Victor Mort

Later, Mary told me,

“His Grace has executed vassals before. Their families too, even the servants who passed along what they heard.”

Her pale fingers nervously fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. Mary hesitated several times before lowering her head deeply.

“Many people left the castle after that. The chief butler and even the head maid who taught us. His Grace departed for the battlefield immediately afterward, so we simply remained in the castle.”

“…….”

“But so many people truly died back then, My Lady. I still remember it. Even now…….”

Mary’s eyes grew wet. Even now, as she spoke to me, she had not been able to shake off her fear. Squeezing her eyes shut, she blurted out,

“That is why I am afraid of His Grace.”

I could not continue speaking. All the maids were trembling as though they stood before a hydra. Seeing the execution platform must have stirred up their terrible memories.

I tightly embraced the small maid.

“It is all right, Mary.”

“I am sorry, My Lady…….”

“Do not worry. Nothing like this will happen again.”

I could not bring myself to say that Victor was not such a frightening person. Even I could no longer be certain.

The Victor I had seen had always been gentle and magnificent, like a righteous knight from a tale, but once the illusion fell away, a truth far more frightening than I had imagined remained.

After calming the maids and sending them away, I sat on the sofa. When I opened <The Adventures of Doldopin, the Wandering Knight>, it fell to the page I had read the day before.

The terrifyingly smiling Flamberge and the foolish Doldopin. Doldopin had merely stood there blankly even after watching her pour poison into the teapot.

The cruel and beautiful Flamberge cried out.

[“Ah, Doldopin! Now bring me a sword. Find me the dragon’s blade that can cut through anything. I will not harm anyone. I merely wish to trim the flowers in the garden beautifully.”
Then Doldopin said,
“I will bring you anything. My beloved lady.”]

I silently looked down at the book. Doldopin’s vacant expression bothered me more than usual today.

Did Doldopin truly not know, or was he pretending not to know?

And had I truly not known, or had I pretended not to know?

Even when I vaguely heard why House Welch had shut its doors, even when the knights and servants repeatedly hinted at it, I had been the one who firmly believed Victor could not possibly be cruel.

Because I had wanted to believe that. Victor had been the gentleman from my fantasies. He had possessed the tenderness that made me melt and had been nothing but a strong and magnificent knight.

But once suspicion bloomed, it covered my heart like creeping vines. The suspicion that he might not be the person I had known.

Victor did not appear even at dinner. Instead of calling for him, I ordered that snacks be sent to the Grand Duke’s office. Dideric followed my instructions without asking twice.

I finished my meal alone, bathed, changed clothes, and entered the bedroom.

Victor did not appear until very late at night. When he silently gestured, the attendants extinguished the candles one by one.

Victor suddenly asked,

“Do you want to go outside?”

I quietly looked at him. Submerged in the dim darkness, he looked exhausted. Just as he had on the day we first met.

I shook my head.

“No.”

“I understand.”

He quietly rested his head on the pillow. I remained silent as I stroked the hilt of my sword.

The castle was silent because its master was silent. The square where the execution platform had likely been removed, the town, and even the rocky mountains must have been silent as well. Within that stillness, Victor’s whisper sounded all the clearer.

“That is enough for me…….”

Victor’s eyes slowly closed. I carefully looked over his tousled hair, straight forehead, and closed lips.

Suddenly, I wondered.

What did he dream about? What exactly was the nightmare that dragged away this peacefully sleeping man? What kind of life had the Victor I did not know, the Victor I had never known, lived?

I hugged my sword more tightly and curled up on the bed.

Victor Mort wanted to die.

He always had. Since an indistinct and distant childhood he could barely remember, he had thought about death.

He had been born as the second son of House Mort, the grand ducal family that ruled the northeastern region of the Empire. His land, Mort, was cold and filled with monsters, but it was equally renowned for producing exceptional knights.

After hours of difficult labor, his mother held her second son in her arms and named him Victor.

Victor. In the southern tongue, it meant one who was always victorious.

She had given him that name in the hope that Victor would become a fine knight, but she died of illness before she could even see him hold a sword.

That was the first death Victor experienced.

