have business with me, face it openly!"
Silence pressed down. Then, from the shadows, the figure emerged. A young man with tousled brown hair, his face still youthful but his eyes sharp—mature by something more than mere age. A faint smile crossed his face.
"Your sensitivity does not disappoint, Son of Andalus," he said, his voice calm yet hinting at a challenge.
Arthur straightened up on his horse. "Who are you? And what do you mean by following me?"
The young man raised his dagger, not pointing it, but enough to show that he hadn't come empty-handed.
"I am not your enemy," he said softly, "but the path you have chosen tonight… is not the path of a nobleman. It is a path of blood, of betrayal.
If you continue, you will see the truth—a truth even your own father tried to hide."
Arthur fell silent. The words hit him harder than a cold gust of wind. Jilld had already placed her hand on her sword hilt, ready to strike at any moment.
But Arthur… just straightened up.
Snow fell around him, shrouding the night in silence. And in that silence, he found resolve.
The pressure of the kingdom, his family's fame, and his own curiosity combined into one firm decision: he would not back down.