Only the smoke curling from the tip of the cigarette moved in the room as Oscar lowered his gaze and fell into thought. When the cigarette had burned down to half its length, leaving behind a fragile column of pale ash, he flicked it into the ashtray. Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a sealed envelope.
Inside were several drawings. Oscar laid them out across the length of the desk.
They were composite sketches.
From right to left, the figure in the drawings appeared to age little by little. Oscar stood with his hands in his pockets and stared down at Peter’s face.
Theresia had acknowledged that the completed sketches bore a resemblance to Peter. At the same time, she had asserted that he could never be captured using them.
If he wishes, he can become an old woman on the verge of death, or a middle-aged man with a potbelly. If he is truly desperate, he can even disfigure his own face. Therefore, if you try to find him using only this face, you will never succeed. Use this only for confirmation after you have already captured him.
Codename Peter—an intelligence agent specializing in disguise and psychological warfare—and his face.
That was all the information Theresia possessed about him.
His father’s Wolves had operated as a thoroughly decentralized network. War was one thing, but at the time, the King’s suspicion toward Reichsrat Reinhardt had reached its peak.
The most effective way to conceal an organization was to ensure that even its members were unaware of its full structure.
Combat units, forced to operate together in the field, knew one another. Intelligence units, however, functioned in the shadows. They were divided, scattered, and isolated. They used codenames that changed frequently. Each knew only their own assignment—never how it fit into the larger command structure, never their position within it, and never the identities of their colleagues. As a result, even if captured, they had nothing to confess. They truly knew nothing.
That structure became a weakness the moment those who controlled and moved the organization were eliminated.
That was why Oscar had reformed the Wolves first—while simultaneously rebuilding them.
Peter.Theresia.The key.Dangguk.And that woman.
Each existed as an enigma, their colors misaligned, refusing to form a coherent image. It was like a tangled thread, with no clear place to begin unraveling it.
And then—
“Your Excellency.”
A knock announced the arrival of someone he had no desire to see.
“The Marquis has arrived.”
—
Charlotte pulled the shawl draped over her arms higher onto her shoulders, shivering in the cold air.
“It’s hard to see your face like this.”
Despite her words, Oscar did not respond. He stood with his back to her, gazing out the window. The faint curve of his lips suggested a smile meant only for mockery.
Cigarette smoke drifted in with the wind.
Charlotte’s lips tightened. She raised her teacup to conceal the tension in her mouth, frowned slightly, then set the untouched tea back down.
“There’s a good girl among the maids Sabine hired.”
“No.”
The answer came instantly, without hesitation.
Charlotte’s gaze returned to her son as Oscar turned away from the window.
Oscar.
Her masterpiece.The most valuable possession she owned.
Her firstborn stepped forward at an unhurried pace, perched himself on the edge of the desk, and stretched out his long right leg. Charlotte frowned briefly at his unrefined posture, then her violet eyes slid down to his attire—which was even more careless.
He wore only a shirt. No vest. No jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, his collar unbuttoned, and there was no tie in sight. Her displeasure moved from the cigarette between his fingers to his disordered black hair.
Oscar met her gaze with a smile.
“Tea all tastes the same.”
“You’ll find it doesn’t once you actually drink it.”
“Why are you here?”
“Put out that cigarette and sit in front of me when you speak.”
“This distance works well enough for conversation, doesn’t it?”
“……”
Charlotte inhaled slowly, as though forcing something back down, and then smiled—perfect and painted.
“It’s not a matter of distance,” she said calmly. “It’s a matter of basic etiquette.”
“……”
“If the jacket is bothersome, at least wear a vest. And comb your hair back with wax.”
“I detest anything bothersome.”
“There isn’t a single proper maid in this mansion.”
“Assume it’s because I wasn’t taught properly.”
The languid words cut cleanly across Charlotte’s elegant face. Mother and son held each other’s gaze, equally cold, with no discernible difference in intensity.
Oscar exhaled a long stream of smoke and pulled the corners of his mouth wide.
“Why are you here?”
The trace of a smile vanished from Charlotte’s face. She rose and stepped toward him. Her voice dropped noticeably as she spoke.
“Is it truly so difficult to show your face at Sabine’s birthday?”
Oscar, who had just brought the cigarette to his lips, let out a hollow laugh.
“Sabine is no longer merely Count Jerome’s daughter. She is the Emperor’s fiancée. Though the coronation has not yet taken place, she is effectively the Queen. The Empress Dowager herself attended and offered her congratulations. You should have been there—not as her brother, but as the Marquis of Reinhardt.”
“Anyone would think she has already become Queen.”
“Oscar.”
“If you wish to preserve the Queen’s dignity, then—”
The pretense of a smile vanished from Oscar’s face as well. His temper, sharp and unrestrained, surfaced instantly, spreading across his handsome features. The words that followed were aimed like a blade at his mother’s heart.
“Instead of lecturing me, Mother—who has a different father—do something about me being called a bastard.”
Slap!
Oscar, who had offered one cheek without resistance, smiled as though prepared to offer the other.
“Isn’t that right?”
Slap!
Even after being struck twice in succession—after offering both cheeks—Oscar continued speaking.
“No matter how common bastards may be, a daughter born to a mother who openly lives a double life becoming Queen—”
This time, he did not offer his cheek again.
Charlotte’s breathing turned ragged as Oscar caught the hand raised to strike him a third time. He stared into her violet eyes, swollen with a sickening greed, and smiled brilliantly.
“Won’t it become gossip for generations?”
“Oscar!”
“So please, become the wife of Count Jerome now. For the sake of our beloved Queen, I will gladly become the son of your former husband.”
“Those cruel words. That selfishness that thinks only of itself.”
“……”
“You truly resemble your father.”
“Perhaps.”
Oscar smiled once more.
“Is that so?”
He released her arm and picked up Peter’s montage.
“Since you’re here, please take a look at this. Do you recognize this person?”
Charlotte, still breathing heavily, glanced at the montage, then turned away. She adjusted her hair once, then her shawl, restoring her composure with practiced precision. Her replied was calm as if nothing happened.
“How would I know? It looks like a criminal’s wanted poster, not even a proper portrait.”
She took several steps, then paused and looked back.
“I heard you brought a woman back from Felpe.”
“Did you bring a woman home?”
Oscar tapped ash into the ashtray and lifted his gaze toward his mother. Between them, only the wind entering through the open window moved.
“Check thoroughly.”
“……”
“There are bastards—and then there are bastards. Regardless of gender, a bastard born without roots is nothing more than a stumbling block in life. Nothing more. Nothing less. How inconvenient it would be if a commoner began to expect an inheritance.”
With that, Charlotte turned away. She reached into her bag resting on the sofa and took out a small pill case, placing it beside the untouched teacup.
Straightening her back, she added calmly,
“This is medicine from Rioher. They say even the Emperor favors it. One pill is enough to revive a dying ox, so the royal families of Norfolk are desperate to obtain it.”
“……”
“Take care of your health.”
Oscar watched his mother disappear beyond the door.
The air rising in his throat felt thick and dry—like breath drawn from the depths of a mine.
—