Meanwhile, at that very moment, two people occupied a sealed room without windows.
Both wore hooded cloaks that concealed their faces, making it impossible at a glance to determine their age or gender. The room contained only a desk and a single chair. One person sat while the other remained standing, the two facing each other across the narrow space.
“This is a report on the recently acquired associates among the acquaintances of Countess Sabine von Jerome’s daughter.”
The seated figure held a document and turned its pages with unhurried, precise movements.
“An artist. A musician. A designer.”
“Most of them have unclear origins.”
“Naturally.”
The standing figure hesitated, then added, “Investigating each and every one—”
“There is no need to investigate every Tom, Dick, and Harry,” the seated figure said flatly, tossing the document onto the desk. “Select only those particularly close to the young lady—those who might draw the Count’s mansion or even the royal palace into the matter.”
“Understood.”
After bowing, the standing figure gathered the documents and left. Moments later, the door opened again and another person entered. This one wore a similar hood, though their build was noticeably different. They shut the door quietly and bowed.
The seated figure regarded the newcomer in silence before speaking.
“You lost them?”
“I apologize. They were suddenly swallowed by the crowd.”
“….”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Fingernails struck the desk at a measured rhythm. The bowing figure held their breath.
“What were their distinguishing features?”
“Their clothing was ordinary. However, their appearance—and a hair ornament—stood out.”
Tap, tap… tap-tap-tap.
The steady rhythm quickened, and the bowing figure raised only their head. Seeing the gesture to stand up, they fully straightened and quickly continued,
“Their features were difficult to place. Foreign. A woman, approximately twenty. At the end of her braid, she wore a ribbon of a style I had never seen before. Several layered points of red silk.”
“Pointed red silk?”
A faint note of doubt entered the seated figure’s voice.
“Yes. Attached to the very end of her braided hair.”
Silence settled heavily inside the sealed room.
After a moment, the seated figure opened a drawer, withdrew a sheet of paper and a fountain pen, and extended them across the desk.
“Draw the hairstyle. And the ribbon.”
The reporter stepped forward cautiously and accepted the pen. After a few tentative strokes to gauge the spacing, they began sketching. Beneath the hood, unseen eyes followed the movement of the nib across the page.
First, a rounded head.
Then a long braid trailing from the nape.
Finally, a ribbon whose knot could not be seen from the outside.
“It looked something like this.”
The paper was turned around.
It showed the back of a woman’s head.
“….”
“Shall we attempt to approach them again?” the reporter asked quietly.
After a brief pause, the seated figure shook their head.
“The wolves may already have noticed our attempt. Leave it for now.”
“Understood.”
“You may go.”
As the monotonous command fell, the reporter departed at once as if they had been waiting. Yet the seated figure did not move.
Their gaze remained fixed on the drawing.
The room filled again with suffocating silence.
After some time, the figure slowly picked up the fountain pen and removed its cap. Without hesitation, they began to draw over the sketch.
The outline of the head was gradually shaded in, filled completely with black ink. When the empty space was consumed by darkness, they added a small butterfly shape at the base of the pointed ribbon. Only then did they set the pen down.
To anyone else, it was merely black ink on white paper.
But to the one who watched, colors surfaced over the lines.
The blank sheet became a deep blue sea.
The blackened hair absorbed the light.
And the ribbon, beneath it, burned a deep, vivid red.
A blue sea.Black hair.A red ribbon.
The memory surged back with violent clarity, as if something long buried had been forced upward from the depths.
—
“Peter!”
The cry was swallowed at once by the tempest that battered the ship as though determined to tear it apart.
Forcing his unsteady legs to hold, Peter rose against the gale that threatened to sweep him overboard and staggered toward the man who had once been his comrade. The other was already beyond saving, his body twisted and failing. There was no point hesitating.
Certainty was kinder.
Peter seized the man by the head and drove his blade down in one clean motion. As he pulled out the embedded sword, blood spurted out like a fountain.
The struggle ended instantly.
