Chester watched the Duke with a mix of awe and absolute terror.
The man sitting on the riverbank was a ghost of the Hero of the Frontier. Eric Lennon Brant, the "Soul Reaper" who had never once lost his composure on the battlefield, was repeating the same four words like a broken music box.
“She can't be dead.”
Eric stared into the black, churning water. Every ripple of the current felt like a personal insult, a reminder of his own failure.
*If I hadn't left for the North... if I hadn't pushed her into that carriage... if I had just looked at her, once, with something other than coldness...*
Suddenly, the water shimmered. Beneath the foam, a flash of green velvet appeared.
『Save me, Eric. Please...』
“No! Cornelia!”
Without a second’s hesitation, Eric threw himself into the freezing river.
“YOUR HIGHNESS!” the knights screamed, rushing into the shallows to catch him. But Eric was like a wild animal. He fought off their hands, his Transcendent aura flaring in desperate, jagged bursts.
“Let me go! I have to reach her! I have to hold her hand!”
He plunged deeper, the current dragging him toward the rocks. Through the murky water, he saw her again. Cornelia stood on the riverbed, her green dress billowing around her like a seaweed shroud. He reached out his hand, his fingers inches from hers.
『You’re too late, Eric,』 the vision whispered, her purple eyes dead and cold. 『You spent five years looking away. Why do you look now? Just let go. Die here with your regrets.』
Eric’s strength faded. The exhaustion of the last week, the starvation, and the crushing weight of his guilt finally took hold. He closed his eyes, allowing the water to fill his lungs.
*Yes,* he thought. *As you wish. Let this be my end.*
Then, a sound pierced the silence of the depths.
[Dad!]
A small boy, no more than four years old, stood in the center of his consciousness. He had Eric’s golden hair and Cornelia’s vibrant purple eyes. He looked as if he were on the verge of tears.
[Dad, don't give up! You have to save her!]
The boy lunged forward, grabbing Eric’s heavy, armored body and shoving him toward the surface.
[They’re still after her! The people who want her dead—they aren't finished! You have to protect my mother!]
Eric’s eyes snapped open under the water. The vision of the child vanished, but the message remained like a brand on his soul. *Protect her.*
He wasn't finished. He had a war to win.
***
In a luxury carriage miles from the capital, Cornelia leaned back against the silk cushions and watched the city walls disappear into the morning mist.
For the first time in her life, she felt as if she could breathe.
She was free of the Dowager’s poisonous presence, free of Madeleine’s petty malice, and free of the husband who would have eventually been her executioner. She touched her stomach, her fingers tracing the subtle curve beneath her traveling cloak.
“We’re going to be happy,” she whispered. “Just the two of us. You’ll never have to know that cold, silent house. You’ll never have to know him.”
The relief was so profound it was almost frightening. She didn't look back. She only looked toward the East, where the sea and a new life awaited.
***
Ten hours later, Eric woke up in his quarters at the Brant manor.
Chester was sitting by his bed, his face a mask of exhaustion. When Eric’s eyes opened, the knight nearly fell out of his chair.
“Your Highness! You... you’re awake!”
“How long?” Eric asked, his voice a dry, rasping crack.
“Ten hours, sir. You nearly drowned. The knights had to drag you out of the rapids.”
Eric looked at the clock on the wall. “The trial. It starts in three hours.”
“Sir, you shouldn't attend,” Chester pleaded. “The doctors say you’re in no condition to leave your bed. Your mind... it’s not stable.”
“I’m attending,” Eric said, sitting up.
His eyes were no longer clouded with the fog of madness. They were clear, sharp, and filled with a lethal, icy focus. He didn't care about his health. He didn't even care about his own life. He only cared about one thing: finding the people who had dared to touch his wife.
“I’ll hunt them to the ends of the earth,” Eric whispered. “And once I’ve seen them burn, I’ll follow her. That is the only atonement I have left.”
***
The courtroom was packed. The scandal of the century had brought every noble in the capital to witness the fall of the Dowager Duchess of Brant and the Arguin heiress.
Bianca sat in the defendant's dock, her head held high. She looked around the room with a sneer. She had already talked to her lawyers. The evidence was circumstantial. The "poison" was menopause medicine. The "letters" were Madeleine’s work. She was confident she would walk out a free woman.
Beside her, Madeleine was a trembling wreck. Her father, the Marquis of Arguin, hadn't even shown up to support her. She realized, too late, that the Dowager was going to throw her to the wolves.
But Bianca wasn't thinking about Madeleine. She was thinking about the letter she had received from **Zenon**.
[The individual suspected to be the true Duke of Brant—your biological son—has been located in the North. He is ill, but alive.]
The Dowager looked at Eric as he entered the courtroom and took his seat. Her eyes flared with a murderous, visceral hatred.
*You fake,* she thought. *You pretender. Once I’m out of this cage, I’ll bring my real son home and have you executed for every year you spent in his place. I’ll make you beg for the river’s cold embrace.*
The doors at the back of the chamber flew open.
“His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor!”
The room fell into a deathly silence as the Emperor took his seat on the elevated dais. He looked down at the defendants, then at Eric, his gaze like a shard of ice.
“We will now begin the trial,” the Emperor’s voice boomed, “regarding the attempted murder and disappearance of my daughter, Princess Cornelia Odile Brant.”