The grand ducal house sank into grief over the young lady’s death. The entire territory mourned the Grand Duchess, and the Grand Duke was so devastated that he could not bear to remain in the castle. While his father abandoned him and wandered the territory, the young Victor was left alone among the servants.

The attendants were indifferent to the small second prince. They served him dutifully and ensured he lacked nothing, but that was all. Since no one taught him anything, Victor spent much of his time alone in the library.

The grand ducal house truly possessed every kind of book imaginable. From educational texts and novels to works on philosophy and religion. Victor learned about life, and about death, from books.

Sometimes, while looking at his mother’s portrait hanging on the wall, he wondered whether he might see her again if he died.

The one who pulled him out of that dark room was his elder brother, who returned from receiving the heir’s education in the capital.

The heir apparent, Morteon Mort. Seven years older than Victor, he was a boy with House Mort’s characteristic black hair and warm brown eyes.

Having hurriedly completed his studies and returned after their mother’s funeral, he was horrified when he saw his neglected younger brother. He immediately knelt before him and took his small hand.

To the family member he had not seen in so long, Victor quietly said,

“I want to go where Mother is.”

Morteon’s face twisted at those words. He embraced his younger brother with all his strength.

“Victor, I love you. You are the younger brother I love most. No matter what happens, I will protect you.”

In his arms, Victor cried a little for the first time. He had needed someone to say those words to him.

Morteon was a diligent heir. Despite his young age, he immediately restored order to the chaotic atmosphere of the castle. He kept in contact with their father while assessing the state of Mort, and he did not neglect his own studies. The knights and vassals welcomed the wise and strong heir to the grand duchy.

Once the situation stabilized with the help of those around him, Morteon immediately began Victor’s education. It had been postponed because the second son supposedly had no need to begin his studies so early.

Morteon strongly insisted that he needed to learn and ordered that the finest teachers be found for Victor.

Before long, several tutors began visiting the castle.

Accounting, politics, the art of rulership, social etiquette, and dance. Victor performed quite well in every subject, and Morteon was delighted by his younger brother’s intelligence. Everyone praised him, saying he was extraordinarily talented and remarkable. Victor liked being praised, so he worked even harder.

He had thought the same thing on the day he first held a sword. He merely wanted his brother to praise him.

A great many spectators gathered for the second prince’s first swordsmanship lesson. That was only natural. This was the land of knights, and the children of the grand ducal house had always possessed exceptional talent in martial arts.

“The young prince must surely have talent as well, correct?”

“Of course! Did Lord Morteon not display outstanding ability from childhood?”

Amid the people speaking with anticipation, Morteon gave him an encouraging look. Victor nodded and gripped the wooden sword with a tense expression.

His sparring partner was an apprentice knight around Morteon’s age. The plan for that day’s training was for the knight to face Victor lightly while the vice commander observed his posture from the side. Since Mort’s knightly swordsmanship focused almost entirely on combat against other people, it was usually taught that way.

Soon, the spar began with a signal.

‘……?’

And Victor thought the knight was making fun of him.

His opponent’s movements were far too obvious. They were slow and full of openings. The movements were so clumsy that Victor wondered whether he was doing it deliberately.

Victor felt slightly offended. He was a child and a prince of the grand ducal house, but he had come to learn swordsmanship seriously. If the knight deliberately went easy on him, he would not be able to learn properly.

Unable to endure it any longer, Victor thrust out his sword. Once at the wrist, once at the shoulder. After striking the places that looked weak, he hit the knight’s knee and knocked him down.

His opponent collapsed with laughable ease. Victor picked up the sword that had flown away, then raised his head with a broad smile.

But what he heard was not praise, but shocked murmuring.

“……No, how? His Highness is still…….”

“It is his first day…….”

“……Even Lord Morteon could not do that much…….”

Victor slowly stared at them with wide eyes.

No one praised him as they had when he solved a difficult calculation or greeted others according to proper etiquette. They only whispered as though they had seen something strange. The apprentice knight lying on the ground and the vice commander helping him up reacted the same way.

Victor felt as though he had done something terribly wrong.

Clinging to his last hope, he turned toward his brother. His brother had always been different. He had always seen Victor differently from everyone else.

“……Good heavens, Victor.”

But the moment Victor saw his brother’s pale face, he realized it with painful clarity.

This was not ordinary.

He was not ordinary.