OTKL 18

Chapter : 18

I Came to Deliver a Letter

“I never imagined I’d meet such a kind master like this……”

“…….”

“I never once thought about it. That you would be here,”

Haha.

Haha, ha……. The sound of a clear, untainted laugh echoed through the empty room. The red-haired man’s eyes curved pleasantly.

“I’m relieved to see that the child and Alperil are getting along better than expected. Don’t you think?”

You may leave now. Leopold, who had inherited the position of Grand Duke in the natural course of things, sat in the vast office. At a single tilt of his chin, the man who had been waiting by the door closed it and departed.

Yet the hesitant footsteps, lingering with regret, failed to leave the front of the office right away.

Was he still that weak and foolish? How laughable. Leopold flicked away the ash drooping from the cigarette between his fingers. Tap, tap. Sizzle. The remaining ember was carefully pressed out in the finely crafted ashtray.

Even as all of this transpired, the irritating footsteps remained by the door.

After a brief pause, Leopold crumpled a torn letter envelope into the still-warm ashtray. The letter itself, written in an elegant hand unbefitting a serf, was neatly folded and held in his hand.

At last, the young Grand Duke kicked back his chair and stood. With soundless, graceful steps, he reached the closed door in an instant. When it burst open, the half-long hair of the man leaning against it scattered.

Triden, Lange. Leopold silently pronounced the familiar Triveran name and smiled evenly.

“If you’ve no intention of heading in early, why don’t we go out for a stroll together?”

Triden walked on without knowing their destination. A strange pressure hung in the air around him.

Damn it—what reason could there be to drag someone through such a vast territory…… yet the scenery left him unable even to curse. Heron’s domain, blanketed thickly in white snow, was nothing short of a midwinter fantasy. A fortress that would never fall, no matter what.

Luxurious indoor gardens and sculptures built solely to please the eye, and ground so stable it wasn’t slippery—as if expensive salt had been scattered everywhere.

Even when he studied the faces of the serfs they passed, not one appeared noticeably emaciated.

Yet on those faces, free of poverty, smiles were nowhere to be found. Clicking his tongue inwardly, Triden glanced to his left. Cold sweat beaded under the undeniable presence beside him.

“Where are we going?”

He asked. From his tense voice came, as always, an answer utterly unhurried, as if it belonged to someone beyond reproach.

“Well. Just a light walk with no particular destination.”

Even so, the way he examined the impression of every servant they passed was far from ordinary. Triden realized that the damned letter he had personally delivered was still in Leopold’s hand. He spoke in a tight voice.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I’m not sure. At the very least, this moment is certainly a curious experience for all of us.”

Walking side by side with the Grand Duke of Triverar as a merchant without title—had it not been for the ties behind it all, Triden knew even he would have found the situation unbelievable.

Leopold, who had been striding forward without hesitation, suddenly changed direction. Triden followed a step behind, turned the corner, and halted.

Amid the frozen surroundings stood a lone, blazing blacksmith’s forge.

Through the surging heat and flying sparks, the boy who had first noticed him opened his mouth. Shoes still gleaming, without so much as a smear of mud despite the walk, stepped inside.

When the quick-witted boy bowed first, the middle-aged man beside him—who had been about to bark at him—froze as well. In the silence that followed, Leopold rolled his bright green eyes.

A rough physique, built to be summoned wherever strength was needed, yet paired with surprisingly handsome features. The height of the young man silently forging something by the anvil matched the back he had seen once before.

“Are you Pascal?”

The faint brown from Leopold’s memory resurfaced. A cold silence filled the forge.

Pianissimo—very softly. Straight fingers brushed the keys with careful movement. The shadow cast over the piano today, as always, was not one but two.

Alperil stiffened, afraid that even a slight lapse in tension might brush against his broad shoulders, while Terencio repeatedly and heedlessly advised her to relax her hands.

After a week of warming up with a light sonata, Alperil had begun learning a heavy solo piece.

The demanding techniques—far more apparent in the music of Rebein Bosonet than in Terencio Heron—made Alperil’s shoulders slump. Her fingers hurt.

“Shall we stop here for today?”

“No, it’s just… you’re busy, aren’t you?”

Her desire to continue playing steadily despite the difficulty clashed with a quiet sense of guilt.

