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Chapter 18
Letter
Albert Bowie arrived at the ducal estate in a haggard state. Guards and soldiers tried to support him, but he violently shook off all assistance.
“Stay away! All of you, get lost!”
Nausea churned endlessly in his stomach. His body felt sick, and his head throbbed as if it would split open.
The image of what he had seen beneath the helmet would not leave his mind, as if it had been branded there.
It was the form of something cursed, something that should not exist on this earth.
But who would believe him?
Magic itself had disappeared. In this world, there was only one remaining mage—the Second Princess.
On this barren land where even illusions had withered, speaking of a cursed monster would only brand him as a madman.
Albert Bowie dragged himself into his room with great difficulty.
His own room… where a warm candle and a bed awaited him.
Outside the window, the sunset burned, and the lattice shadows formed a cross pattern on the wall, like a blazing crimson crucifix.
There, he knelt and agonized.
His weak faith was not even enough for prayer. He had to find the answer himself.
Clearly… his order had been to monitor the Second Princess and kill her if possible.
But at the same time, an even more fundamental fear gave him another command.
Kill the Duke to protect the Princess. Otherwise…
“Ugh… aaahhh!”
The memory of the monster standing behind the princess, looking down at him with glowing blue eyes, tormented him.
If he killed the Duke, he would be branded a noble murderer and hunted forever. Not only that—
His family would likely be executed. Even his young daughter.
“That… I cannot…”
But there was no guarantee that the monster’s blade or hands would be more merciful than the law.
If he disobeyed the Princess’s order…
He did not know what that monster would do. To Albert Bowie, the creature without its helmet was the embodiment of curses and evil itself.
What if his family was cursed forever? Or torn apart and hung upside down from the branches of the brown forest?
Every choice led to ruin.
Then something caught his hand.
His sword.
A perfect, rational solution—no, the most horrifying one—flashed through his mind.
Sir Albert Bowie drew his blade.
The sword gifted by Duke Etranje to the Raven Feather Knight Order.
Its name was Sir Forlorn, meaning “the lonely knight.”
Fitting, given that Raven Feather Knights were destined to be forgotten by all.
Now that sword would mark his loneliest death.
He gripped the blade without hesitation. Pain surged through his palm as blood ran down the steel.
His arm trembled, but he raised the sword high.
He closed his eyes.
After a brief, silent moment of finality, he did not open them again.
The next day, Anastasia Etranje learned of Sir Albert Bowie’s death without difficulty.
Because the Duke had burst into her room.
The reasoning was simple.
If he killed the Duke, his family would suffer. If he avoided it, he could not withstand the wedge of fear Arthorius had driven into his soul.
The only path left was to take his own life to protect his family and abandon his duty.
And there was one decisive clue: the sword in his left hand—Sir Forlorn, which Anastasia had seen in the brown forest the day before.
The Duke ground his teeth.
“…Was this your doing?”
Duke Etranje had fair golden hair with a healthy sheen and green eyes. Even now, he had aged well; in his youth, he must have been even more handsome.
Anastasia shrugged, thinking irrelevant thoughts.
“If something goes wrong, you always blame me first. I forgot that.”
Grit.
The sound of teeth grinding filled the room.
“You speak so politely, Anastasia.”
The sarcasm carried blatant malice.
At that moment, Arthorius rose from a large armchair that seemed sunken under his weight.
The ceiling was high, yet his height nearly reached the chandelier.
His eyes burned with icy blue light.
The Duke flinched under that undisguised killing intent.
“Then let me ask you.”
Anastasia stood from the bed, brushing her messy hair back and looking at him with deep ocean-colored eyes.
“Answer my question first—”
It did not matter.
“Was it you?”
The Duke froze. Her gaze felt like it was piercing straight through him.
Eyes that did not allow lies.
Only days ago, she had been a desperate eighteen-year-old girl begging for family love.
But after her nineteenth birthday, she had changed.
“…I do not know what you are talking about.”
Arthorius let out a faint mocking sound from behind, but the Duke could not afford to react.
Cold sweat ran down his back.
“Then I suppose I also do not know what you are talking about.”
A faint smile curled on Anastasia’s lips.
That was when the Duke’s patience snapped, and fear was overtaken by rage.
Srrrng—!
Sir Forlorn was drawn from its sheath.
“I intended to spare you if you behaved. But I suppose that is no longer possible. If I keep you imprisoned, I can extract much more from your blood.”
At that moment, six knights entered through the shattered door.
All wore blackened, matte armor.
The Raven Feather Knights.
Knights whose names had been erased, their eyes filled with killing intent.
But there was no fear of losing.
“I don’t need to step in.”
At her command, the cursed prince drew his forgotten holy sword.
“Kill everyone except my father.”
She spoke as casually as if tossing a toy.
Sitting back on the bed, crossing her legs, the small princess looked utterly arrogant.
The Raven Knights clenched their teeth.
The Duke gave the order.
“Bring her to me.”
As expected of elite swordsmen of the family.
Five charged Arthorius. Two aimed for his arms, two for his legs, one for his face.
And the sixth charged Anastasia.
Trained killers who obeyed even suicidal orders.
But Anastasia effortlessly deflected their killing intent.
She had once endured Arthorius’s own murderous aura in Aquila Castle, and survived countless battlefield massacres in the war against the Sered Kingdom.
Back then, she had vomited in horror and cried herself to sleep.
But like iron hardened after being forged, her soul had cooled—and now it was as sharp as a blade.
“Like rabbits charging a wolf.”
Arthorius remarked casually.
He threw his holy sword into the attacker aiming for his face, pinning him to the wall, then grabbed two knights by the neck.
Blades pressed into his hands, yet did not cut.
“W-why…!”
A body steeped in two hundred years of abyss was no longer something steel could harm.
Arthorius smiled faintly and smashed the two knights into the remaining attackers.
Crack—!
Cries of pain echoed, followed by a flash of yellow light behind him.
“Anastasia, are you alright?”
He turned calmly.
She stood untouched.
The knight who had attacked her lay scorched on the ground, struck by lightning from her fingertips.
“If you want to kill me… you’ll need to be at least as strong as Arthorius.”
He smiled in satisfaction and walked toward the wall.
He passed the frozen Duke, lightly patting his shoulder. Sir Forlorn slipped from the Duke’s hand and clattered to the ground.
The cursed prince pulled his sword from the wall.
On his way back, he picked up Sir Forlorn and handed it to Anastasia.
“…Why this?”
“A trophy.”
The Duke remained silent.
“You should wield properly made weapons if you’re going to learn swordsmanship.”
Anastasia held the blade and slowly walked toward the Duke.
“…Are you going to kill me? If you do, you won’t—ugh!”
It was not a stab.
She simply slapped his mouth with her left palm.
The humiliation of being struck by someone he had always despised left the Duke trembling.
“Be quiet. You’ve been noisy since morning.”
As if scolding a subordinate.
“…What?”
She took the sword and sheath from him, then grabbed his collar and pulled him down.
“I don’t really want to kill you.”
Their eyes met.
“But you deserve something far worse than death.”
Then a stranger’s loud voice rang through the broken window.
“A royal letter from His Highness Prince Louis Janpots has arrived!”