The gushing blood obscured his vision. Without sparing another glance, he tore the necklace from the corpse. Wrapped tightly around the body like a chain, it resisted for a moment before snapping free. A small golden key hung at the end.
He closed his fist around it.
“Now,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “among you wolf bastards, only one knows my face.”
“……”
“…Your wife.”
Even at the end, dying from the stab wound, the man’s lips curled faintly, as though mocking him. A whistling sound, like wind escaping, pierced Peter’s eardrums through the roaring wind.
Lightning split the sky. Through the flashing lightning, the black clouds that covered the sky, and the raging waves rose like walls around the vessel, threatened to capsize the ship. The deck shuddered beneath Peter’s boots. How would somebody possibly survive?
He kicked the the man's gaping mouth hard and turned away. He moved his hand with his last strength, but before his hand could reach the knife, his eyes went black and empty.
Seawater flooded over the dead wolf, washing away the bright blood, and carrying what remained into the dark, then finally took its corpse as well.
There was no time to look back.
He made for the helm, stumbling over dead wolves littering the deck. When he grabbed the helm, the wheel spun uselessly in his hands. The ship was already listing. Tilting and sinking.
Those damned wolves bastards.
If they couldn’t win, they meant to drag everyone down with them. The controls were smashed. The hull must have been breached.
It was a 'let's all die together rather than let a traitor live' kind of thing. A traitor did not deserve to live. That had been their conclusion.
Peter ground his teeth and ran.
The deck pitched wildly, yet he kept his footing and forced his way toward the stern. By some miracle, the lifeboat still hung in place. How could he row and escape across a sea with house-sized waves? Perhaps they had been too busy wrecking the rest of the ship to bother with it.
Peter put the key in the pocket inside his jacket. He fastened the button of the pocket, checked for any tears, and then boarded the lifeboat. He pulled the lever with all his might, and with a clunk, the door opened, and the black, churning sea surged in. The unlocked lifeboat slid away, and he gripped the oars with all his strength.
He slipped the key into the inner pocket of his jacket, fastened the button, and checked it twice for any tears.
Then he boarded.
With all his strength, he pulled the release.
The mechanism clunked. The boat dropped hard into the churning sea, and he gripped the oars with all his strength.
Black water surged around him at once.
“You think I’ll die here?”
He rowed over the towering waves several times.
Not toward any direction he recognized—only away. Away from the storm. Away from the sinking wreck. Not knowing where he was going, he just rowed with the sole purpose of escaping the black clouds that covered the sky and surviving.
Survive.
That single word beat in his head with every stroke. He would absolutely survive and stand at the pinnacle of everything.
He would live. No matter what.
Wave after wave crashed over him. The world dissolved into wind and water and darkness.
The last thing he remembered was the shadow of a towering swell collapsing toward him.
Then—nothing.
When he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else lying in a peculiar place.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, curved beams fitted together like the ribs of an enormous creature. It was too elaborate and luxurious to be a common cabin. It wasn't just the ceiling that was unique. The windows, through which light seeped, were covered with white paper, soft and muted, and curtains hung neatly at the sides.
For a long moment, his thoughts would not move.
It felt unreal, like a dream too vivid to trust.
He slowly tried to sit up.
As he did, the heavy blanket covering him down to his shoulders slipped off with a thud. Even that blanket was peculiar. It looked like white cloth wrapped around the corners, and it was very thick and heavy. He himself was lying on the floor, not a bed. A blanket thicker than the one he was covered with was spread on the floor.
“…What on earth…?”
It was the moment he furrowed his brow and clutched his head, wondering what had happened.
Click.
The door opened.
Peter turned at once and reached instinctively for his waist, only to remember too late that his weapon was gone.
A figure stepped inside, silhouetted against sunlight.
A woman. She opened the door entered the room with a bright smile.
Peter instinctively scanned the woman who had entered.
Middle-aged. Dark eyes. Weathered skin. Two deep wrinkles across her brow. Two teeth missing on her lower right jaw. Black hair streaked with white.
Her appearance alone told him this was not anywhere he recognized.
—