As always, Alperil glanced sideways at his desk, cluttered without order. The unfamiliar piles of paper turned out to be palm-sized envelopes—invitations Triden had left under Terencio’s name while changing lightbulbs.

There were so many that even Alperil had given up trying to organize them; they lay stacked like a grave mound. Even without Heron Castle, he was a superb performer, immensely popular among young nobles.

She had heard that even high-ranking figures who once held back out of deference to the former Grand Duke had begun, after the official memorial banquet, to tentatively reach out to him. The difference lay between those who purely admired an untamable beast and those who sought to capture it by any means.

Whatever the intent, the fact that those invitations lay untouched, never once held in his hand, was because of her—fumbling endlessly through the rapid techniques of the third movement.

“I’m sorry. I’m a terrible student.”

“Enough nonsense, Alpe. There are people all over this continent who’d sell their souls to the devil just to steal the talent you have.”

Unsure whether the praise was sincere, Alperil stole a glance at his mouth, which looked serious on the surface.

“If you don’t want to rest, try again. Round your hands, lift your fingers.”

“Lift… ah.”

After slipping several more times and enduring the awkward silence, Alperil muttered with slight irritation. It was because of Terencio’s gaze, which seemed to wordlessly ask why that simple thing couldn’t be done.

“But this really is, in a way, a bit unfair.”

“What do you mean?”

“My hands are barely this big, while yours, young master……”

Her hand, which could barely span from C to D, brushed against Terencio’s fingers. Receiving the subtle cue, he smiled faintly and opened his hand as she wished.

From C to G—a full twelfth, played with ease. Seeing the size of his fingers, Alperil gave up on comparing them properly and let her body sag. As Terencio openly tapped at their lightly touching fingertips, he suddenly asked,

“Do you want to go?”

“What?”

Having asked, he gave no answer. Leaving the puzzled Alperil behind, the man gazed into the distance and clicked his tongue.

Following his deep gaze led to the piano’s upper shelf—but Terencio was not there. She chased that strange look again. His eyes seemed to have stopped at the window beyond, yet there was nothing to see.

Where was he now?

A faint tremor could be felt in their half-overlapping hands. Lowering her head to hide what must have been her own tension, Alperil tried to gauge his feelings when a quiet question was posed.

“Do you miss the splendor of banquets?”

Wait—why am I trembling? As her lashes fluttered, her slender throat moved. She spoke in a voice carefully crafted to sound indifferent.

“For a serf like me, is there any place less fitting than that?”

Even her self-deprecating joke left the air still. There was a certainty in Terencio’s question that she didn’t understand. She frowned slightly, thinking it over. At last, Alperil voiced a hesitant question.

“Have you ever seen me there?”

Perhaps it was a question that could resolve all her doubts at once. She didn’t expect a meaningful answer, but Terencio opened his mouth and spoke in a heavy voice.

“You were—”

The setting sun seeped through the clear window. Terencio turned his body to block the dazzling light falling across Alperil’s face. Still, some light remained.

Then he lifted his strong arm and covered her eyes with his large hand. Beneath that warm shade, the movement of his lips was visibly unsteady.

“You were wearing a pure white dress that day.”

The forge was quiet, yet not truly silent—without human voices.

An old man who had long held his post and even knew Leopold quickly set down the tool in his hand. Pascal, seized by the collar by the rough blacksmith, was almost dragged and thrown before him.

“G-Grand Duke, Your Grace. Has this fellow perhaps committed some offense—”

“No, remove your hand. Poor thing—he can’t even lift his head.”

The stir in the air, despite no one speaking, was palpable. Triden, having stepped back, observed the scene with a strange look.

Whether in a positive or negative sense, Leopold standing before him was the most aristocratic man he had ever seen. Even in a forge reeking of sweat, he seemed like someone from an entirely different world.

Startled by the sudden visit and restrained for reasons unknown, Pascal Müller—forced to his knees by rough hands—hesitantly raised his head. His eyes were fearful, yet they never tried to flee. Seeing that he did not avert his gaze, the Grand Duke smiled.

A common dark brown. What is most ordinary is least suspected. What, I wonder, are you hiding in those eyes? Thinking so, Leopold spoke smoothly.

“I came to deliver a letter.”