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Chapter 58
“Ah… thank you.”
“Ahem.”
Considering the casual contact, a strange awkwardness settled between the two of them afterward. It was the kind of awkwardness that made your throat feel ticklish, as if you’d inhaled a puff of pollen.
People watching, however, seemed to take even that awkwardness as a sign of intimacy, smiling fondly. Though in the eyes of a child, it looked quite different.
“Mister! The wolf is going to eat the rabbit! Hurry up and save it!”
“Shh! Dyur, be quiet!”
The little boy who had earlier called Litricia a rabbit suddenly shouted, making a fuss.
To him, Killian—so much larger than Litricia—standing close beside her looked threatening.
“You little rascal, now everyone’s staring over here because of you.”
That outburst only left the man who looked like the boy’s guardian in an awkward spot. Wearing a shabby hood pulled low over his face, he hastily tucked the boy named Dyur under his arm.
“Ahaha! I apologize, Your Grace. The child is a handful. Please don’t mind us and continue what you were doing.”
Trying to brush things off gruffly, the man attempted to slip quickly back toward the village.
But Dyur, dangling under his arm, pounded at the man’s back with his small fists.
“Put me down, mister! My doll, my rabbit doll fell!”
“You can just make another one later. Let’s go!”
“No! Put me down right now, you stupid, dumb Jeffrey-mister!”
The name that tumbled out of the boy’s mouth was, to everyone’s surprise, the very same name of the dear friend Piril had been desperately searching for.
“Wait. Stop.”
“Eh? You mean me?”
The man, thwarted in his attempt to slip away, froze in place. In that moment, Dyur wriggled free, hopped down, and dashed over to retrieve the doll he’d dropped.
“Ugh, I hate you, Jeffrey-mister. My doll’s all dirty now!”
“I hate you too, you brat.”
The man, Jeffrey, tugged at his hood and began to shuffle backward uneasily.
“Your name is Jeffrey?”
“Well, uh… something like that, haha.”
It was obvious he wanted to laugh things off, but once again Dyur eagerly exposed his identity.
“This mister is kind of scruffy and dirty, but he’s a doctor! Jeffrey-mister healed me and my friends when we were sick!”
“Argh! You little brat, can’t you keep that mouth shut?”
It was too late to stop the child now; all the important information had already spilled out.
“A doctor, you say?”
“Ah, no, just some wandering quack. Hardly worth Your Grace’s attention, really. Absolutely not.”
“Interesting…”
“Uh.”
Jeffrey hurriedly tugged his sleeve down, trying to hide the red mark on his wrist that had slipped into view.
“Interesting? Oh, come on, what’s interesting about me? Ha! Oh no, I just remembered—I left a stew simmering back in my hut! I’d better rush back before it burns.”
“You didn’t make stew today, mister. You’re dumb.”
“Shh! Quiet!”
Trying in vain to hush Dyur, Jeffrey made to leave in a hurry.
But Killian was far faster.
A body honed by countless battles moved like a true wolf; in an instant he vanished from Litricia’s side.
The people around could only gape in shock, unable to follow him with their eyes.
In the blink of an eye, Killian had leapt over the narrow ditch and pinned Jeffrey to the ground. His hood had long since been knocked back by Killian’s thrown dagger.
Revealed beneath was a middle-aged man, about the same age as Count Esta.
Wide, blue-tinged eyes—similar to Killian’s own—stared in dread at the blade planted beside his face.
“Ha… that’s a pretty brutal greeting.”
His words came out oddly short, as if he had bitten his tongue when he fell. The abrupt change in his voice startled the onlookers.
The only one who remained calm was Mark, who seemed to recognize who Jeffrey truly was.
“You always did like things brutal, didn’t you? That’s how I was taught.”
Expression as cold as steel, Killian pulled out the dagger and slid it back into the sheath at his thigh.
“The moment I heard about that mark, I suspected… It’s been a long time, Uncle.”
“…Yes, it has.”
“You’ve aged a lot.”
Killian’s tone held not even a trace of polite pretense.
Jeffrey—no, Justin, once the famed commander of the Empire’s Second Knight Order and rival to Count Esta—let out a hearty, booming laugh.
“Ha! Well, well, my nephew—you’ve grown into quite the sharp one yourself!”
***
“So what is this about?”
“What do you mean? More importantly, let me see that hand. Is this even a human’s hand, or a beast’s?”
Apparently, he truly was a physician—Justin had noticed the gash on Killian’s hand that even gloves hadn’t fully concealed. He began rummaging through a satchel for medical tools.
They had moved into a tent used by border guards during patrols.
“I left my anesthetic in the hut, so all I have is numbing powder. It’s going to hurt a little. Bear with it.”
“I don’t need it.”
How many times had Killian cut and stitched flesh in the middle of a battlefield? This was nothing to him.
“Tch, you’ve lost your boyish charm. You used to cling to me, calling ‘Uncle, Uncle,’ following me around like a little puppy. Now you’re just all bulk.”
Justin grumbled as he threaded a suture needle.
“Are you going to explain? You, a physician? How did that happen?”
“Why? Can’t I be one?”
“No. It doesn’t suit you.”
“…Hmph. You’ve grown wrong. Give me back the sweet nephew I knew, boy.”
Killian’s gaze remained fixed on the needle piercing his skin as he answered flatly.
“That nephew you knew died—when my brother passed away.”
“…Mm. I regret Kendrick’s death. I should have been at your side then, but I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s not like you could’ve been there anyway.”
“True. That bastard Astara had me dragged off to some damned battlefield, so reaching you was impossible.”
Justin stamped his foot in frustration.
When Astara had been wreaking havoc through the palace, Justin had been ordered south, to stop a kingdom that had suddenly broken a centuries-old peace treaty.
It had been another of Astara’s ploys. The Second Knight Order was annihilated; even Justin, who somehow survived, disappeared without a trace.
Afterward, their enemies spread lies that Justin had defected, branding him a disgraced knight who had betrayed the Empire.
Though Antonio cleared his name after ascending the throne, by then Justin’s honor as a knight had already been utterly ruined.
“During that battle, I fell from a cliff and lay unconscious for months. By the time I woke, Kendrick was dead and you had been exiled to the north.”
Snip. Justin tied off the stitches and trimmed the thread, his face shadowed with regret.
“I wanted to go to you then, but branded a traitor, I feared showing myself would only endanger you further.”
“Then why not later?”
“Even after my name was cleared, I figured showing up wouldn’t help much. Ha! Look at me—do I look like anything but a beggar?”
Justin laughed loudly, mouth wide open. But his boisterousness faltered at the sight of his nephew’s unchanged, stone-faced expression. Sheepishly, he began wrapping the bandage.
“So… did you suffer much alone? No, what a silly question. Of course you did.”
“Well. It was so long ago, I barely remember.”
Of course he remembered. No one could ever forget such things. But Justin pretended not to know, respecting Killian’s dismissal.
“Right. It was a long time ago. And really, what’s the point of dwelling on the past? What matters is now. You seem happy with your wife. That’s enough. Ah, speaking of which—”
Smack! Justin slapped his knee and peered outside the tent.
There, Litricia sat surrounded by people, Dyur perched on her lap. She looked a little overwhelmed, but still smiled brightly, showered with the villagers’ goodwill.
“Since we’re on the subject—your wife. Or should I say, the Grand Duchess?”
“Call her whatever you like.”
Justin, who’d once dared to address even the late Emperor with a casual “Hey, you,”—titles meant little to him. Killian only gave a half-hearted shrug, knowing the respect wouldn’t last anyway.
“Well then… tell me, what exactly is inside your wife?”
Justin’s thick fingers tapped meaningfully at his own temple. Killian’s eyes sharpened.
“I’d need a closer look to be sure, but it seems like there’s magical power accumulating in her head. Isn’t that so?”
